“What can I do?” she asked. “I can’t let him be deceived. And Mr. Rotherfield is behaving infamously, Lady Sarah; he is robbing his best friend. Don’t deny it. You know that it is the truth; at least, that it is part of the truth.”
Lady Sarah turned pale again.
Then she suddenly unclasped her hands, and clung to Rhoda, coaxing, piteous, irresistible. It was part of the charm of this wayward woman that she could transform herself, without a moment’s notice, into a sort of grown-up child, helpless, weak, plaintive, lost in doubts and fears, begging for help, for kindness, for guidance.
That was what she seemed to be now, as she looked with imploring eyes into Rhoda’s face, and whispered:
“Don’t do it, don’t do it, dear. You wouldn’t like to break up the home, you wouldn’t like to make poor Sir Robert miserable. Even if what you thought were true, that is what would happen, if you were to tell him what you mean to tell.”
Rhoda trembled. It was almost impossible to resist the clinging hands, the appealing eyes, knowing as she did know that the danger of a break-up was real. Whatever might be the exact result of her telling Sir Robert the truth, as far as she knew it, Rhoda thought it more likely than not that it would take some tragic form.
“What do you suggest yourself that I should do?” she asked.
Lady Sarah recovered some of her brightness of manner, her alertness, upon the instant.
“I propose that you should give the picture to me, and that I should give it back to Sir Robert myself, telling him that the thief left it at the house, with a note begging to be forgiven for what he had done.”
But Rhoda frowned impatiently.