"You'll only see what will frighten you. You never saw a corpse, miss."
"Oh! Donnie, Donnie, Donnie, don't—you mustn't. Oh! Donnie, yes, he's gone, he is—he's gone, Donnie, and I've been his ruin. I—I—my wicked, wretched vanity. He's gone, lost for ever, and it's I who've done it all. It's I, Donnie. I've destroyed him."
It was well that they were driving in a lonely place, over a rough way, and at a noisy pace, for in sheer distraction Lady Jane screamed these wild words of unavailing remorse.
"Ah! my dear," expostulated Donica Gwynn. "You, indeed! Put that nonsense out of your head. I know all about him, poor master Jekyl; a wild poor fellow he was always. You, indeed! Ah! it's little you know."
Lady Jane was now crying bitterly into her handkerchief, held up to her face with both hands, and Donica was glad that her frantic fancy of returning had passed.
"Donnie," she sobbed at last—"Donnie, you must never leave me. Come with me everywhere."
"Better for you, ma'am, to stay with Lady Alice," replied old Donnie, with a slight shake of her head.
"I—I'd rather die. She always hated him, and hated me. I tell you, Gwynn, I'd swallow poison first," said Lady Jane, glaring and flushing fiercely.
"Odd ways, Miss Jane, but means kindly. We must a-bear with one another," said Gwynn.
"I hate her. She has brought this about, the dreadful old woman. Yes, she always hated me, and now she's happy, for she has ruined me—quite ruined—for nothing—all for nothing—the cruel, dreadful old woman. Oh, Gwynn, is it all true? My God! is it true, or am I mad?"