The pale face grew a shade whiter, and the trembling frame became suddenly rigid.
“It is feared that he did!” Eleanor Vane repeated. “It is not certain, then?”
The Signora was silent.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” cried the girl, passionately. “Do you think you can make my misery less to me by dropping out your words one by one? Tell me the worst. What can there be worse than my father’s death; his unhappy death; killed by his own hand, his poor desperate hand? Tell me the truth. If you don’t wish me to go mad, tell me the truth at once.”
“I will, Eleanor, I will,” the Signora answered, gently. “I wish to tell you all. I wish that you should know the truth, sad as it may be to hear. This is the great sorrow of your life, my dear, and it has fallen upon you very early. I hope you will try and bear it like a Christian.”
Eleanor Vane shook her head with an impatient gesture.
“Don’t talk to me of my sorrow,” she cried; “what does it matter what I suffer? My father, my poor father, what must he have suffered before he did this dreadful act? Don’t talk about me; tell me of him, and tell me the worst.”
“I will, my darling, I will; but sit down, sit down, and try to compose yourself.”
“No, I’ll stand here till you have told me the truth. I’ll not stir from this spot till I know all.”
She disengaged herself from the Signora’s supporting arm, and with her hand still resting on the chair, stood resolute before the old music-mistress and her nephew. I think the Signora and the scene-painter were both afraid of her, she looked so grand in her beauty and despair.