“And as for Annie Eustace,” said Margaret, “she has what I stole, and she knows it, and that is enough for her. Oh, both of you look down upon me and I know it.”
“I look down upon you no more than I have always done,” said Alice; but Annie was silent because she could not say that truly.
“Yes, I know you have always looked down upon me, Alice Mendon,” said Margaret, “and you never had reason.”
“I had the reason,” said Alice, “that your own deeds have proved true.”
“You could not know that I would do such a thing. I did not know it myself. Why, I never knew that Annie Eustace could write a book.”
“I knew that a self-lover could do anything and everything to further her own ends,” said Alice in her inexorable voice, which yet contained an undertone of pity.
She pitied Margaret far more than Annie could pity her for she had not loved her so much. She felt the little arm tremble in her clasp and her hand tightened upon it as a mother's might have done.
“Now, we have had enough of this,” said she, “quite enough. Margaret, you must positively go home at once. I will take your suit-case, and return it to you to-morrow. I shall be out driving. You can get in without being seen, can't you?”
“I tell you both, I am going,” said Margaret; “I cannot face what is before me.”
“All creation has to face what is before. Running makes no difference,” said Alice. “You will meet it at the end of every mile. Margaret Edes, go home. Take care of your husband, and your children and keep your secret and let it tear you for your own good.”