"And you did not," the elder woman retorted, looking up. "You loved your cousin, and you married my poor, unhappy boy for his title and his wealth. It would have been better for him he had died than ever set eyes on your face."
"Much better," Edith answered steadily. "Better for him—better for me. You are right, Lady Helena Powyss, I loved my cousin, and I married your nephew for his title and his wealth. I deserve all you can say of me. The worst will not be half bad enough."
Her ladyship's face drooped again; her suppressed sobbing was the only sound to be heard.
"I have come to you," Edith went on, "to tell you the truth. I don't ask what his secret is he speaks of; I don't wish to know. I think he should be looked after. If he is insane he should not be allowed to go at large."
"If he is insane!" Lady Helena cried, looking up again angrily. "You do well to say if. He is no more insane than you are!"
Edith stood still looking at her. The last trace of color faded from her face.
"Not insane," she whispered, as if to herself; "not insane, and—he deserts me!"
"Oh, what have I said!" Lady Helena cried; "forgive me, Edith—I don't know what I am saying—I don't know what to think. Leave me alone, and let me try to understand it, if I can. Your old rooms are ready for you. You have come to remain with me, of course."
"For the present—yes. Of the future I have not yet thought. I will leave you alone, Lady Helena, as you desire. I will not trouble you again until to-morrow."
She was quitting the room. Lady Helena arose and took her in her arms, her face all blotted with a rain of tears.