"Yes," his brother-in-law answers, in a low voice, and they speak no more until low sighs, rippling over Lady Vera's lips, presage her return to consciousness.
She lifts her head and looks at them, then drops her face in her hands, and bursts into passionate sobs and tears.
Lady Clive folds her white arms fondly around the heaving form.
"Do not weep so wildly, darling Vera," she whispers, gently.
But the heavy sobs only break forth more tumultuously.
"Do not check me," she whispers, "let me weep. Perhaps these tears may save my heart from breaking. There is such a terrible weight on heart and brain, and has been for weary, weary days. Let me weep until I can weep no more, and then I may be calm enough to tell you all my wretched story. Then you may know how to pardon my act of to-night."
So Lady Clive expostulates no more, only holds the slight form closer in her tender arms, reckless of the raining tears that spot and stain her azure satin robe as the burning drops fall on it from Vera's eyes.
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
When Lady Vera has told all her story to these kind and sympathizing friends with all the fire and eloquence of passion, their indignation bursts forth unrestrainedly. Lady Clive weeps from pure sympathy.