“Only think, Cora, this man has news of Darling. Kindly repeat it to her, sir.”
And Carey Doyle, who remembered well the rivalry between Cora and Jessie, took a malicious pleasure in doing so, gloating over each word as he saw how ghastly pale and frightened she grew.
Mrs. Dalrymple was watching her niece, too, and very suddenly she said:
“While he was telling me this story, Cora, I remembered that on that same night a servant called you out of my room, saying a young lady wanted me, and that you must come down. You went, and when you returned, after a while, you said nothing of the visitor, and in my agitation I forgot it till just now. Cora, Cora, can it be possible”—she broke off short, for Cora fell at her feet in wildest agitation.
“Oh, Aunt Verna, can you ever forgive me for what I have done? Indeed, I meant it for the best, but it has turned out to be a terrible mistake!”
“Cora, Cora, what have you done?”
“Forgive me, forgive me; I did wrong.”
“Do not keep me in suspense, Cora. Answer me, was it my daughter that came that night?”
“It was a girl that looked like the one you interred in the old family vault. She said: ‘I am Jessie Lyndon, the stolen daughter of Mrs. Dalrymple. I wish to see her if you please!’”
“My God! And you sent her away?” groaned the agonized mother.