Mrs. Neville laughed mockingly at the girl’s impatience to be gone, and, sinking languidly into the nearest chair, exclaimed:
“I am very much afraid madam will be forced to endure the pangs of anxiety for some little time to come. Stay,” as Iris made an involuntary movement toward the door, “I do not choose that you shall leave this room until you have answered a few questions I desire to put to you. In the first place—what are you to Charles Broughton, my intended husband?”
Mrs. Neville had sprung to her feet as she uttered the last words, and placed herself between Iris and the door, looking straight into the girl’s wide, dilated eyes, and noting the look of horror that crept into the blue depths at her sudden question.
She waited a moment for Iris’ answer, but the girl could not speak, and Mrs. Neville was more than even convinced of the truth of her suspicions.
We will spare the reader a repetition of the harsh, unwomanly language now uttered by the jealous woman, and the cruel epithets she applied to our unfortunate heroine.
For one moment only Iris stood listening, and shivering like a frail flower in a winter gale, and then the faintness that had been growing upon her all day overcame her, and she lost all knowledge of her sufferings in a blessed unconsciousness, falling to the floor without a moan or sigh, and lying at Clara Neville’s feet like one dead.
The widow knelt beside Iris and unfastened the bosom of her dress, and Madam Ward’s two hundred dollars fell out upon the carpet. She picked it up and placed it in her own pocket, smiling triumphantly as she did so.
At this moment the sound as of some one breathing startled her, and looking up quickly she encountered the astonished gaze of Charles Broughton, who had entered the room unobserved, his footsteps making no sound on the velvet pile of the carpet.
He was the first to break the embarrassing silence.
“What is the meaning of this scene, Clara, and what brought this girl here?”