"Whatever comes, I must bear it! I cannot, will not, live a lie!" was the low-voiced, firm, but almost inaudible reply.
"I know you are right, dear; but it seems so unjust that the innocent should have to suffer as we have suffered for the sins of another," said Helen rebelliously.
Throughout their conversation there had been running in her mind, like a mocking refrain, a portion of the old Mosaic law—"visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children," et cetera—and she found herself vaguely wondering who could have formulated such a law. She could not believe God had made it, for God was good—Love, and surely there was nothing good or lovely about this seeming curse. Yet it had been handed down for ages—a menace to every generation. It was certainly very cruel. Here was Dorothy, a beautiful, cultivated girl, well fitted to grace the position her lover could give her, and now, to have her brilliant prospects blighted just on the verge of fulfillment seemed too dreadful to contemplate.
Again there had been a long silence between mother and daughter, during which each had battled with her troubled thoughts and conflicting emotions.
At length Dorothy arose, and, going to Helen, knelt down before her, leaned her elbows upon her lap, and dropped her pretty chin into her small, white hands.
"Mamma, I am sure we will not have to suffer for being true," she said, lifting a clear, smiling look to her. "How faithless we are! How disloyal of me to think anything so unworthy of the best man that ever lived! I am not going to fear that telling the truth, in order that I may go to Clifford with a clear conscience, will spoil my life; he is too high-minded, too noble, to allow a wrong for which I am in no way responsible to part us. But—even if I knew it would, I should tell him all the same; it is the only honorable course to pursue," she concluded, with a look in her beautiful eyes that bespoke a purpose as unflinching as the spirit of a martyr.
Helen bent and kissed her on the forehead.
"You shame me, dear; but I know you are right," she said humbly, but adding, with a shiver of repugnance: "Do you want me to tell him, Dorrie? If it will save you——"
"No, indeed, mamma, dear! I could not think of subjecting you to anything so dreadful," interposed the brave girl, a quiver of repulsion in her tones. "I wish I could have saved you this trial," she went on yearningly; "but I knew it would not be right to keep the truth from Clifford, and now I want to tell him myself, because—I must look straight into his dear eyes as he listens; then I shall know——"
"Oh, darling, forgive me if I have aroused a doubt in your thought—have implanted a fear in your heart, that he will not stand the test!" cried Helen remorsefully, as Dorothy's voice suddenly faltered and failed her.