"Of course," Mrs. de Burgh hastened to exclaim, "no one could be fonder or kinder to his mother though, because"—looking angrily at her husband—"he had the sense and the discretion not to quarrel with his father, and strength of mind not to go mad—Louis, I suppose, wishes to make you believe that Eugene was not kind to his mother."
"Nothing would make me believe that Eugene was not kind to his mother," added Mary with an earnest energy, which showed with what indignation she would repel this distracting idea.
And Mr. de Burgh replied with great moderation:
"Nor did I say anything of the sort. I am not at all in the custom of asserting grave charges against a person, without certain proof. I only saw as much into 'the secrets of the prison-house' at Montrevor as would make me very sorry to have had anything further to do with its interior."
Poor Mary! She asked no more questions, she had heard quite enough to give new and dark impressions to her mind. She saw everything in a still more bewildering and uncertain light—yet felt a vague, indefinite dread of further revelation.
Her sister's carriage being speedily announced, she bade adieu to her cousins, who were leaving London the next day, and
"Went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn,"
bearing in her secret soul restless doubts and blind misgivings, she shrank even from confiding to her most beloved Arthur.