'I wish—oh! how I wish—that I had never come here!'
Eleanor wavered a moment, then she said with gentleness, even with sweetness:
'You have nothing to blame yourself for. Nor has anyone. That picture accuses no one. It draws the future—which no one can stop or change—but you.'
'In the first place,' said Lucy, still hiding her eyes and the bitter tears that dimmed them—'what does it mean? Why am I the slayer?—and—and—you the slain? What have I done? How have I deserved such a thing?'
Her voice failed her. Eleanor drew a little nearer.
'It is not you—but fate. You have taken from me—or you are about to take from me—the last thing left to me on this earth! I have had one chance of happiness, and only one, in all my life, till now. My boy is dead—he has been dead eight years. And at last I had found another chance—and after seven weeks, you—you—are dashing it from me!'
Lucy drew back from the table, like one that shrinks from an enemy.
'Mrs. Burgoyne!'
'You don't know it!' said Eleanor calmly. 'Oh! I understand that. You are too good—too loyal. That's why I am talking like this. One could only dare it with some one whose heart one knew. Oh! I have had such gusts of feeling towards you—such mean, poor feeling. And then, as I sat playing there, I said to myself, "I'll tell her! She will find that drawing, and—I'll tell her! She has a great, true nature—she'll understand. Why shouldn't one try to save oneself? It's the natural law. There's only the one life."'
She covered her eyes with her hand an instant, choking down the sob which interrupted her. Then she moved a little nearer to Lucy.