'The one thing in the world that I desire now—before I die—(Ah! dear, don't start!—you know!)—the only, only thing—is that you and Edward should be happy—and forgive me.'
Her voice was lost in a sob. Lucy kissed her quickly, passionately. Then she rose.
'I shall never marry Mr. Manisty, Eleanor, if that is what you mean. It is well to make that clear at once.'
'And why?' Eleanor caught her—kept her prisoner.
'Why?—why?' said Lucy impatiently—'because I have no desire to marry him—because—I would sooner cut off my right hand than marry him.'
Eleanor held her fast, looked at her with a brilliant eye—accusing, significant.
'A fortnight ago you were on the loggia—alone. I saw you from my room. Lucy!—I saw you kiss the terra-cotta he gave you. Do you mean to tell me that meant nothing—nothing—from you, of all people? Oh! you dear, dear child!—I knew it from the beginning—I knew it—but I was mad.'
Lucy had grown very white, but she stood rigid.
'I can't be responsible for what you thought, or—for anything—but what I do. And I will never marry Mr. Manisty.'
Eleanor still held her.