Five minutes later, on some pretext, Sydney followed her—not to Mr Laurence’s study, up to Eugenia’s own room. It was quite dark. Sydney had to feel her way across the floor.
“Eugenia,” she said, softly.
No one answered. She groped her way to the bed. Down at one end a figure was kneeling or crouching, she could not tell which. She felt it was her sister. Round the poor child’s quivering frame stole two clinging, clasping arms; all over her eyes and cheeks and mouth fell tears and kisses.
“Don’t push me away, don’t, Eugenia,” entreated Sydney.
There was a moment’s hesitation—a struggle between pride and old habit of love and confidence for the victory. But pride had had more than its share of work lately; it gave in.
“Oh, Sydney,” came at last, with a convulsive grasp of her sister. “Oh, Sydney, how shall I bear it? I don’t blame him. He couldn’t help it, but I do think my heart is broken.”