Alice, with a deep sigh, obeyed the orders of the cross old dame; and when the doctor came she received her reward in his approval. It was pitiful to see how humble this poor girl was now become. The accident to the Chapmans, her father’s “stroke,” poor Hilary’s ruin, the lowering of the family for years, had all been attributed to her “wicked sin,” by Lady Valeria, whose wrath was boundless at the overthrow of all her plans.
“What good have you done? What good have you done by such a heinous outrage? You have disgraced yourself for ever. Who will ever look at you now?”
“Everybody, I am afraid, Madam,” Alice answered, with a blush.
“You know what I mean, as well as I do. Even if you were drowned, I believe you would catch at the words of your betters.”
“Drowning people catch at straws,” she answered with a shudder of memory.
“And you could not even drown yourself. You were too clumsy to do even that.”
“Well, Madam,” said Alice, with a smile almost resembling that of better times; “surely even you will admit that I did my best towards it.”
“Ah, you flighty child, leave my room, and go and finish killing your father.”
Now when the doctor came and saw the slight revival of his patient, he hurried in search of Miss Lorraine, towards whom he had taken a liking. After he had given his opinion of the case, and comforted her until she cried, he said—“Now you must come and see him. And if you can think of anything likely to amuse him, or set his mind in motion—any interesting remembrance, or suggestion of mild surprise, it will be the very best thing possible.”
“But surely, to see me again will sufficiently astonish him.”