Bonnybell gave a slight groan. In her nature there was no vindictiveness, and the sight and sound of the absolute abasement of her enemies before her was for the moment undoubtedly disagreeable to her; though a reflex action of her mind suggested that by-and-by she might find some matter for complacency in it. But meanwhile she must find something to say that would be noble and magnanimous and, above all, final; and, what is more, not overdo it. “I must say something very beautiful,” she reflected, “and where on earth am I to lay my hands upon it?”
“What else can you say?” she ended by sighing out, as if crushed under the weight of so enormous a suggestion. “Oh, nothing, nothing! You have said a great deal too much already; more—oh, how much more!—than I am worth.”
“This is waste of time,” said Camilla, striking in for the first time; and something in the sound of her harsh voice gave the sorely bested heroine a sense of being backed up which nothing in the unbiassed words justified. “These ladies have asked you categorically two questions; and you must answer them in the same way. Will you, or will you not, return with them to the Dower House, and resume your engagement to their son and brother?”
“No, a thousand times no,” replied Bonnybell, dropping upon those pliant knees, on which in any emergency she was ever ready to fall—“not while I lie under this dreadful cloud. I would far sooner die than bring a slur on his honoured name!” (“Bad and stagey,” was her own impartial inward comment on this flight. “Oh, how thankful I am that Edward did not hear it! He has such good taste. How it would have disgusted him!”)
“That being the case,” continued Camilla, in an arid voice, whose matter-of-fact dryness did not give the impression of having been much affected by Bonnybell’s magnanimous outburst, and thereby confirmed its author’s own ill opinion of her achievement—“such being the case, there is no use in prolonging this painful scene. You had better leave the room; that is to say, if you are quite sure that your answer is final.”
“But it cannot be final!” cried Mrs. Aylmer, with almost a shriek, losing all self-control, and pouring out her words in a boiling strain of incoherent violence. “I will not hear of its being final! You cannot have understood what I was saying. I must have expressed myself ill. I tell you that I dare not go back without you. You do not realize what a state you have brought him to. I could not have believed it myself if I had not seen it with my own eyes. If I do not bring you back he will blow his brains out! Do you understand that? Oh, what am I saying? I am only setting you more against me. But just think what a case I am in! Only one son, and he hating and cursing me! You will have a son yourself some day”—Bonnybell gave an imperceptible shudder; maternity played but a small and unhandsome part in her life’s programme—“and some one will rob you of him, and then you will feel as I do towards you!”
She broke off, suffocated, and flinging the girl’s hands from her with a gesture of despair and rage.
“I must go into hysterics,” Bonnybell said to herself, “there is nothing else for it, and I do feel very miserable and upset. I had better make as much noise as I can. I shall be the sooner sent out of the room.” She was as good as her word.