In speechless distress and dismay, Mrs. Crayford looked at Clara. Had she force enough in her feeble health to sustain the shock that had fallen on her? Yes! she bore it with a strange unnatural resignation—she looked, she spoke, with the sad self-possession of despair.
“I was prepared for it,” she said. “I saw them in the spirit last night. Richard Wardour has discovered the truth; and Frank has paid the penalty with his life—and I, I alone, am to blame.” She shuddered, and put her hand on her heart. “We shall not be long parted, Lucy. I shall go to him. He will not return to me.”
Those words were spoken with a calm certainty of conviction that was terrible to hear. “I have no more to say,” she added, after a moment, and rose to return to the house. Mrs. Crayford caught her by the hand, and forced her to take her seat again.
“Don’t look at me, don’t speak to me, in that horrible manner!” she exclaimed. “Clara! it is unworthy of a reasonable being, it is doubting the mercy of God, to say what you have just said. Look at the newspaper again. See! They tell you plainly that their information is not to be depended on—they warn you to wait for further particulars. The very words at the top of the list show how little they knew of the truth ‘Dead or Missing!’ On their own showing, it is quite as likely that Frank is missing as that Frank is dead. For all you know, the next mail may bring a letter from him. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you deny what I say?”
“No.”
“‘Yes!’ ‘No!’ Is that the way to answer me when I am so distressed and so anxious about you?”
“I am sorry I spoke as I did, Lucy. We look at some subjects in very different ways. I don’t dispute, dear, that yours is the reasonable view.”
“You don’t dispute?” retorted Mrs. Crayford, warmly. “No! you do what is worse—you believe in your own opinion; you persist in your own conclusion—with the newspaper before you! Do you, or do you not, believe the newspaper?”