Euphrasia laid the volume tenderly on the shelf, and turned and faced Victoria.
“She was unhappy like that before she died,” she exclaimed, and added, with a fling of her head towards the front of the house, “he killed her.”
“Oh, no!” cried Victoria, involuntarily rising to her feet. “Oh, no! I'm sure he didn't mean to. He didn't understand her!”
“He killed her,” Euphrasia repeated. “Why didn't he understand her? She was just as simple as a child, and just as trusting, and just as loving. He made her unhappy, and now he's driven her son out of her house, and made him unhappy. He's all of her I have left, and I won't see him unhappy.”
Victoria summoned her courage.
“Don't you think,” she asked bravely, “that Mr. Austen Vane ought to be told that his father is—in this condition?”
“No,” said Euphrasia, determinedly. “Hilary will have to send for him. This time it'll be Austen's victory.”
“But hasn't he had—a victory?” Victoria persisted earnestly. “Isn't this—victory enough?”
“What do you mean?” Euphrasia cried sharply.
“I mean,” she answered, in a low voice, “I mean that Mr. Vane's son is responsible for his condition to-day. Oh—not consciously so. But the cause of this trouble is mental—can't you see it? The cause of this trouble is remorse. Can't you see that it has eaten into his soul? Do you wish a greater victory than this, or a sadder one? Hilary Vane will not ask for his son—because he cannot. He has no more power to send that message than a man shipwrecked on an island. He can only give signals of distress—that some may heed. Would She have waited for such a victory as you demand? And does Austen Vane desire it? Don't you think that he would come to his father if he knew? And have you any right to keep the news from him? Have you any right to decide what their vengeance shall be?”