CHAPTER L.
The great question in life is the suffering we cause; and the utmost ingenuity of metaphysics cannot justify the man who has pierced the heart that loved him.—Benjamin Constant.
When Denner had gone up to her mistress's room to dress her for dinner, she had found her seated just as Harold had found her, only with eyelids drooping and trembling over slowly-rolling tears—nay, with a face in which every sensitive feature, every muscle, seemed to be quivering with a silent endurance of some agony.
Denner went and stood by the chair a minute without speaking, only laying her hand gently on Mrs Transome's. At last she said, beseechingly,
"Pray speak, madam. What has happened?"
"The worst, Denner—the worst."
"You are ill. Let me undress you, and put you to bed."
"No, I am not ill. I am not going to die! I shall live—I shall live!"
