In past times she had often sat
there, with Mrs. Vanstone on one side, with Norah on the other, with
Magdalen and the dogs romping on the grass. Alone she sat there now--the
will and the letter which she dared not trust out of her own possession,
laid on the table--her head bowed over them; her face hidden in her
hands. Alone she sat there and tried to rouse her sinking courage.
Doubts thronged on her of the dark days to come; dread beset her of
the hidden danger which her own silence toward Norah and Magdalen might
store up in the near future. The accident of a moment might suddenly
reveal the truth. Mr. Pendril might write, might personally address
himself to the sisters, in the natural conviction that she had
enlightened them. Complications might gather round them at a moment's
notice; unforeseen necessities might arise for immediately leaving the
house. She saw all these perils--and still the cruel courage to face the
worst, and speak, was as far from her as ever. Ere long the thickening
conflict of her thoughts forced its way outward for relief, in words and
actions. She raised her head and beat her hand helplessly on the table.
"God help me, what am I to do?" she broke out.
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