Lecount's revenge.
The harm was done; the chance was gone. Time and Hope alike had both
passed her by.
Faintly and more faintly the inner voices now pleaded with her to pause
on the downward way. The discovery which had poisoned her heart with its
first distrust of her sister; the tidings which had followed it of her
husband's death; the sting of Mrs. Lecount's triumph, felt through all,
had done their work. The remorse which had embittered her married
life was deadened now to a dull despair. It was too late to make the
atonement of confession--too late to lay bare to the miserable husband
the deeper secrets that had once lurked in the heart of the miserable
wife. Innocent of all thought of the hideous treachery which Mrs.
Lecount had imputed to her--she was guilty of knowing how his health
was broken when she married him; guilty of knowing, when he left her the
Combe-Raven money, that the accident of a moment, harmless to other men,
might place his life in jeopardy, and effect her release. His death
had told her this--had told her plainly what she had shrunk, in his
lifetime, from openly acknowledging to herself. From the dull torment of
that reproach; from the dreary wretchedness of doubting everybody, even
to Norah herself; from the bitter sense of her defeated schemes; from
the blank solitude of her friendless life--what refuge was left? But one
refuge now.
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