Elaine dragged herself up from the floor, and held out her arms
imploringly to the lovely, imperious young creature, who regarded her
with angry, scornful eyes.
"Irene, hear me," she said, humbly.
But Irene pushed off the clinging hands, cruelly.
"Do not touch me," she said, bitterly. "I am bad enough myself. The
brand of shame is on me, and I have no name and no right in the world;
but it is no sin of mine. _You_--_you_ are the guilty one! The touch of
your hand would burn me! Oh, God! oh, God! how came she by that angel's
face and devil's heart?"
She had forgotten Guy Kenmore's presence as she hurled her denunciations
at the lovely, despairing, sinful woman before her. Elaine did indeed
have the face of an angel. Even in this moment, when her long-hidden and
shameful secret became revealed to her child, her exquisite face had on
it no remorseful shame. The rather it was touched with the despairing
resignation of some pure, high heart which has found itself cast down
and destroyed in its struggle against the wicked world. She lifted her
sweet, sad, violet eyes, and cast a look of pathetic reproach upon
Irene.
"My child, do you indeed believe me so vile and wicked?" she asked,
mournfully.
"I am forced to judge you by your confession," Irene answered, with
passionate shame.
"I have made no confession yet, I wish to do so now, if you will listen
to me, Irene," said the beautiful woman in a tone of sad patience. "I am
not guilty as you think me, oh, no, no, no!" she cried, shudderingly.
"You are my mother, and you are ashamed to claim me! You are a wretched
sinner, and instead of hiding your disgraced head in seclusion, and
trying to win the pardon and mercy of offended Heaven, you flaunt your
beautiful face before the world, unforgiven and unrepentant!" cried out
Irene, with all the hard severity of a young mentor.
Elaine wrung her beautiful, jeweled hands together, and tears fell one
after another in a rapid stream down her cheeks upon the corsage of her
dress, spotting and staining the rich silk.
"Irene, will you indeed be so hard and unforgiving?" she cried. "Will
you judge and condemn me without hearing? Are you the sweet, loving
child, whom I could always lead and persuade with a kind word?"
"I am no longer a child!" the girl cried out, bitterly. "I am a woman
now. The events of to-night have laid years on my head and a burden on
my heart! You might have led me by one thread of your golden hair while
I believed you to be my pure, true-hearted sister who bore your mother's
and sister's tyranny like an angel because you were too gentle to resent
it. I understand it all now. You were afraid of them. Conscience made a
coward of you, and they held your shameful secret like a whip-lash over
your head and drove you hither and yon at the bent of their own wills!
Oh, shame, shame!" cried Irene, withering her mother by her sharp scorn.
"Yes, I have been a slave, a coward," Elaine murmured, mournfully. "But,
oh, Irene, my poor child, I bore it all for my father's sake. He, at
least, was kind and forgiving!"
The words recalled to Irene's mind the fond, indulgent old man whom she
adored with all the strength of her ardent young heart. Mrs. Brooke and
Bertha had been too harsh and cold to command her love, Elaine had vexed
her impetuous spirit by her shrinking cowardice. But her father--the
loving old man who has ever taken her part bravely against them all--it
rushed over her with a chill like that of death that he belonged to her
no longer, by that dear filial tie that had been the one unalloyed joy
of her willful life, and a cry of exceeding bitter pain fell from her
white lips.
"Papa, oh, my dear, my darling, I must lose you with the rest," she
cried out in a voice sharp and shrill with despair. "Nothing of all I
thought mine belongs to me! I must lose you, too, whom I loved with all
my soul--lose you through the sin of her who brought me into a world
where I have no place, no name! Oh, God, I cannot bear it! I wish that I
were dead!" wailed Irene, in the bitterness of her despair.
Elaine gazed at her daughter like one dazed. All the youth, the joy, the
childishness seemed stricken from her forever by the terrible revelation
of to-night. The slender young figure stood apart from her in desperate
grief, seeking no friendly arm to lean on in its terrible isolation; the
beautiful young face was cold and rigid with despair; the blue eyes,
black now with her soul's emotion, flashed scorn through proud tears
that would not fall. A woman's outraged soul, forlorn yet proud, shone
through the tense young form.
Suddenly a firm touch fell on Irene's arm.
"Irene," said Guy Kenmore, low and sternly, "no more of these wild
reproaches to your mother! You shall hear her offered confession first."