But this mood, which seemed to paralyse her, lasted in reality but a few minutes; she was roused by her mother’s voice and touch.  She looked up for a moment, but with hard tearless eyes and set lips, and only to put away from her the hand that had been softly laid on her shoulder.  Mrs. Costello drew back; she returned to her chair, and sat down to wait, but the long deep sigh which unconsciously escaped her, as she did so, reached Lucia’s heart.  A strong impulse of love and pity seemed to break through all her misery; she felt that, at least, she did not suffer alone, and with a quick self-reproach she threw herself at her mother’s feet, and encircled her waist with her arms.  For a moment neither spoke.  They held each other fast, and one, at least, thanked God silently that the most bitter pang was averted, since they could still so cling to each other.

But after a while, Mrs. Costello said, “I have much to tell you, my child.  Can you bear to hear it now?”

“Yes, mother.  I must know all now.”

Lucia rose, and bringing a footstool, sat down in her old childish attitude at her mother’s feet; only that her face, which was worn and pale, was quite hidden.

“I am ready,” she said.  “Explain all I cannot understand.”

No human being, perhaps, could tell his or her own story with perfect truth; still less could tell it so to the hearer the most passionately loved, and whose love seems to hang in the balance.  It would be apt to be a piece of special pleading, for or against, as egotism or conscience happened to be strongest.  Best, then, not to try to reproduce the words spoken that night—­spoken in the tuneless, level voice, which, in its dull monotony, is a truer indication of pain than any other; but to repeat only the substance of all that Lucia then heard for the first time.

To her, the old house by the Dee was already familiar ground; she knew, dimly, the figure of a lady who died there in her youth, and left a desolate child, well cared for, but little loved, to grow up alone; and she knew, more familiarly, but with a sense of awe which was almost dislike, the child’s father, her own grandfather, a man saddened, silent, unsympathetic.  These, and various relations and servants who had surrounded her mother in her childhood, she had already heard of a thousand times.  The story, new to her, began in Mary Wynter’s fifteenth year.

At that time Mr. Wynter’s family consisted of four persons—­himself, his daughter, her governess, and a nephew, George Wynter, who was, in fact, an adopted son.  The governess had been lately and hastily added to the household, on the discovery of Mary’s amazing ignorance; and her selection had been a mistake.  She and her pupil were at open warfare, she endeavouring to teach, Mary determined not to learn.  The poor lady was very conscientious, and very well instructed, but she was not judicious.  She never found out that her pupil would have been