CHAPTER XXVI

Olga knew that by her mother’s death she became penniless.  The income enjoyed by Mrs. Hannaford under the will of her sister in America was only for life by allowing a third of it to her husband, she had made saving impossible, and, as she left no will, her daughter could expect only such trifles as might legally fall to her share when things were settled.  To her surviving parent, the girl was of course no more than a stranger.  It surprised no one that Lee Hannaford, informed through the lawyers of what had happened, simply kept silence, leaving his wife’s burial to the care of Dr. Derwent.

Three days of gloom went by; the funeral was over; Irene and her cousin sat together in their mourning apparel, not simply possessed by natural grief, but overcome with the nervous exhaustion which results from our habits and customs in presence of death.  Olga had been miserably crying, but was now mute and still; Irene, pale, with an expression of austere thoughtfulness, spoke of the subject they both had in mind.

“There is no necessity to take any step at all—­until you are quite yourself again—­until you really wish.  This is your home; my father would like you to stay.”

“I couldn’t live here after you are married,” replied the other, weakly, despondently.

Irene glanced at her, hung a moment on the edge of speech, then spoke with a self-possession which made her seem many years older than her cousin.

“I had better tell you now, that we may understand each other.  I am not going to be married.”

To Olga’s voiceless astonishment she answered with a pale smile.  Grave again, and gentle as she was firm, Irene continued.

“I am going to break my engagement.  It has been a mistake.  To-night I shall write a letter to Mr. Jacks, saying that I cannot marry him; when it has been sent, I shall tell my father.”

Olga had begun to tremble.  Her features were disturbed with an emotion which banished every sign of sorrow; which flushed her cheeks and made her eyes seem hostile in their fixed stare.

“How can you do that?” she asked, in a hard voice “How is it possible?”

“It seems to me far more possible then the alternative—­a life of repentence.”

“But—­what do you mean, Irene?  When everything is settled—­when your house is taken—­when everyone knows!  What do you mean?  Why shall you do this?”

The words rushed forth impetuously, quivering on a note of resentment.  The flushed cheeks were turning pallid; the girl’s breast heaved with indignant passion.

“I can’t fully explain it to you, Olga.”  The speaker’s tones sounded very soft and reasonable after that outbreak.  “I am doing what many a girl would do, I feel sure, if she could find courage—­let us say, if she saw clearly enough.  It will cause confusion, ill-feeling, possibly some unhappiness, for a few weeks, for a month or two; then Mr. Jacks will feel grateful to me, and my father will acknowledge I did right; and everybody else who knows anything about it will have found some other subject of conversation.”