“Oh, no!” cried Victoria, involuntarily rising to her feet.  “Oh, no!  I’m sure he didn’t mean to.  He didn’t understand her!”

“He killed her,” Euphrasia repeated.  “Why didn’t he understand her?  She was just as simple as a child, and just as trusting, and just as loving.  He made her unhappy, and now he’s driven her son out of her house, and made him unhappy.  He’s all of her I have left, and I won’t see him unhappy.”

Victoria summoned her courage.

“Don’t you think,” she asked bravely, “that Mr. Austen Vane ought to be told that his father is—­in this condition?”

“No,” said Euphrasia, determinedly.  “Hilary will have to send for him.  This time it’ll be Austen’s victory.”

“But hasn’t he had—­a victory?” Victoria persisted earnestly.  “Isn’t this—­victory enough?”

“What do you mean?” Euphrasia cried sharply.

“I mean,” she answered, in a low voice, “I mean that Mr. Vane’s son is responsible for his condition to-day.  Oh—­not consciously so.  But the cause of this trouble is mental—­can’t you see it?  The cause of this trouble is remorse.  Can’t you see that it has eaten into his soul?  Do you wish a greater victory than this, or a sadder one?  Hilary Vane will not ask for his son—­because he cannot.  He has no more power to send that message than a man shipwrecked on an island.  He can only give signals of distress—­that some may heed.  Would She have waited for such a victory as you demand?  And does Austen Vane desire it?  Don’t you think that he would come to his father if he knew?  And have you any right to keep the news from him?  Have you any right to decide what their vengeance shall be?”

Euphrasia had stood mute as she listened to these words which she had so little expected, but her eyes flashed and her breath came quickly.  Never had she been so spoken to!  Never had any living soul come between her and her cherished object the breaking of the heart of Hilary Vane!  Nor, indeed, had that object ever been so plainly set forth as Victoria had set it forth.  And this woman who dared to do this had herself brought unhappiness to Austen.  Euphrasia had almost forgotten that, such had been the strange harmony of their communion.

“Have you the right to tell Austen?” she demanded.

“Have I?” Victoria repeated.  And then, as the full meaning of the question came to her; the colour flooded into her face, and she would have fled, if she could, bud Euphrasia’s words came in a torrent.

“You’ve made him unhappy, as well as Hilary.  He loves you—­but he wouldn’t speak of it to you.  Oh, no, he didn’t tell me who it was, but I never rested till I found out.  He never would have told me about it at all, or anybody else, but that I guessed it.  I saw he was unhappy, and I calculated it wasn’t Hilary alone made him so.  One night he came in here, and I knew all at once—­somehow—­there was a woman to blame, and I asked him, and he couldn’t lie to me.  He said it wasn’t anybody’s fault but his own—­he wouldn’t say any more than that, except that he hadn’t spoken to her.  I always expected the time was coming when there would be—­a woman.  And I never thought the woman lived that he’d love who wouldn’t love him.  I can’t see how any woman could help lovin’ him.