Next morning early, Dolly left Combe Neville on her way to London. When she reached the station, Walter was on the platform with a bunch of white roses. He handed them to her deferentially as she took her seat in the third-class carriage; and so sobered was Dolly by this great misfortune that she forgot even to feel a passing pang of shame that Walter should see her travel in that humble fashion. "Remember," he whispered in her ear, as the train steamed out, "we are still engaged; I hold you to your promise."
And Dolly, blushing maidenly shame and distress, shook her head decisively. "Not now," she answered. "I must wait till I know the truth. It has always been kept from me. And now I WILL know it."
She had not slept that night. All the way up to London, she kept turning her doubt over. The more she thought of it, the deeper it galled her. Her wrath waxed bitter against Herminia for this evil turn she had wrought. The smouldering anger of years blazed forth at last. Had she blighted her daughter\'s life, and spoiled so fair a future by obstinate adherence to those preposterous ideas of hers?
Never in her life had Dolly loved her mother. At best, she had felt towards her that contemptuous toleration which inferior minds often extend to higher ones. And now—why, she hated her.
In London, as it happened, that very morning, Herminia, walking across Regent\'s Park, had fallen in with Harvey Kynaston, and their talk had turned upon this self-same problem.
"What will you do when she asks you about it, as she must, sooner or later?" the man inquired.
And Herminia, smiling that serene sweet smile of hers, made answer at once without a second\'s hesitation, "I shall confess the whole truth to her."
"But it might be so bad for her," Harvey Kynaston went on. And then he proceeded to bring up in detail casuistic objections on the score of a young girl\'s modesty; all of which fell flat on Herminia\'s more honest and consistent temperament.
"I believe in the truth," she said simply; "and I\'m never afraid of it. I don\'t think a lie, or even a suppression, can ever be good in the end for any one. The Truth shall make you Free. That one principle in life can guide one through everything."
In the evening, when Dolly came home, her mother ran out proudly and affectionately to kiss her. But Dolly drew back her face with a gesture of displeasure, nay, almost of shrinking. "Not now, mother!" she cried. "I have something to ask you about. Till I know the truth, I can never kiss you."
Herminia\'s face turned deadly white; she knew it had come at last. But still she never flinched. "You shall hear the truth from me, darling," she said, with a gentle touch. "You have always heard it."
They passed under the doorway and up the stairs in silence. As soon as they were in the sitting-room, Dolly fronted Herminia fiercely. "Mother," she cried, with the air of a wild creature at bay, "were you married to my father?"
Herminia\'s cheek blanched, and her pale lips quivered as she nerved herself to answer; but she answered bravely, "No, darling, I was not. It has always been contrary to my principles to marry."
"YOUR principles!" Dolores echoed in a tone of ineffable, scorn. "YOUR principles! Your PRINCIPLES! All my life has been sacrificed to you and your principles!" Then she turned on her madly once more. "And WHO was my father?" she burst out in her agony.
Herminia never paused. She must tell her the truth. "Your father\'s name was Alan Merrick," she answered, steadying herself with one hand on the table. "He died at Perugia before you were born there. He was a son of Sir Anthony Merrick, the great doctor in Harley Street."
The worst was out. Dolly stood still and gasped. Hot horror flooded her burning cheeks. Illegitimate! illegitimate! Dishonored from her birth! A mark for every cruel tongue to aim at! Born in shame and disgrace! And then, to think what she might have been, but for her mother\'s madness! The granddaughter of two such great men in their way as the Dean of Dunwich and Sir Anthony Merrick.
She drew back, all aghast. Sh............