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.
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