Herminia gazed at her appalled. It was a natural tragedy. There was no way out of it. She couldn’t help seizing the thing at once, in a lightning flash of sympathy, from Dolly’s point of view, too. Quick womanly instinct made her heart bleed for her daughter’s manifest shame and horror.
“Dolly, Dolly,” the agonised mother cried, flinging herself upon her child’s mercy, as it were; “Don’t be hard on me; don’t be hard on me! My darling, how could I ever guess you would look at it like this? How could I ever guess my daughter and his would see things for herself in so different a light from the light we saw them in?”
“You had no right to bring me into the world at all,” Dolly cried, growing fiercer as her mother grew more unhappy. “If you did, you should have put me on an equality with other people.”
“Dolly,” Herminia moaned, wringing her hands in her despair, “my child, my darling, how I have loved you! how I have watched over you! Your life has been for years the one thing I had to live for. I dreamed you would be just such another one as myself. _Equal_ with other people! Why, I thought I was giving you the noblest heritage living woman ever yet gave the child of her bosom. I thought you would be proud of it, as I myself would have been proud. I thought you would accept it as a glorious birthright, a supreme privilege. How could I foresee you would turn aside from your mother’s creed? How could I anticipate you would be ashamed of being the first free-born woman ever begotten in England? ’Twas a blessing I meant to give you, and you have made a curse of it.”
“_You_ have made a curse of it!” Dolores answered, rising and glaring at her. “You have blighted my life for me. A good man and true was going to make me his wife. After this, how can I dare to palm myself off upon him?”
She swept from the room. Though broken with sorrow, her step was resolute. Herminia followed her to her bedroom. There Dolly sat long on the edge of the bed, crying silently, silently, and rocking herself up and down like one mad with agony. At last, in one fierce burst, she relieved her burdened soul by pouring out to her mother the whole tale of her meeting with Walter Brydges. Though she hated her, she must tell her. Herminia listened with deep shame. It brought the colour back into her own pale cheek to think any man should deem he was performing an act of chivalrous self-devotion in marrying Herminia Barton’s unlawful daughter. Alan Merrick’s child! The child of so many hopes! The baby that was born to regenerate humanity!