They parted. The Derwents returned to London; Arnold set off to pay a hasty visit or two in the North. The wedding was to take place a couple of months hence, and the pair would spend their Christmas in Egypt.
A few days after her arrival in Bryanston Square, Irene went to see the Hannafords. She found her aunt in a deplorable state, unable to converse, looking as if on the verge of a serious illness. Olga behaved strangely, like one in harassing trouble of which she might not speak. It was a painful visit, and on her return home Irene talked of it to her father.
"Something wretched is going on of which we don't know," she declared. "Anyone could see it. Olga is keeping some miserable secret, and her mother looks as if she were being driven mad."
"That ruffian, I suppose," said the Doctor. "What can he be doing?"
The next day he saw his sister. He came home with a gloomy countenance, and called Irene into his study.
"You were right. Something very bad indeed is going on, so bad that I hardly like to speak to you about it. But secrecy is impossible; we must use our common sense--Hannaford is bringing a suit for divorce."
Irene was so astonished that she merely gazed at her father, waiting his explanation. Under her eyes Dr. Derwent suffered an increase of embarrassment, which tended to relieve itself in anger.
"It will kill her," he exclaimed, with a nervous gesture. "And then, if justice were done, that scoundrel would be hanged!"
"You mean her husband?"
"Yes. Though I'm not sure that there isn't another who deserves the name. She wants to see you, Irene, and I think you must go at once. She says she has things to tell you that will make her mind easier. I'm going to send a nurse to be with her: she mustn't be left alone. It's lucky I went to-day. I won't answer for what may happen in four-and-twenty hours. Olga isn't much use, you know, though she's doing what she can."
It was about one o'clock. Saying she would be able to lunch at her aunt's house, Irene forthwith made ready, and drove to Campden Hill. She was led into the drawing-room, and sat there, alone, for five minutes; then Olga entered. The girls advanced to each other with a natural gesture of distress.
"She's asleep, I'm glad to say," Olga whispered, as if still in a sickroom. "I persuaded her to lie down. I don't think she has closed her eyes the last two or three nights. Can you wait? Oh, do, if you can! She does so want to see you."
"But why, dear? Of course I will wait; but why does she ask for _me_?"
Olga related all that had come to pass, in her knowledge. Only by ceaseless importunity had she constrained her mother to reveal the cause of an anguish which could no longer be disguised. The avowal had been made yesterday, not long before Dr. Derwent's coming to the house.
"I wanted to tell you, but she had forbidden me to speak to anyone. What's the use of trying to keep such a thing secret? If uncle had not come, I should have telegraphed for him. Of course he made her tell him, and it has put her at rest for a little; she fell asleep as soon as she lay down. Her dread is that we shan't believe her. She wants, I think, only to declare to you that she has done no wrong."
"As if I could doubt her word!"
Irene tried to shape a question, but could not speak. Her cousin also was mute for a moment. Their eyes met, and fell.
"You remember Mr. Otway's brother?" said Olga, in an unsteady voice, and then ceased.
"He? Daniel Otway?"
Irene had turned pale; she spoke under her breath. At once there recurred to her the unexplained incident at Malvern Station.
"I knew mother was foolish in keeping up an acquaintance with him," Olga answered, with some vehemence. "I detested the man, what I saw of him. And I suspect--of course mother won't say--he has been having money from her."
An exclamation of revolted feeling escaped Irene. She could not speak her thoughts; they were painful almost beyond endurance. She could not even meet her cousin's look.
"It's a hideous thing to talk about," Olga pursued, her head bent and her hands crushing each other, "no wonder it seems to be almost driving her mad. What do you think she did, as soon as she received the notice? She sent for Piers Otway, and told him, and asked him to help her. He came in the afternoon, when I was out. Think how dreadful it must have been for her!"
"How could _he_ help her?" asked Irene, in a strangely subdued tone, still without raising her eyes.
"By seeing his brother, she thought, and getting him, perhaps, to persuade my father--how I hate the name!--that there were no grounds for such an action."
"What"--Irene forced each syllable from her lips--"what are the grounds alleged?"
Olga began a reply, but the first word choked her. Her self-command gave way, she sobbed, and turned to hide her face.
"You, too, are being tried beyond your strength," said Irene, whose womanhood fortified itself in these moments of wretched doubt and shame. "Come, we must have some lunch whilst aunt is asleep."
"I want to get it all over--to tell you as much as I know," said the other. "Mother says there is not even an appearance of wrong-doing against her--that she can only be accused by deliberate falsehood. She hasn't told me more than that--and how can I ask? Of course _he_ is capable of everything--of any wickedness!"
"You mean Daniel Otway?"
"No--her husband--I will never again call him by the other name."
"Do you know whether Piers Otway has seen his brother?"
"He hadn't up to yesterday, when he sent mother a note, saying that the man was away, and couldn't be heard of."
With an angry effort Olga recovered her self-possession. Apart from the natural shame which afflicted her, she seemed to experience more of indignation and impatience than any other feeling. Growing calmer, she spoke almost with bitterness of her mother's folly.
"I told her once, quite plainly, that Daniel Otway wasn't the kind of man she ought to be friendly with. She was offended: it was one of the reasons why we couldn't go on living together. I believe, if the truth were known, it was worry about him that caused her breakdown in health. She's a weak, soft-natured woman, and he--I know very well what _he_ is. He and the other one--both Piers Otway's brothers--have always been worthless creatures. She knew it well enough, and yet----! I suppose their mother----"
She broke off in a tone of disgust. Irene, looking at her with more attentiveness, waited for what she would next say.
"Of course you remember," Olga added, after a pause, "that they are only half-brothers to Piers Otway?"
"Of course I do."
"_His_ mother must have been a very different woman. You have heard----?"
They exchanged looks. Irene nodded, and averted her eyes, murmuring, "Aunt explained to me, after his father's death."
"One would have supposed," said Olga, "that _they_ would turn into the honourable men, and _he_ the scamp. Nature doesn't seem to care much about setting us a moral lesson."
And she laughed--a short, bitter laugh. Irene, her brows knit in painful thought, kept silence.
They were going to the dining-room, when a servant made known to them that Mrs. Hannaford was asking for her daughter.
"Do