She found herself, in truth, in a sore predicament, and was on the point
of starting to her feet to run and confess to Mr. Macintosh what she had
done, that he might at once pronounce the penalty on what she never
doubted he must regard as a case of simple theft; but she bethought
herself that she would remain incapable of offering the least
satisfaction, and must therefore be regarded merely as one who sought by
confession to secure forgiveness and remission. What proof had she to
offer even that she had given the money away? To mention the name of her
friend would be to bring her into discredit, and transfer to her the
blame of her own act. There was nothing she could do--and yet, however
was she to go about with such a load upon her conscience? Confessing,
she might at least be regarded as one who desired and meant to be
honest. Confession would, anyhow, ease the weight of her load. Passively
at last, from very weariness of thought, her mind was but going backward
and forward over its own traces, heedlessly obliterating them, when
suddenly a new and horrid consciousness emerged from the trodden slime--
that she was glad that at least Sophy _had_ the money! For one
passing moment she was glad with the joy of Lady Macbeth, that what was
done was done, and could not be altered. Then once more the storm within
her awoke and would not again be stilled.
But now a third something happened which brought with it hope, for it
suggested a way of deliverance.
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