"I asked the Rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell me all that he knew of the theft."
She drew her chair nearer to me. "Let me hear every word of it!" she pleaded eagerly.
I felt some reluctance to comply with the request.
"Is it not fit for me to hear?" she asked.
This forced me to be plain with her. "If I repeat what the Rector told me," I said, "I must speak of my wife."
She took my hand. "You have pitied and forgiven her," she answered.
"Speak of her, Bernard--and don"t, for G.o.d"s sake, think that my heart is harder than yours."
I kissed the hand that she had given to me--even her "brother" might do that!
"It began," I said, "in the grateful attachment which the boy felt for my wife. He refused to leave her bedside on the day when she dictated her confession to the Rector. As he was entirely ignorant of the English language, there seemed to be no objection to letting him have his own way. He became inquisitive as the writing went on. His questions annoyed the Rector--and as the easiest way of satisfying his curiosity, my wife told him that she was making her will. He knew just enough, from what he had heard at various times, to a.s.sociate making a will with gifts of money--and the pretended explanation silenced and satisfied him."
"Did the Rector understand it?" Stella asked.
"Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although he was not ready at speaking French, he could read the language, and could fairly well understand it, when it was spoken. After my wife"s death, he kindly placed the boy, for a few days, under the care of his housekeeper. Her early life had been pa.s.sed in the island of Martinique, and she was able to communicate with the friendless foreigner in his own language. When he disappeared, she was the only person who could throw any light on his motive for stealing the papers. On the day when he entered the house, she caught him peeping through the keyhole of the study door. He must have seen where the confession was placed, and the color of the old-fashioned blue paper, on which it was written, would help him to identify it. The next morning, during the Rector"s absence, he brought the ma.n.u.script to the housekeeper, and asked her to translate it into French, so that he might know how much money was left to him in "the will." She severely reproved him, made him replace the paper in the desk from which he had taken it, and threatened to tell the Rector if his misconduct was repeated. He promised amendment, and the good-natured woman believed him. On that evening the papers were sealed, and locked up. In the morning the lock was found broken, and the papers and the boy were both missing together."
"Do you think he showed the confession to any other person?" Stella asked. "I happen to know that he concealed it from his mother."
"After the housekeeper"s reproof," I replied, "he would be cunning enough, in my opinion, not to run the risk of showing it to strangers.
It is far more likely that he thought he might learn English enough to read it himself."
There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She was thinking, and I was looking at her. On a sudden, she raised her head. Her eyes rested on me gravely.
"It is very strange!" she said
"What is strange?"
"I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged me to doubt you.
They advised me to be silent about what happened at Brussels. And they too are concerned in my husband"s desertion of me. He first met Father Benwell at their house." Her head drooped again; her next words were murmured to herself. "I am still a young woman," she said. "Oh, G.o.d, what is my future to be?"
This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that she had dear and devoted friends.
"Not one," she answered, "but you."
"Have you not seen Lady Loring?" I asked.
"She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me to make their house my home. I have no right to blame them--they meant well. But after what has happened, I can"t go back to them."
"I am sorry to hear it," I said.
"Are you thinking of the Lorings?" she asked.
"I don"t even know the Lorings. I can think of n.o.body but you."
I was still looking at her--and I am afraid my eyes said more than my words. If she had doubted it before, she must have now known that I was as fond of her as ever. She looked distressed rather than confused. I made an awkward attempt to set myself right.
"Surely your brother may speak plainly," I pleaded.
She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to go--with a friendly word, intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my pardon for that time. "Will you come and see us to-morrow?" she said. "Can you forgive my mother as generously as you have forgiven me? I will take care, Bernard, that she does you justice at last."
She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply? If I had been a resolute man, I might have remembered that it would be best for me not to see too much of her. But I am a poor weak creature--I accepted her invitation for the next day.
January 30.--I have just returned from my visit.
My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and confusion--and her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not gone to the house. Am I a bad man, I wonder? and have I only found it out now?
Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in. Judging by the easy manner in which she got up to receive me, the misfortune that has befallen her daughter seemed to have produced no sobering change in this frivolous woman.
"My dear Winterfield," she began, "I have behaved infamously. I won"t say that appearances were against you at Brussels--I will only say I ought not to have trusted to appearances. You are the injured person; please forgive me. Shall we go on with the subject? or shall we shake hands, and say no more about it?"
I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking for Stella.
"Sit down," she said; "and be good enough to put up with no more attractive society than mine. Unless I set things straight, my good friend, you and my daughter--oh, with the best intentions!--will drift into a false position. You won"t see Stella to-day. Quite impossible--and I will tell you why. I am the worldly old mother; I don"t mind what I say. My innocent daughter would die before she would confess what I am going to tell you. Can I offer you anything? Have you had lunch?"
I begged her to continue. She perplexed--I am not sure that she did not even alarm me.
"Very well," she proceeded. "You may be surprised to hear it--but I don"t mean to allow things to go on in this way. My contemptible son-in-law shall return to his wife."
This startled me, and I suppose I showed it.
"Wait a little," said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "There is nothing to be alarmed about. Romayne is a weak fool; and Father Benwell"s greedy hands are (of course) in both his pockets. But he has, unless I am entirely mistaken, some small sense of shame, and some little human feeling still left. After the manner in which he has behaved, these are the merest possibilities, you will say. Very likely. I have boldly appealed to those possibilities nevertheless. He has already gone away to Rome; and I need hardly add--Father Benwell would take good care of that--he has left us no address. It doesn"t in the least matter. One of the advantages of being so much in society as I am is that I have nice acquaintances everywhere, always ready to oblige me, provided I don"t borrow money of them. I have written to Romayne, under cover to one of my friends living in Rome. Wherever he may be, there my letter will find him."
So far, I listened quietly enough, naturally supposing that Mrs.
Eyrecourt trusted to her own arguments and persuasions. I confess it even to myself, with shame. It was a relief to me to feel that the chances (with such a fanatic as Romayne) were a hundred to one against her.
This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by Mrs. Eyrecourt"s next words.
"Don"t suppose that I am foolish enough to attempt to reason with him,"
she went on. "My letter begins and ends on the first page. His wife has a claim on him, which no newly-married man can resist. Let me do him justice. He knew nothing of it before he went away. My letter--my daughter has no suspicion that I have written it--tells him plainly what the claim is."
She paused. Her eyes softened, her voice sank low--she became quite unlike the Mrs. Eyrecourt whom I knew.
"In a few months more, Winterfield," she said, "my poor Stella will be a mother. My letter calls Romayne back to his wife--_and his child."_
Mrs. Eyrecourt paused, evidently expecting me to offer an opinion of some sort. For the moment I was really unable to speak. Stella"s mother never had a very high opinion of my abilities. She now appeared to consider me the stupidest person in the circle of her acquaintance.
"Are you a little deaf, Winterfield?" she asked.
"Not that I know of."
"Do you understand me?"
"Oh, yes."