第49章 CHAPTER XII SUNSHINE AND SHADOW(3)
"Indeed, yes," said he. "How can this compare with what you have done for me? For I have learnt how greatly it is to you, yourself, that I owe my recovery - the saving of my life.""Ah, but that is not true. It - "
"Let me think so, whether it be true or not," he implored her, eyes between tenderness and whimsicality intent upon her face.
"Let me believe it, for the belief has brought me happiness -the greatest happiness, I think, that I have ever known. Ican know but one greater, and that - "
He broke off suddenly, and she observed that the hand he had stretched out trembled a moment ere it was abruptly lowered again. It was as a man who had reached forth to grasp something that he craves, and checked his desire upon a sudden thought.
She felt oddly stirred, despite herself, and oddly constrained. It may have been to disguise this that she half turned to the table, saying: "You were about to smoke when Icame." And she took up his pipe and tobacco - jar to offer them.
"Ah, but since you've come, I would not dream," he said.
She looked at him. The complete change of topic permitted it.
"If I desired you so to do?" she inquired, and added: "I love the fragrance of it."He raised his brows. "Fragrance?" quoth he. "My Lady Ostermore has another word for it." He took the pipe and jar from her. "'Tis no humoring, this, of a man you imagine sick - no silly chivalry of yours?" he questioned doubtfully. "Did I think that, I'd never smoke another pipe again."She shook her head, and laughed at his solemnity. "I love the fragrance," she repeated.
"Ah! Why, then, I'll pleasure you," said he, with the air of one conferring favors, and filled his pipe. Presently he spoke again in a musing tone. "In a week or so, I shall be well enough to travel.""'Tis your intent to travel?" she inquired.
He set down the jar, and reached for the tinderbox. "It is time I was returning home," he explained.
"Ah, yes. Your home is in France."
"At Maligny; the sweetest nook in Normandy. 'Twas my mother's birthplace, and 'twas there she died.""You have felt the loss of her, I make no doubt.""That might have been the case if I had known her," answered he. "But as it is, I never did. I was but two years old -she, herself, but twenty - when she died."
He pulled at his pipe in silence a moment or two, his face overcast and thoughtful. A shallower woman would have broken in with expressions of regret; Hortensia offered him the nobler sympathy of silence. Moreover, she had felt from his tone that there was more to come; that what he had said was but the preface to some story that he desired her to be acquainted with. And presently, as she expected, he continued "She died, Mistress Winthrop, of a broken heart. My father had abandoned her two years and more before she died. In those years of repining - ay, and worse, of actual want - her health was broken so that, poor soul, she died.""O pitiful!" cried Hortensia, pain in her face.
"Pitiful, indeed - the more pitiful that her death was a source of some slight happiness to those who loved her; the only happiness they could have in her was to know that she was at rest.""And - and your father?"
"I am coming to him. My mother had a friend - a very noble, lofty-minded gentleman who had loved her with a great and honest love before the profligate who was my father came forward as a suitor. Recognizing in the latter - as he thought in his honest heart - a man in better case to make her happy, this gentleman I speak of went his ways. He came upon her afterwards, broken and abandoned, and he gathered up the poor shards of her shattered life, and sought with tender but unavailing hands to piece them together again. And when she died he vowed to stand my friend and to make up to me for the want I had of parents. 'Tis by his bounty that to-day I am lord of Maligny that was for generations the property of my mother's people. 'Tis by his bounty and loving care that I am what I am, and not what so easily I might have become had the seed sown by my father been allowed to put out shoots."He paused, as if bethinking himself, and looked at her with a wistful, inquiring smile. "But why plague you," he cried, "with this poor tale of yesterday that will be forgot to-morrow?""Nay - ah, nay," she begged, and put out a hand in impulsive sympathy to touch his own, so transparent now in its emaciation. "Tell me; tell me!"His smile softened. He sighed gently and continued. "This gentleman who adopted me lived for one single purpose, with one single aim in view - to avenge my mother, whom he had loved, upon the man whom she had loved and who had so ill repaid her. He reared me for that purpose, as much, I think, as out of any other feeling. Thirty years have sped, and still the hand of the avenger has not fallen upon my father.
It should have fallen a month ago; but I was weak; Ihesitated; and then this sword-thrust put me out of all case of doing what I had crossed from France to do."She looked at him with something of horror in her face. "Were you - were you to have been the instrument?" she inquired.
"Were you to have avenged this thing upon your own father?"He nodded slowly. "'Twas to that end that I was reared," he answered, and put aside his pipe, which had gone out. "The spirit of revenge was educated into me until I came to look upon revenge as the best and holiest of emotions; until Ibelieved that if I failed to wreak it I must be a craven and a dastard. All this seemed so until the moment came to set my hand to the task. And then - " He shrugged.
"And then?" she questioned.