"I did leave him. I did live in retirement, toiled for my own bread; by wrestling with poverty I strove to win back some portion of content."

"Yet you were with him when he died!"

"It was a mournful death-bed--he sent for me, and I went. Oh! it was a mournful death-bed!"

Tears rolled down her cheeks; she covered her face with both hands.

"I had been the governess of his daughter--her nurse in the last sickness."

"And you lived apart, alone--you and this daughter."

"She died in Florence. We were alone. She was sent home for burial."

"And to be a governess to this young lady you abandoned your own child--_only_ to be governess. Can you say to me, Ada, that it was only to be a governess to this young lady?"

There was feeling in his voice, something of stern dignity--perhaps at the moment he did feel--she thought so, and it gave her hope.

She had not removed her hands; they still covered her face, and a faint murmur only broke through the fingers--oh! what cowards sin makes of us!

That poor woman dared not tell the truth--she shrunk from uttering a positive falsehood, hence the humiliating murmur that stole from her pallid lips--the sickening shudder that ran through her frame.

"You do not answer," said the husband, for Leicester _was_ her husband--"you do not answer."

She had gathered courage enough to utter the falsehood, and dropping her hands, replied in a firm voice, disagreeably firm, for the lie cost her proud spirit a terrible effort, and she could not utter it naturally as he would have done.

"Yes, I can answer. It was to be the young lady's governess that I went--only to be her governess!--penniless, abandoned, what else could I do?"

He did not believe her. In his soul he knew that she was not speaking the truth; but there was something yet to learn, and in the end it might be policy to feign a belief which he could not feel.

"So after wasting youth and talent on his daughter--paling your beauty over her death-bed and his--this pitiful man could leave you to poverty and toil. Did he expect that I would receive you again after that suspicious desertion?"

"No, no. The wild thought was mine--you once loved me, William!"

The tears were swelling in her eyes again; few men could have resisted the look of those eyes, the sweet pleading of her voice--for the contrast with her usual imperious pride had something very touching in it.

"You were very beautiful then," he said--"very beautiful."

"And am I so much changed?" she answered, with a smile of gentle sweetness.

In his secret heart he thought the splendid creature handsomer than ever. If the freshness of youth was gone, there was grace, maturity, intellect, everything requisite to the perfection of womanhood, in exchange for the one lost attraction.

It was a part of Leicester's policy to please her until he had mastered all the facts of her position; so he spoke for once sincerely, and in the rich tones that he knew so well how to modulate, he told how superbly her beauty had ripened with time. She blushed like a girl. He could feel even that her hand was glowing with the exquisite pleasure given by his praise. But he had a point to gain--all her loveliness was nothing to him, unless it could be made subservient to his interest.

What was her present condition?--had she obtained wealth abroad?--or could she insanely fancy that he would receive her penniless? This was the point that he wished to arrive at, but so far she had evaded it as if unconsciously.

He looked around the room, hoping to draw some conclusion by the objects it contained. The scrutiny was followed by a faint start of surprise; the hard carpet, the bureau, the bed, all were familiar. They had been the little "setting out" that his wife had received from her parents in New England. How came they there, so well kept, so neatly arranged in that high chamber! Was she a governess in some wealthy household, furnishing her own room with the humble articles that had once been their own household goods? He glanced at her dress. It was simple and entirely without ornament; this only strengthened the conclusion to which he was fast arriving. He remembered the marble vestibule through which they had reached the staircase, the caution used in admitting him to the house. The hackney-coach, everything gave proof that she would be an inc.u.mbrance to him. She saw that he was regarding the patch-work quilt that covered the bed; the tears began to fall from her eyes.

"Do you remember, William, we used it first when our darling was a baby?

Have you ever seen her since--since?"

He dropped her hand and stood up. His whole manner changed.

"Do not mention her, wretched, unnatural mother--is she not impoverished, abandoned? Can you make atonement for this?"

"No, no, I never hoped it--I feel keenly as you can how impossible it is. Oh, that I had the power!"

These words were enough; he had arrived at the certainty that she was penniless.

"Now let this scene have an end. It can do no good for us to meet again, or to dwell upon things that are unchangeable. You have sought this interview, and it is over. It must never be repeated."

She started up and gazed at him in wild surprise.

"You do not mean it," she faltered, making an effort to smile away her terror--"your looks but a moment since--your words. You have not so trifled with me, William!"

He was gone--she followed him to the door--her voice died away--she staggered back with a faint wail, and fell senseless across the bed.

CHAPTER V.

MISTRESS AND SERVANT.

With hate in every burning thought, There, shrouded in the midnight gloom, While every pulse its anguish brought, He guarded still that attic room.

Jacob stood upon the steps of that tall mansion, till his mistress disappeared in the darkness that filled it. His eyes followed her with an intense gaze, as if the fire smouldering at his heart could empower his vision to penetrate the black night that seemed to engulf her, together with the man to whose hand she was clinging. The rain was pouring around him. The winds sweeping through the drops, lulled a little, but were still violent. He stood motionless in the midst, allowing both rain and wind to beat against him without a thought. He was listening for another sound of their footsteps, from the marble floor, and seemed paralyzed upon the great stone flags, over which the water was dripping.

The carriage wheels grinding upon the pavement, as the coachman attempted to turn his vehicle, aroused Jacob from his abstraction. He turned, and running down the steps, caught one of the horses by the bit.

"Not yet--you will be wanted again!" he shouted.

"Wanted or not, I am going home," answered the driver gruffly; "as for sitting before any lady's door on a night like this, n.o.body knows how long--I won't, and wouldn't for twice the money you'll pay me."

Jacob backed the horses, till one of the carriage wheels struck the curbstone.

"There," he said resolutely, "get inside if you are afraid of the rain; but as for driving away, that's out of the question!"

"We'll see, that's all," shouted the driver, giving his dripping reins a shake.

"Stop," said Jacob, springing up on one of the fore-wheels, and thrusting a silver dollar into the man's hand. "This is for yourself beside the regular pay! Will that satisfy you for now waiting?"

"I shouldn't wonder," answered the man, with a broad grin, thrusting the coin into the depths of a pocket that seemed unfathomable, "that's an argument to reconcile one to cold water: because, do you mind, there's a prospect of something stronger after it. Hallo, what are you about there?"

"Only looking to the lamp," answered Jacob, holding the little gla.s.s door open as he spoke.

"But it's out!"

"So it is!" answered Jacob, dismounting from the wheel.

"And what's worse, there isn't a lamp left burning in the neighborhood to light up by!" muttered the driver, peering discontentedly into the darkness.