COULD any one have looked through the keyhole at Lady Bassett waiting
for Reginald, he would have seen, by the very movements of her body,
the terrible agitation of the mind. She rose--she sat down--she walked
about with wild energy--she dropped on the sofa, and appeared to give
it up as impossible; but ere long that deadly languor gave way to
impatient restlessness again.
At last her quick ear heard a footstep in the corridor, accompanied by
no rustle of petticoats, and yet the footstep was not Compton's.
Instantly she glanced with momentary terror toward the door.
There was a tap.
She sat down, and said, with a tone from which all agitation was
instantly banished, “Come in.”
The door opened, and the swarthy Reginald, diabolically handsome, with
his black snaky curls, entered the room.
She rose from her chair, and fixed her great eyes on him, as if she
would read him soul and body before she ventured to speak.
“Here I am, mamma: sorry to see you look so ill.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Lady Bassett, without relaxing for a moment
that searching gaze.
She said, still covering him with her eye, “Would you cure me if you
could?”
To appreciate this opening, and Lady Bassett's sweet engaging manner,
you must understand that this young man was, in her eyes, a sort of
black snake. Her flesh crept, with fear and repugnance, at the sight of
him. Yet that is how she received him, being a mother defending her
favorite son.
“Of course I would,” said Reginald. “Just you tell me how.”
Excellent words. But the lady's calm infallible eye saw a cunning
twinkle in those black twinkling orbs. Young as he was, he was on his
guard, and waiting for her. Nor was this surprising: Reginald,
naturally intelligent, had accumulated a large stock of low cunning in
his travels and adventures with the gypsies, a smooth and cunning
people. Lady Bassett's fainting upon his return, his exclusion from her
room, and one or two minor circumstances, had set him thinking.
The moment she saw that look, Lady Bassett, with swift tact, glided
away from the line she had intended to open, and, after merely thanking
him, and saying, “I believe you, dear,” though she did not believe him,
she resumed, in a very impressive tone, “You see me worse than ever
to-day, because my mind is in great trouble. The time is come when I
must tell you a secret, which will cause you a bitter disappointment.
Why I send for you is, to see whether I cannot do something for you to
make you happy, in spite of that cruel disappointment.”
Not a word from Reginald.
“Mr. Bassett--forgive me, if you can--for I am the most miserable woman
in England--you are not the heir to this place; you are not Sir Charles
Bassett's son.”
“What!” shouted the young man.
Her fortitude gave way for a moment. She shook her head, in
confirmation of what she had said, and hid her burning face and
scalding tears in her white and wasted hands.
There was a long silence.
Reginald was asking himself if this could be true, or was it a maneuver
to put her favorite Compton over his head.
Lady Bassett looked up, and saw this paltry suspicion in his face. She
dried her tears directly, and went to a bureau, unlocked it, and
produced the manuscript confession she had prepared for her husband.
She bade Reginald observe the superscription and the date.
When he had done so, she took her scissors and opened it for him.
“Read what I wrote to my beloved husband at a time when I expected soon
to appear before my Judge.”
She then sank upon the sofa, and lay there like a log; only, from time
to time, during the long reading, tears trickled from her eyes.
Reginald read the whole story, and saw the facts must be true: more
than that, being young, and a man, he could not entirely resist the
charm of a narrative in which a lady told at full the love, the grief,
the terror, the sufferings, of her heart, and the terrible temptation
under which she had gone astray.
He laid it down at last, and drew a long breath.
“It's a devil of a job for _me,”_ said he; “but I can't blame you. You
sold that Dick Bassett, and I hate him. But what is to become of _me?”_
“What I offer you is a life in which you will be happier than you ever
could be at Huntercombe. I mean to buy you vast pasture-fields in
Australia, and cattle to feed. Those noble pastures will be bounded
only by wild forests and hills. You will have swift horses to ride over
your own domain, or to gallop hundreds of miles at a stretch, if you
like. No confinement there; no fences and boundaries; all as free as
air. No monotony: one week you can dig for gold, another you can ride
among your flocks, another you can hunt. All this in a climate so
delightful that you can lie all night in the open air, without a
blanket, under a new firmament of stars, not one of which illumines the
dull nights of Europe.”
The bait was too tempting. “Well, you _are_ the right sort,” cried
Reginald.
But presently he began to doubt. “But all that will cost a lot of
money.”
“It will, but I have a great deal of money.”
Reginald thought, and said, suspiciously, “I don't know why you should
do all this for me.”
“Do you not? What! when I have brought you into this family, and
encouraged you in such vast expectations, could I, in honor and common
humanity, let you fall into poverty and neglect? No. I have many
thousand pounds, all my own, and you will have them all, and perhaps
waste them all; but it will take you some time, because, while you are
wasting, I shall be saving more for you.”
Then there was a pause, each waiting for the other.
Then Lady Bassett said, quietly, and with great apparent composure, “Of
course there is a condition attached to all this.”
“What is that?”
“I must receive from you a written paper, signed by yourself and by
Mrs. Meyrick, acknowledging that you are not Sir Charles's son, but
distinctly pledging yourself to keep the secret so long as I continue
to furnish you with the means of living. You hesitate. Is it not fair?”
“Well, it looks fair; but it is an awkward thing, signing a paper of
that sort.”
“You doubt me, sir; you think that, because I have told one great
falsehood, from good but erring motives, I may break faith with you. Do
not insult me with these doubts, sir. Try and understand that there are
ladies and gentlemen in the world, though you prefer gypsies. Have you
forgotten that night when you laid me under so deep a debt, and I told
you I never would forget it? From that day was I not always your
friend? was I not always the one to make excuses for you?”
Reginald assented to that.
“Then trust me. I pledge you my honor that I am this day the best
friend you ever had, or ever can have. Refuse to sign that paper, and I
shall soon be in my grave, leaving behind me my confession, and other
evidence, on which you will be dismissed from this house with ignominy,
and without a farthing; for your best friend will be dead, and you will
have killed her.”
He looked at her full: he said, with a shade of compunction, “I am not
a gentleman, but you are a lady. I'll trust you. I'll sign anything you
like.”
“That confidence becomes you,” said Lady Bassett; “and now I have no
objection to show you I deserve it. Here is a letter to Mr. Rolfe, by
which you may learn I have already placed three thousand pounds to his
account, to be laid out by him for your benefit in Australia, where he
has many confidential friends; and this is a check for five hundred
pounds I drew in your favor yesterday. Do me the favor to take it.”
He did her that favor with sparkling eyes.
“Now here is the paper I wish you to sign; but your signature will be
of little value to me without Mary Meyrick's.”
“Oh, she will sign it directly: I have only to tell her.”
“Are you sure? Men can be brought to take a dispassionate view of their
own interest, but women are not so wise. Take it, and try her. If she
refuses, bring her to me _directly._ Do you understand? Otherwise, in
one fatal hour, her tongue will ruin _you,_ and destroy me.”
Impressed with these words, Reginald hurried to Mrs. Meyrick, and told
her, in an off-hand way, she must sign that paper directly.
She looked at it and turned very white, but went on her guard directly.
“Sign such a wicked lie as that!” said she. “That I never will. You
_are_ his son, and Huntercombe shall be yours. She is an unnatural
mother.”
“Gammon!” said Reginald. “You might as well say a fox is the son of a
gander. Come now; I am not going to let you cut my throat with your
tongue. Sign at once, or else come to her this moment and tell her so.”
“That I will,” said Mary Meyrick, “and give her my mind.”
This doughty resolution was a little shaken when she cast eyes upon
Lady Bassett, and saw how wan and worn she looked.
She moderated her violence, and said, sullenly, “Sorry to gainsay
_you,_ my lady, and you so ill, but this is a paper I never can sign.
It would rob him of Huntercombe. I'd sooner cut my hand off at the
wrist.”
“Nonsense, Mary!” said Lady Bassett, contemptuously.
She then proceeded to reason with her, but it was no use. Mary would
not listen to reason, and defied her at last in a loud voice.
“Very well,” said Lady Bassett. “Then since you will not do it my way,
it shall be done another way. I shall put my confession in Sir
Charles's hands, and insist on his dismissing him from the house, and
you from your farm. It will kill me, and the money I intended for
Reginald I shall leave to Compton.”
“These are idle words, my lady. You daren't.”
“I dare anything when once I make up my mind to die.”
She rang the bell.
Mary Meyrick affected contempt.
A servant came to the door.
“Request Sir Charles to come to me immediately.”