A WOMAN'S HEART.
The hard, cold face had softened slightly. It seemed to Ravenspur that
there was something akin to a smile in Countess Flavio's eyes when
once more they were alone in the drawing-room together.
"Let us try and forget that dreadful scene," she said, "as I will try
and forget what a hard, misunderstood life mine has been."
"It must have been terrible," Ravenspur exclaimed; "and yet there was
not a man in Europe for whom I had a higher regard than I had for your
husband. To me he was the soul of honour. I always found him generous
and liberal-minded. I have seen him do the most spontaneous acts of
kindness to strangers. It seemed hard to think that he was wholly
bad."
"He was an enigma," the Countess replied. "In his brain lay a curious
vein of madness, which vented itself upon me. No one else suffered,
and, indeed, no one knew that I suffered, with the solitary exception
of that poor lost soul who is lying at death's door upstairs. When I
fled from my father's house, knowing that I had cut myself off
entirely from my own flesh and blood, Silva followed me. From the
first he began to see how I was suffering. From the first he began to
entertain a malignant hatred of my husband."
"And finally poisoned him," Ravenspur suggested.
"Ah, there you are wrong," the Countess exclaimed. "With all the
earnestness in my power I want to impress upon you that my husband
poisoned himself. As you have been informed, for generations there had
been a feud between the Descartis and my husband's family. After my
marriage it would have been an easy matter for my father to summon
some of his retainers, and command them to avenge the honour and
dignity of the family. My father chose not to do it. He was satisfied
with the solemn assurance that only one child of his remained. The
summons was sent out by Silva. He did not tell me. I did not know in
the least what he was doing till afterwards. But the sign went forth,
and my husband received his warning. There was no escape for him, and
he knew it. That is why he took his own life. No doubt in doing so he
was actuated by some extraordinary motive, for, with all his faults,
he was no coward; but even from beyond the grave he persecuted me. His
body was found in circumstances that pointed to me as the murderess.
Oh, you may start and shrink, but what I tell you is absolutely true.
The whole thing was planned, with diabolical ingenuity, by the Count
on the night of his death. Had it not been for Silva I should have
gone down to my grave execrated by all who knew me."
"But you were not there," Ravenspur expostulated. "It was proved that
you were in Florence at the time."
"That was where Silva's cunning and ingenuity came in. During the few
hours that preceded and followed that tragic event I saw nobody. I was
utterly worn out and prostrated. I could not drag myself from my bed.
But nobody saw me, for I had given strict orders that I was not to be
disturbed. I did not know then that my sister was alive. In fact, I
had got into such a state that I had no interest in anything. At that
time my sister Maria was taking a holiday in Florence, and Silva was
aware of the fact. When I ask you to notice the extraordinary likeness
between us, you will have no trouble in guessing what happened. Silva
was in a position to bring over scores of people from Florence, who
swore that I was in that town at the time of the tragedy. It was a
bold thing to do, and nobody guessed, nobody doubted the sincerity of
the witnesses, and thus my life was saved."
"It is a most extraordinary story," Ravenspur murmured. "But, really,
there is no reason for you to justify yourself any further. We know
that you are absolutely innocent of any sort of crime. I know now what
kind of a life Flavio led you. Had I been aware at the time I should
never have interfered. And yet Flavio managed to convey to me the
impression that you were the last woman in the world who ought to have
the custody of a child. I committed an illegal act at the earnest
request of my old friend. I ran a great risk, but it seemed to me that
I was justified in what I did."
"I see you are now," the Countess said thoughtfully. "For many, many
years no doubt you have rejoiced in the fact that you saved Vera from
a life of misery and unhappiness. You never expected to see or hear
from me again. You looked upon the child as your own. And now, to a
certain extent, I must justify myself. I stand in your eyes as a
deeply wronged and injured woman, and yet you might say to yourself
that as a mother I have been lacking in my duties. I tell you for a
long time after the death of my husband my mind trembled on the
borderline between reason and insanity. I was afraid to see my child.
I was fearful lest I should find in her some trace of her father; and,
if I had done so, I believe that I should have taken her life. But,
gradually, as the years went on and I grew older, a longing to see my
child came over me that amounted almost to a passion. I left my
retreat in the mountains, and came into the world again. It was at
this time that I met Silva once more, and for three years he was
looking for my child. I need not tell you, Lord Ravenspur, how he got
on the track."
Lord Ravenspur shivered and nodded in reply.
"I would have prevented that if I could," the Countess went on
quickly. "I wanted no violence. But I knew that Silva would go his own
way. I knew that nobody could check his fanaticism. In his eyes you
were marked down for slaughter. You had violated the dignity and
honour of the family, and therefore you must be removed. Let me be
quite candid--I think I hated you almost as much as Silva did. You had
robbed me of my child at the instigation of my cruel husband. Not
unnaturally, I regarded you as being little or no better than Count
Flavio. All the same, as I said before, I wanted no violence. That was
one of the reasons why I did not come to your house and claim my
child. I felt sure that you would defy me, and place Vera somewhere
beyond my reach."
"Most undoubtedly I should," Ravenspur said candidly. "You see, I did
not know then that you were capable----"
"Of looking after my daughter," the Countess interrupted. "And, from
your point of view, your actions would have been justified. As soon as
the danger threatened seriously you made arrangements to get away from
England until Vera was of age, and capable of acting for herself. But
Silva found out----"
"One moment," Vera cried eagerly. "Was your servant, Silva, in Park
Lane disguised as a blind organ-grinder?"
"I understand so," the Countess went on. "At any rate, Silva managed
things, in his usual able manner. He contrived to get Vera away from
Lady Ringmar's party, and bring here down her. I daresay you will
think that this was all very melodramatic and unnecessary, but, as I
pointed out to you before, I wanted no violence. I thought when
Silva's plan was successful that I should be able to persuade him to
forego the rest of his vengeance. I thought that once I had my
daughter back in my own hands, I could take her out of the country and
get Silva to accompany me. Then you, Lord Ravenspur, would have been
safe. But in certain matters Silva is quite as insane as my husband
was. It was in vain that I appealed to him. He had made his vow, and
he was going to carry it out. It is only fitting that he should have
brought so just a punishment upon his own shoulders."
"And yet there is something magnificent in a vengeance like his,"
Ravenspur said, thoughtfully. "Now that everything is cleared up, how
simple it seems. There is only one thing that puzzles me, and that is
your connection with my unfortunate friend Louis Delahay. It seems a
remarkable thing that both you sisters should have known Delahay. How
did it come about?"
"That I have just been explaining at some length," the Countess said.
"But for your benefit I will go over the ground again."
Ravenspur listened with the greatest interest to the story which the
Countess had to tell. She told him vividly enough of the eventful
night when she had made up her mind to leave her husband's roof, and
how her life had been saved at a critical moment by a total stranger,
who turned out to be Louis Delahay--the same Delahay who, years
afterwards, met Maria Descarti and made her his wife. She told the
story of the jewels, and how the time had come when she needed them,
to turn into money to aid her in her search for Vera. Then she went on
to speak of her meeting with Delahay.
"One moment," Ravenspur said. "When Louis married you, Mrs. Delahay,
did he not notice your extraordinary likeness to the Countess, whom he
had befriended so many years ago?"
"He couldn't," the Countess exclaimed. "Not only was our interview in
the dark, but I was wearing a veil. Oh, you may say it was an
extraordinary thing to trust my valuables to a perfect stranger, but
more amazing things happen every day, and I was beside myself with
grief and terror and despair at the time. At any rate, I did it, and I
got my jewels back again. I can tell you, if you like, the story of
that strange interview. I can describe how I went down to the studio
with Mr. Delahay, and how we saw you there. But we are wasting time
and it is getting late. There is only one thing to regret now, and
that is the death of my sister's husband; but it has always been
useless for a Descarti to expect anything like happiness in this
world. Never was one of our family yet, who was not born to misery and
despair. Still, one can now look forward to a more pleasant time. I am
quite sure, after what has happened, that you will not try to stand
between Vera and myself any longer, Lord Ravenspur. I can only thank
you from the bottom of my heart for what you have done."
"Vera has been very dear to me," Lord Ravenspur said, with some
emotion. "I daresay we shall be able to explain matters
satisfactorily, so that people will not be in a position to talk. And
now, as it is getting so very late----"