Part 21 (1/2)
”I have to share it with some one, and I can trust you not to think hardly of my poor Joan.”
I wondered what was coming, but I had not long to wait. My G.o.dmother looked at me again, straight into my eyes, as though she would see to the depths of my soul.
”I have forgiven her, poor dear soul, with all my heart,” she said. ”If I thought you could judge her hardly I would not tell you; but I think you will not judge her hardly. You see, she loved Luke. He had a way with women. She was always delicate and sickly, and he was sorry for her. He used to sit by her and talk to her. She loved him and she thought that he loved her, or would love her if I were out of the way. I had everything, she thought--health and wealth and the world before me, and Luke's love. She thought it unfair that I should have so much. No wonder she wanted Luke for herself.”
Again her eyes looked into mine, asking a question. Whatever she saw satisfied her, for she went on again with dreamy tenderness--
”I see you can pity her, Bawn. Child, how do you know it if you never loved? He came to this house when he was flying from justice, as he thought, expecting to find me and found her instead. He gave her such messages for me as might make any woman proud. He would release me, but he knew I was too great-hearted to accept the release; he had killed Jasper Tuite in the struggle when he tried to save Irene Cardew from him. He had seen Jasper Tuite strike poor Irene when he was trying to drag her from her carriage to ride with him on his horse. She was screaming, poor girl, and Jasper Tuite struck her on the mouth. And what would my Luke do save spring on to Jasper Tuite and close with him? And Jasper Tuite would have shot him if Luke had not fired in self-defence.
No jury would have convicted Luke, for Jasper Tuite died from heart-failure, not from the flesh-wound of Luke's pistol. But if I had only been here when he stole here under cover of the darkness I would have made him hold his ground.”
”And he saw Miss Standish instead?”
”Yes, he saw Joan. And she kept his messages all these years. There was more than that. I was to send him a message to where he was in hiding, waiting for a pa.s.sage to America. I sent him none, but Joan sent him one instead. She was jealous, terribly jealous, or she could not have done it, poor girl. She sent him word that he was not to return, that Jasper Tuite was dead of his wound. Also she sent him word from me that I wanted no more of him. How could he have believed it? Well, the remorse of it has gone far to kill her. If she was ever trying, it was because she had to take benefits from the woman she had wronged. Poor unhappy Joan! She died in great love and peace with me.”
Fortunately, this time she did not look me in the eyes. Such magnanimity was beyond me.
”It is very sweet to know,” she went on dreamily, ”that poor Luke came to me in his need. He knew he could trust my love. But he ought to have known me better than to believe I could send that message. He ought to have known me better.”
”Yes,” I said, ”he ought to have known you better.”
CHAPTER XXIX
THE SICKNESS
It was while I was still at Castle Clody that a message came to me one morning saying that some one desired to speak with me; and when I went out into the hall I found it was Nora Brady. She had a little crimson shawl over her head, and as she lifted her eyes to me her beauty came to me like a new thing. There was dry snow in the wind, and a few flakes of it showed on her dark curls, which lay ring on ring under the shawl. Her face was round and soft as a child's, and the innocence of her blue, black-lashed eyes as she lifted them to me was as unsullied as though she were three years old. She had lost her pretty colour, but the gentleness which made her beauty appealing was, if possible, greater than of old.
”You wanted to speak to me, Nora,” I said.
I know I turned red and pale when her eyes met mine; for the moment all social differences and distinctions ceased to be. I was going to marry the man Nora loved, the man I loathed. I had a feeling that it was an intolerable wrong.
”If you please, Miss Bawn,” she said.
The servants were pa.s.sing up and down the staircase. I did not want any witnesses to our interview, nor any eavesdroppers.
”Come in here, Nora,” I said, opening the door of the morning-room which I usually had to myself for an hour or so after breakfast. ”And how is the child? Better, I hope.”
”Little Katty is quite well again, Miss Bawn, and I've come to tell you, please Miss Bawn, that I'd rather not come back. 'Tisn't that I'm ungrateful, Miss. No young lady could be kinder and better than you. But my uncle is going to marry again, and if you please, Miss Bawn, I think I should like to go to America.”
”Don't go to America, Nora,” I said; ”it's a terrible place. I'll look after you. I'll speak to Miss Champion, and we'll see what we can do.
Miss Champion has so many friends. She'll easily get you another place, away from this, in Dublin.”
Suddenly the large tears filled Nora's eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She wept in rivers as a child does, and as painlessly.
”Don't ask me to stay, Miss Bawn,” she said brokenly. ”I want to put the ocean between me and him. I've done my best to pull him up out of my heart, and I've prayed my best, but I go on caring for him still. I'd better be away, Miss Bawn.”
”Very well, Nora,” I said, in a miserable perplexity. If she cared for Richard Dawson so much it was she who ought to marry him, peasant girl as she was. It was a shame that I should step into her place, loathing it. ”Very well,” I said. ”I will do what I can to help you. When do you go, Nora?”
”Not till after Christmas, Miss. There won't be any emigration till the worst of the winter storms are over. Thank you kindly, Miss Bawn, but I don't think there's anything you can do for me. The nuns'll find me an employment while I stay. You're not vexed with me for leaving, Miss Bawn?”