Part 56 (1/2)

”She did not die a natural death.”

”Indeed?”

”She poisoned herself. She could not bear the life. It was very dreadful.” Francesca's voice sank to a low tone.

Lord Redin was silent for a few moments, and his bony face had a grim look. Perhaps something in the dead woman's last act appealed to him, as nothing in her life had done.

”Tell me, please. I should like to know. After all, she was my daughter.”

”Yes,” said Francesca, gravely. ”She was your daughter. She was very unhappy with Paul Griggs, and she found out very soon that she had made a dreadful mistake. She loved her husband, after all.”

”Like a woman!” interjected Lord Redin, half unconsciously.

Francesca paid no attention to the remark, except, perhaps, that she raised her eyebrows a little.

”They went out to spend the summer at Subiaco--”

”At Subiaco?” Dalrymple's steely blue eyes fixed themselves in a look of extreme attention.

”Yes, during the heat. They lodged in the house of a man called Stefanone--a wine-seller--a very respectable place.”

Lord Redin had started nervously at the name, but he recovered himself.

”Very respectable,” he said, in an odd tone.

”You know the house?” asked Francesca, in surprise.

”Very well indeed. I was there nearly five and twenty years ago. I supposed that Stefanone was dead by this time.”

”No. He and his wife are alive, and take lodgers.”

”Excuse me, but how do you know all this?” asked Lord Redin, with sudden curiosity.

”I have been there,” answered Francesca. ”I have often been to the convent. You know that one of our family is generally abbess. A Cardinal Braccio was archbishop, too, a good many years ago. Casa Braccio owns a good deal of property there.”

”Yes. I know that you are of the family.”

”My name was Francesca Braccio,” said Francesca, quietly. ”Of course I have always known Subiaco, and every one there knows Stefanone, and the story of his daughter who ran away with an Englishman many years ago, and never was heard of again.”

Lord Redin grew a trifle paler.

”Oh!” he exclaimed. ”Does every one know that story?”

There was something so constrained in his tone that Francesca looked at him curiously.

”Yes--in Subiaco,” she answered. ”But Gloria--” she lingered a little sadly on the name--”Gloria wrote letters to her husband from there and begged him to go and see her.”

”He could hardly be expected to do that,” said Lord Redin, his hard tone returning. ”Did you advise him to go?”

”He consulted me,” answered Francesca, rather coldly. ”I told him to follow his own impulse. He did not go. He did not believe that she was sincere.”

”I do not blame him. When a woman has done that sort of thing, there is no reason for believing her.”