“Your mother is in the drawing-room,” he said. “I hope you won’t mind sitting down to a cold dinner. For motives of prudence we have sent the servants to London for an evening at the theatre. To anyone as intelligent as yourself you will see why we adopted such a course. Will you precede me?”
Vera had nothing to reply. Just for the moment she was incapable of speech. She was wondering whether or not she would awake presently and find it all no more than a dream. The drawing-room was brilliantly lighted. A tall, dark woman stood by the fireplace. Her regular features appeared to be absolutely composed; but agitated though Vera was, she did not fail to notice the restless movements of the hands. Just for a few moments the two looked at one another. Then something like a smile came over the Countess Flavio’s face.
“So you are my daughter,” she said. “I am afraid I should not have recognised you. Come closer, so that I can look at your face. Thank Heaven, you are not in the least like your father. I cannot be sufficiently thankful for that.”
“I have thought about you often,” Vera said coldly; “but, surely, if you are my mother, you have a strange way of making yourself known to me. What is the meaning of this outrage? Surely you could have come to Park Lane and asked for me in the ordinary way, without sending this creature of yours—”
Vera looked round for Silva, but he had discreetly disappeared.
“I am glad that man has had the decency to leave us alone,” she went on. “Oh, I have been thinking about this meeting all day. I do not know what to imagine, or what to believe. You say that you are my mother, but how I am to be certain that—”
“I swear it,” the Countess said, with a touch of passion in her voice. “You are my daughter beyond the shadow of a doubt. Oh, there is a deal in what you say, but I could not come to Lord Ravenspur’s house. There are most urgent reasons. You are wondering, perhaps, why I have not been near you all these years; but I can explain. You remember nothing of your father, for which you can thank your Maker. With the solitary exception of yourself, there was not a creature on earth that he cared for. He was the embodiment of refined cruelty. His greatest delight was in the tortured degradation of others. Ah, you little guess what a veritable hell the two years which followed your birth were. I will tell you all about that some day, and you will be sorry for me. If you had only had my experience you would not wonder why I fled and hid myself when my release came. You would not wonder why I refused to see you, for fear you should be like your father, and remind me of him every hour. I was so near the borderland of insanity then that I should have killed you, if by one look or gesture you had reminded me of the man who had ruined my life. And then, when the lapse of years had restored my strength and vigor again, a longing to see you took possession of me. And when at length I had found you, or, rather, my faithful servant, Silva, had found you for me, there were certain circumstances which prevented my seeking you out at once. I was going to wait my time, but the man whom you call your guardian took such steps that I was bound to act at once. That is why I wrote you that letter last night. That is why you were brought here. And as to Lord Ravenspur, if he is lucky—”
The Countess paused and bit her lips. A horrible suspicion flashed into Vera’s mind.
“You must say nothing against him,” she cried. “Lord Ravenspur is one of the best and noblest of men.”
“Lord Ravenspur is a scoundrel,” the Countess cried. “Yes, and before I have finished I am going to prove it to you. Oh, you may look incredulous, but I am a deeply injured woman, and that man is responsible for all my torture.”
A crimson wave stained Vera’s cheeks. Here was the old suspicion back again with redoubled force. She would have asked the direct question which was trembling on her lips, but the door opened, and Silva came in hurriedly.
“I am loth to intrude,” he said, “but it is already half-past eight, and it is imperative that you, madam, should be back in London this evening. There is a train at twenty minutes past nine, which you must not fail to catch.”
Without argument, the Countess led the way across to the dining-room, where dinner was laid out. Vera noted with some surprise that there were only covers for two. She had half expected that Silva would sit down to table, instead of which he moved from place to place, waiting upon them, as if he had been accustomed to that kind of thing all his life. A few moments ago he had appeared to be the dictator and leader in everything. Now he suddenly lapsed into a perfectly respectful and exceedingly well-trained servant. It was not that Silva was acting a part. The thing was so perfectly done that Vera saw at once that this was the man’s proper position in life. She was too excited to eat or drink, so that, altogether, the meal was little more than a mere formality.
“I am sorry that I can’t stay any longer,” the Countess said; “I am bound to be in London this evening.”
“Then I will come with you,” Vera said promptly.
“No,” Silva burst out sternly. “The thing is impossible. For the present you stay where you are. In a day or two we will make other
