“I am afraid,” Ravenspur murmured, “that I cannot—”
“Not even after it was known that you were at work in the studio that night?”
“No, unless, perhaps—good heavens, you don’t mean to say Silva?”
“Nobody else. The man tracked you to Fitzjohn Square. There was not one of your movements that he did not know. But come this way. I dare say the nurse will not mind us talking to the patient for a few moments alone. You shall hear Silva confirm what I have said to you.”
Ravenspur stumbled to his feet. He was dazed and numbed with surprise; and yet the more he came to think of it, the more plausible it seemed. No, the nurse had no objection, it would not harm the patient. He was very near to his end now. Weak as he was, his eyes gleamed as he caught sight of Lord Ravenspur, the old wolfish look was on his face.
“We have been mistaken, my dear Silva,” the Countess said. “Lord Ravenspur has been one of my best friends if I had only known it. He was deceived by my husband, as hundreds of others were. His lordship was led to believe that the Count was a martyr to a dreadful wife, a woman incapable of looking after a child. The kidnapping of my daughter was part of his vengeance upon me, so that he could reach me from the other side of the grave. Everything has been explained, the diary has been read by Lord Ravenspur; and he has forgiven you, he has come to your bedside to say so before you—you—”
“Die,” Silva said, with an effort. “Curse his forgiveness. If I could stand up now—”
He could say no more, the malignant hate, the fire of madness, still gleamed in his dark eyes. He would hold the same tradition to the end. There was no chance of anything like a reconciliation here.
“I expected nothing else,” the Countess said sadly. “Only a Corsican could understand his feelings. It is his blood, his religion. But if you can’t forgive, my poor Silva, you can confess. It may be the means of saving an innocent life. It was you who were responsible for the death of Mr. Delahay?”
Silva nodded quite coolly. There was an upward heave of his shoulders that was very expressive. It was like one who confesses to a mistake.
“I understand,” the Countess resumed. “It was a misunderstanding. You had traced Lord Ravenspur to the studio. You were going to kill him there. Only Mr. Delahay and myself interrupted you. You were probably hiding somewhere outside, waiting for your opportunity, when we arrived. You did not see us, you were not aware of anything till the lights were out. I may make errors in details, but in the main I am quite correct. No, don’t try and talk—a nod is sufficient. When Mr. Delahay returned to the studio, after Lord Ravenspur was driven away, and after I had gone, you were in the studio. You mistook Mr. Delahay for Lord Ravenspur, and killed him with a glass Corsican dagger. You did not know till you saw the papers the next day that you had made a mistake?”
Silva nodded again. He did not appear to feel the least remorse, but his hungry eyes testified how he regretted that he had so signally failed. The old wild spirit was still there, even the approach of death could not quench it. Ravenspur turned away, filled with disgust and sadness.
“Really, there is nothing more to be said,” he murmured. “I should like to put the heads of the confession down and get the unhappy man to sign it.”
Silva affixed a straggling signature to the confession. Then he turned over on his side and refused to listen any more. Evidently he was going to die as he had lived—hard, unfeeling, carrying his bitter hatred to the grave.
“According to his lights,” Ravenspur murmured, “let us hope that he will not be judged too harshly where he is going so soon.”
XLVI
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
