“And the father of your child, where was he?” Eve asked sternly, only half convinced. “Why did not he help you?”
Paolo had grown tired of his book, and had gone back to his mother’s knee. He stood half hidden in Lisa’s gown, looking earnestly at the stranger, his infantile mind puzzled at the tone and manner of the two women, feeling dimly that there was a tempest in the atmosphere, feeling it as the birds feel when they twitter apprehensively before the coming of the thunder. Inquisitive as well as alarmed, and bold in his wonder, he went over to Eve, and took hold of her gown, and looked up in her face.
She looked down at him, and it was her turn to wonder.
Of whom did the face remind her? He was like his mother; but it was not her face he recalled to Eve. Nor was it Vansittart’s face, though she tried, shrinkingly, to trace a resemblance there, looking for something she hoped not to see. No, the face recalled some other face, and the likeness, faint and indefinable as it was, thrilled her with a tremulous awe, as if she had seen a ghost.
“You had a claim upon this child’s father,” said Eve, her hand lightly touching the boy’s head, and then shrinking away as from pollution; “the strongest possible claim, for he ought to have been your husband. Why did not he help you?”
“Because he was in his grave,” said Lisa; and again the ready tears gushed out.
There was a pause, and then Eve spoke in a gentler tone.
“That was hard for you,” she said, with a touch of pity.
“Yes, it was hard. He had promised to marry me. I think he would have married me, for Paolo’s sake. My baby was not born till afterwards—after his father’s death.”
“Poor creature! All that was very sad. Was my husband—was Mr. Vansittart a friend of the man who died? Was it for his friend’s sake he was so kind to you?”
“No, he was not a friend. It was for my sake, and la Zia’s, that he was kind. I tell you again, he pitied us.”
Eve sank into a chair, drooping, miserable. Even yet she could not believe in this story of Vansittart’s chivalrous kindness to two foreign waifs who had no claim upon his friendship, not even the claim of country. She knew him to be benevolent, generous, full of compassion for all suffering of man or beast; but there was nothing quixotic in his benevolence. That which he had done for Lisa was too much to be expected of any man who was not a millionaire or a musical fanatic. He could not have done so much without a strong motive. And then once again she reminded herself that Lisa was an actress, to whom all falsehoods and simulations must be easy. She started to her feet; indignant with this woman for deceiving her; angry with herself for being so easily duped.
“I don’t believe a word you have told me,” she cried. “I believe that Mr. Vansittart was your lover; my husband, John Vansittart, and no other; and when he came here the other day you had lured him back to your net.”
“You don’t believe—you don’t believe in Paolo’s dead father? Don’t cry, Carissimo; she is a cruel woman, but she shan’t hurt you.” The boy had begun to whimper, scared by the angry voices. “I will make you believe. I will show you his likeness—the likeness I have never shown to anyone else. It is a bad one; it does not make him half handsome enough. He was handsome; he had hair as light as yours, only redder, and he was very fair—a true Englishman. He was not as handsome as your husband—no, there is no one else like him. Shall I show you his picture? Will you believe me then?”
She did not wait for an answer, but ran into the adjoining room, pulled a heavy, iron-clamped box from under the bed—the box which contained her jewels—unlocked it, and came running back with a photograph in her hand.
“Ecco, Signora. It was taken at Burano, by a man who came from Venice one summer morning, and photographed the church, and the street, and the bridge, and as many of the people as would pay him a few soldi for a likeness. I have kept it hidden away since he died. It hurt me to look at it, remembering his end. But there!”—pushing the photograph in front of Eve’s gloomy, distrustful countenance—“look at it to your heart’s content, Signora. That man was the father of my child! Believe, or not believe, as you please.”
Eve glanced with a careless contempt at the faded sun-picture—a bad photograph, which time had made worse—the blurred image of a face which, as her widening gaze fastened upon it, flashed back all the picture of her childhood upon the mirror of her memory.
“Oh, God!” she cried. “My brother Harold!”
The door opened as she spoke, and looking up she saw her husband standing on the threshold.
She appealed to him hopelessly in her bewilderment.
“Did you know?” she asked. “Was it for my sake you were kind to her? Was that the link between you?”
“No, Fatima,” he answered sternly. “My Blue Chamber holds a ghastlier secret than that. I was kind to her because I killed her lover. Are you satisfied now? You wanted to know the worst. You would not be content. We were united, happy, adoring each other; the happiest husband and wife in all London, perhaps; but you would not be satisfied. I entreated you to trust me. I assured you, with every asseveration a man could make, that I was true to you. But you would not believe. You were like your first namesake; you lent your
