“How quiet you are, Nelly,” Richard said at last; “why were you so anxious that we should come out together alone, my dear? I fancied you had something particular to say to me.”
“I have something particular to say.”
“What about?” asked Mr. Thornton.
He looked thoughtfully at his companion. He could only see her profile—that clearly-defined, almost classical outline—for she had not turned towards him when she spoke. Her gray eyes looked straight before her into empty space, and her lips were tightly compressed.
“You love me, don’t you, Richard?” she asked presently, with a suddenness that startled the scene-painter.
Poor Dick blushed crimson at that alarming inquiry. How could she be so cruel as to ask him such a question? For the last fortnight he had been fighting with himself—Heaven knows how sturdily and honestly—in the heroic desire to put away this one fatal thought from his mind; and now the girl for whose sake he had been doing battle with his own selfishness, strikes the tenderest of all chords with her ignorant hand, and wounds her victim to the very quick.
But Miss Vane had no consciousness of the mischief she had done. Coquetry was an unknown science to this girl of seventeen. In all matters connected with that womanly accomplishment she was as much a child now that her seventeenth birthday was past, as she had been in the old days at Chelsea when she had upset Richard’s colour-boxes and made grotesque copies of his paintings.
“I know you love me, Dick,” she continued, “quite as much as if I were your real sister, instead of a poor desolate girl who flung herself upon you and yours in the day of her affliction. I know you love me, Dick, and would do almost anything for my sake, and I wanted to speak to you to-night alone, because I am going to say something that would distress the dear Signora, if she were to hear it.”
“What is it, my dear?”
“You remember the story of my father’s death?”
“Only too well, Eleanor.”
“And you remember the vow I made when you told me that story, Richard?”
The young man hesitated.
“Yes, I do remember, Nelly,” he said, after a pause; “but I had hoped that you had forgotten that foolish vow. For it was foolish, you know, my dear, as well as unwomanly,” the young man added gravely.
Eleanor’s eyes flashed defiance upon her friend, as she turned to him for the first time that evening.
“Yes,” she cried, “you thought that I had forgotten, because I was not always talking of that man who caused my father’s death. You thought my sorrow for my father was only childish grief, that was to be forgotten when I turned my back upon the country where he lies in his abandoned grave—his unconsecrated grave, poor dear! You thought that nobody would ever try to avenge the poor, lonely old man’s murder—for it was a murder, Richard Thornton! What did the wretch who robbed him care for the anguish of the heart he broke? What did he care what became of his victim? It was as base and cruel a murder as was ever done upon this earth, Richard, though the world would not call it by that name.”
“Eleanor, my dear Eleanor! why do you talk of these things?”
The girl’s voice had risen with the vehemence of her passion, and Richard Thornton dreaded the effect which this kind of conversation might have upon her excitable nature.
“Nelly, my dear,” he said, “it would be better to forget all this. What good can you do by cherishing these painful recollections? You are never likely to meet this man; you do not even know his name. He was a scamp and an adventurer, no doubt; he may be dead by this time. He may have done something to bring himself within the power of the law, and he may be in prison, or transported.”
“He may have done something to bring himself within the power of the law,” repeated Eleanor. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that he may have committed some crime for which he could be punished.”
“Could he be punished by the law for having cheated my father at cards?”
“That sort of charge is always difficult to be proved, Nell; impossible to be proved after the fact. No, I’m afraid the law could never touch him for that.”
“But if he were to commit some other crime, he might be punished?”
“Of course.”
“If I met him, Richard,” cried Eleanor Vane, with a dangerous light kindling in her eyes, “I would try and lure him on to commit some crime, and then turn round upon him and say, ‘The law of the land could not avenge my father’s death, but it can punish you for a lesser crime. I have twisted the law to my own purpose, and made it redress my father’s wrongs.’”
Richard Thornton stared aghast at his companion.
“Why, Eleanor,” he exclaimed, “you talk like a Red Indian! This is quite shocking. You frighten me, really; you do indeed.”
“I am sorry for that, Richard,” Miss Vane answered meekly. She was a child in all things which concerned her affections alone. “I wouldn’t grieve you or the dear Signora for the world. But there are some things that are stronger than ourselves, Richard, and the oath that I took a year and a-half ago in the Rue l’Archevêque is one of those things. I have never forgotten, Dick. Night after night—though I’ve been happy and light-hearted enough in the day, Richard dear, for I could not be otherwise than happy with you and the Signora—night after night I have lain awake thinking of my father’s death. If that death had been a common one; if he had died in my arms at the will of God instead of by the cruelty of a wretch, my grief might have worn itself out by this time. But as it is, I cannot forget; I cannot forgive. If all the Christian people in the world were to talk to me, I could never have one merciful feeling towards this man. If he were going to be hung to-morrow, I should be glad; and could walk barefoot to the place of his execution to see him
