Kitabı oku: «David Elginbrod», sayfa 31

CHAPTER XIV. DAVID ELGINBROD

He being dead yet speaketh

HEB., xi. 4.

 
In all ‘he’ did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
 

DR. DONNE

From this time, Margaret waited upon Euphra, as if she had been her own maid. Nor had Mrs. Elton any cause of complaint, for Margaret was always at hand when she was wanted. Indeed, her mistress was full of her praises. Euphra said little.

Many and long were the conversations between the two girls, when all but themselves were asleep. Sometimes Harry made one of the company; but they could always send him away when they wished to be alone. And now the teaching for which Euphra had longed, sprang in a fountain at her own door. It had been nigh her long, and she had not known it, for its hour had not come. Now she drank as only the thirsty drink,—as they drink whose very souls are fainting within them for drought.

But how did Margaret embody her lessons?

The second night, she came to Euphra’s room, and said:

“Shall I tell you about my father to-night? Are, you able?”

Euphra was delighted. It was what she had been hoping for all day.

“Do tell me. I long to hear about him.”

So they sat down; and Margaret began to talk about her childhood; the cottage she lived in; the fir-wood all around it; the work she used to do;—her side, in short, of the story which, in the commencement of this book, I have partly related from Hugh’s side. Summer and winter, spring-time and harvest, storm and sunshine, all came into the tale. Her mother came into it often; and often too, though not so often, the grand form of her father appeared, remained for a little while, and then passed away. Every time Euphra saw him thus in the mirror of Margaret’s memory, she saw him more clearly than before: she felt as if, soon, she should know him quite well. Sometimes she asked a question or two; but generally she allowed Margaret’s words to flow unchecked; for she painted her pictures better when the colours did not dry between. They talked on, or rather, Margaret talked and Euphra listened, far into the night. At length, Margaret stopped suddenly, for she became aware that a long time had passed. Looking at the clock on the chimney-piece, she said:

“I have done wrong to keep you up so late. Come—I must get you to bed. You are an invalid, you know, and I am your nurse as well as your maid.”

“You will come to-morrow night, then?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Then I will go to bed like a good child.”

Margaret undressed her, and left her to the healing of sleep.

The next night she spoke again of her father, and what he taught her. Euphra had thought much about him; and at every fresh touch which the story gave to the portrait, she knew him better; till at last, even when circumstances not mentioned before came up, she seemed to have known them from the beginning.

“What was your father like, Margaret?”

Margaret described him very nearly as I have done, from Hugh’s account, in the former part of the story. Euphra said:

“Ah! yes. That is almost exactly as I had fancied him. Is it not strange?”

“It is very natural, I think,” answered Margaret.

“I seem now to have known him for years.”

But what is most worthy of record is, that ever as the picture of David grew on the vision of Euphra, the idea of God was growing unawares upon her inward sight. She was learning more and more about God all the time. The sight of human excellence awoke a faint Ideal of the divine perfection. Faith came of itself, and abode, and grew; for it needs but a vision of the Divine, and faith in God is straightway born in the soul that beholds it. Thus, faith and sight are one. The being of her father in heaven was no more strange and far off from her, when she had seen such a father on earth as Margaret’s was. It was not alone David’s faith that begot hers, but the man himself was a faith-begetting presence. He was the evidence of God with them.—Thus he, being dead, yet spoke, and the departed man was a present power.

Euphra began to read the story of the Gospel. So did Harry. They found much on which to desire enlightenment; and they always applied to Margaret for the light they needed. It was long before she ventured to say I think. She always said:

“My father used to say—” or

“I think my father would have said—”

It was not until Euphra was in great trouble some time after this, and required the immediate consolation of personal testimony, that Margaret spoke as from herself; and then she spoke with positive assurance of faith. She did not then even say I think, but, I am sure; I know; I have seen.

Many interviews of this sort did not take place between them before Euphra, in her turn, began to confide her history to Margaret.

It was a strangely different one—full of outward event and physical trouble; but, till it approached the last stages, wonderfully barren as to inward production or development. It was a history of Euphra’s circumstances and peculiarities, not of Euphra herself. Till of late, she had scarcely had any history. Margaret’s, on the contrary, was a true history; for, with much of the monotonous in circumstance, it described individual growth, and the change of progress. Where there is no change there can be no history; and as all change is either growth or decay, all history must describe progress or retrogression. The former had now begun for Euphra as well; and it was one proof of it that she told Margaret all I have already recorded for my readers, at least as far as it bore against herself. How much more she told her I am unable to say; but after she had told it, Euphra was still more humble towards Margaret, and Margaret more tender, more full of service, if possible, and more devoted to Euphra.

CHAPTER XV. MARGARET’S SECRET

 
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
 

SHAKSPERE.—Sonnet cxvi.

Margaret could not proceed very far in the story of her life, without making some reference to Hugh Sutherland. But she carefully avoided mentioning his name. Perhaps no one less calm, and free from the operation of excitement, could have been so successful in suppressing it.

“Ah!” said Euphra, one day, “your history is a little like mine there; a tutor comes into them both. Did you not fall dreadfully in love with him?”

“I loved him very much.”

“Where is he now?”

“In London, I believe.”

“Do you never see him?”

“No.”

“Have you never seen him since he left your home—with the curious name?”

“Yes; but not spoken to him.”

“Where?”

Margaret was silent. Euphra knew her well enough now not to repeat the question.

“I should have been in love with him, I know.”

Margaret only smiled.

Another day, Euphra said:

“What a good boy that Harry is! And so clever too. Ah! Margaret, I have behaved like the devil to that boy. I wanted to have him all to myself, and so kept him a child. Need I confess all my ugliest sins?”

“Not to me, certainly, dear Miss Cameron. Tell God to look into your heart, and take them all out of it.”

“I will. I do.—I even enticed Mr. Sutherland away from him to me, when he was the only real friend he had, that I might have them both.”

“But you have done your best to make up for it since.”

“I have tried a little. I cannot say I have done my best. I have been so peevish and irritable.”

“You could not quite help that.”

“How kind you are to excuse me so! It makes me so much stronger to try again.”

“My father used to say that God was always finding every excuse for us that could be found; every true one, you know; not one false one.”

“That does comfort one.”

After a pause, Euphra resumed:

“Mr. Sutherland did me some good, Margaret.”

“I do not wonder at that.”

“He made me think less about Count Halkar; and that was something, for he haunted me. I did not know then how very wicked he was. I did love him once. Oh, how I hate him now!”

And she started up and paced the room like a tigress in its cage.

Margaret did not judge this the occasion to read her a lecture on the duty of forgiveness. She had enough to do to keep from hating the man herself, I suspect. But she tried to turn her thoughts into another channel.

“Mr. Sutherland loved you very much, Miss Cameron.”

“He loved me once,” said poor Euphra, with a sigh.

“I saw he did. That was why I began to love you too.”

Margaret had at last unwittingly opened the door of her secret. She had told the other reason for loving Euphra. But, naturally enough, Euphra could not understand what she meant. Perhaps some of my readers, understanding Margaret’s words perfectly, and their reference too, may be so far from understanding Margaret herself, as to turn upon me and say:

“Impossible! You cannot have understood her or any other woman.”

Well!

“What do you mean, Margaret?”

Margaret both blushed and laughed outright.

“I must confess it,” said she, at once; “it cannot hurt him now: my tutor and yours are the same.”

“Impossible!”

“True.”

“And you never spoke all the time you were both at Arnstead?”

“Not once. He never knew I was in the house.”

“How strange! And you saw he loved me?”

“Yes.”

“And you were not jealous?”

“I did not say that. But I soon found that the only way to escape from my jealousy, if the feeling I had was jealousy, was to love you too. I did.”

“You beautiful creature! But you could not have loved him much.”

“I loved him enough to love you for his sake. But why did he stop loving you? I fear I shall not be able to love him so much now.”

“He could not help it, Margaret. I deserved it.”

Euphra hid her face in her hands.

“He could not have really loved you, then?”

“Which is better to believe, Margaret,” said Euphra, uncovering her face, which two tears were lingering down, and looking up at her—“that he never loved me, or that he stopped loving me?”

“For his sake, the first.”

“And for my sake, the second?”

“That depends.”

“So it does. He must have found plenty of faults in me. But I was not so bad as he thought me when he stopped loving me.”

Margaret’s answer was one of her loving smiles, in which her eyes had more share than her lips.

It would have been unendurable to Euphra, a little while before, to find that she had a rival in a servant. Now she scarcely regarded that aspect of her position. But she looked doubtfully at Margaret, and then said:

“How is it that you take it so quietly?—for your love must have been very different from mine. Indeed, I am not sure that I loved him at all; and after I had made up my mind to it quite, it did not hurt me so very much. But you must have loved him dreadfully.”

“Perhaps I did. But I had no anxiety about it.”

“But that you could not leave to a father such as yours even to settle.”

“No. But I could to God. I could trust God with what I could not speak to my father about. He is my father’s father, you know; and so, more to him and me than we could be to each other. The more we love God, the more we love each other; for we find he makes the very love which sometimes we foolishly fear to do injustice to, by loving him most. I love my father ten times more because he loves God, and because God has secrets with him.”

“I wish God were a father to me as he is to you, Margaret.”

“But he is your father, whether you wish it or not. He cannot be more your father than he is. You may be more his child than you are, but not more than he meant you to be, nor more than he made you for. You are infinitely more his child than you have grown to yet. He made you altogether his child, but you have not given in to it yet.”

“Oh! yes; I know what you mean. I feel it is true.”

“The Prodigal Son was his father’s child. He knew it, and gave in to it. He did not say: ‘I wish my father loved me enough to treat me like a child again.’ He did not say that, but—I will arise and go to my father.”

Euphra made no answer, but wept, Margaret said no more.

Euphra was the first to resume.

“Mr. Sutherland was very kind, Margaret. He promised—and I know he will keep his promise—to do all he could to help me. I hope he is finding out where that wicked count is.”

“Write to him, and ask him to come and see you. He does not know where you are.”

“But I don’t know where he is.”

“I do.”

“Do you?” rejoined Euphra with some surprise.

“But he does not know where I am. I will give you his address, if you like.”

Euphra pondered a little. She would have liked very much to see him, for she was anxious to know of his success. The love she had felt for him was a very small obstacle to their meeting now; for her thoughts had been occupied with affairs, before the interest of which the poor love she had then been capable of, had melted away and vanished—vanished, that is, in all that was restrictive and engrossing in its character. But now that she knew the relation that had existed between Margaret and him, she shrunk from doing anything that might seem to Margaret to give Euphra an opportunity of regaining his preference. Not that she had herself the smallest hope, even had she had the smallest desire of doing so; but she would not even suggest the idea of being Margaret’s rival. At length she answered:

“No, thank you, Margaret. As soon as he has anything to report, he will write to Arnstead, and Mrs. Horton will forward me the letter. No—it is quite unnecessary.”

Euphra’s health was improving a little, though still she was far from strong.

CHAPTER XVI. FOREBODINGS

Faust. If heaven was made for man, ‘twas made for me. Good Angel. Faustus, repent; yet heaven will pity thee. Bad Angel. Thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee. Faust. Be I a devil, yet God may pity me. Bad Angel. Too late. Good Angel. Never too late if Faustus will repent. Bad Angel. If thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces.

 
Old Man.    I see an angel hover o’er thy head,
And with a vial full of precious grace,
Offers to pour the same into thy soul.
 

MARLOWE.—Doctor Faustus.

Mr. Appleditch had had some business-misfortunes, not of a heavy nature, but sufficient to cast a gloom over the house in Dervish Town, and especially over the face of his spouse, who had set her heart on a new carpet for her drawing-room, and feared she ought not to procure it now. It is wonderful how conscientious some people are towards their balance at the banker’s. How the drawing-room, however, could come to want a new carpet is something mysterious, except there is a peculiar power of decay inherent in things deprived of use. These influences operating, however, she began to think that the two scions of grocery were not drawing nine shillings’ worth a week of the sap of divinity. This she hinted to Mr. Appleditch. It was resolved to give Hugh warning.

As it would involve some awkwardness to state reasons, Mrs. Appleditch resolved to quarrel with him, as the easiest way of prefacing his discharge. It was the way she took with her maids-of-all-work; for it was grand in itself, and always left her with a comfortable feeling of injured dignity.

As a preliminary course, she began to treat him with still less politeness than before. Hugh was so careless of her behaviour, that this made no impression upon him. But he came to understand it all afterwards, from putting together the remarks of the children, and the partial communications of Mr. Appleditch to Miss Talbot, which that good lady innocently imparted to her lodger.

At length, one day, she came into the room where Hugh was more busy in teaching than his pupils were in learning, and seated herself by the fire to watch for an opportunity. This was soon found. For the boys, rendered still more inattentive by the presence of their mother, could not be induced to fix the least thought upon the matter in hand; so that Hugh was compelled to go over the same thing again and again, without success. At last he said:

“I am afraid, Mrs. Appleditch, I must ask you to interfere, for I cannot get any attention from the boys to-day.”

“And how could it be otherwise, Mr. Sutherland, when you keep wearing them out with going over and over the same thing, till they are sick of it? Why don’t you go on?”

“How can I go on when they have not learned the thing they are at? That would be to build the chimneys before the walls.”

“It is very easy to be witty, sir; but I beg you will behave more respectfully to me in the presence of my children, innocent lambs!”

Looking round at the moment, Hugh caught in his face what the elder lamb had intended for his back, a grimace hideous enough to have procured him instant promotion in the kingdom of apes. The mother saw it too, and added:

“You see you cannot make them respect you. Really, Mr. Sutherland!”

Hugh was about to reply, to the effect that it was useless, in such circumstances, to attempt teaching them at all, some utterance of which sort was watched for as the occasion for his instant dismission; but at that very moment a carriage and pair pulled sharply up at the door, with more than the usual amount of quadrupedation, and mother and sons darted simultaneously to the window.

“My!” cried Johnnie, “what a rum go! Isn’t that a jolly carriage, Peetie?”

“Papa’s bought a carriage!” shouted Peetie.

“Be quiet, children,” said their mother, as she saw a footman get down and approach the door.

“Look at that buffer,” said Johnnie. “Do come and see this grand footman, Mr. Sutherland. He’s such a gentleman!”

A box on the ear from his mother silenced him. The servant entering with some perturbation a moment after, addressed her mistress, for she dared not address any one else while she was in the room:

“Please ‘m, the carriage is astin’ after Mr. Sutherland.”

“Mr. Sutherland?”

“Yes ‘m.”

The lady turned to Mr. Sutherland, who, although surprised as well, was not inclined to show his surprise to Mrs. Appleditch.

“I did not know you had carriage-friends, Mr. Sutherland,” said she, with a toss of her head.

“Neither did I,” answered Hugh. “But I will go and see who it is.”

When he reached the street, he found Harry on the pavement, who having got out of the carriage, and not having been asked into the house, was unable to stand still for impatience. As soon as he saw his tutor, he bounded to him, and threw his arms round his neck, standing as they were in the open street. Tears of delight filled his eyes.

“Come, come, come,” said Harry; “we all want you.”

“Who wants me?”

“Mrs. Elton and Euphra and me. Come, get in.”

“And he pulled Hugh towards the carriage.

“I cannot go with you now. I have pupils here.”

Harry’s face fell.

“When will you come?”

“In half-an-hour.”

“Hurrah! I shall be back exactly in half-an-hour then. Do be ready, please, Mr. Sutherland.”

“I will.”

Harry jumped into the carriage, telling the coachman to drive where he pleased, and be back at the same place in half-an-hour. Hugh returned into the house.

As may be supposed, Margaret was the means of this happy meeting. Although she saw plainly enough that Euphra would like to see Hugh, she did not for some time make up her mind to send for him. The circumstances which made her resolve to do so were these.

For some days Euphra seemed to be gradually regaining her health and composure of mind. One evening, after a longer talk than usual, Margaret had left her in bed, and had gone to her own room. She was just preparing to get into bed herself, when a knock at her door startled her, and going to it, she saw Euphra standing there, pale as death, with nothing on but her nightgown, notwithstanding the bitter cold of an early and severe frost. She thought at first she must be walking in her sleep, but the scared intelligence of her open eyes, soon satisfied her that it was not so.

“What is the matter, dear Miss Cameron?” she said, as calmly as she could.

“He is coming. He wants me. If he calls me, I must go.”

“No, you shall not go,” rejoined Margaret, firmly.

“I must, I must,” answered Euphra, wringing her hands.

“Do come in,” said Margaret, “you must not stand there in the cold.”

“Let me get into your bed.”

“Better let me go with you to yours. That will be more comfortable for you.”

“Oh! yes; please do.”

Margaret threw a shawl round Euphra, and went back with her to her room.

“He wants me. He wants me. He will call me soon,” said Euphra, in an agonised whisper, as soon as the door was shut. “What shall I do!”

“Come to bed first, and we will talk about it there.”

As soon as they were in bed, Margaret put her arm round Euphra, who was trembling with cold and fear, and said:

“Has this man any right to call you?”

“No, no,” answered Euphra, vehemently.

“Then don’t go.”

“But I am afraid of him.”

“Defy him in God’s name.”

“But besides the fear, there is something that I can’t describe, that always keeps telling me—no, not telling me, pushing me—no, drawing me, as if I could not rest a moment till I go. I cannot describe it. I hate to go, and yet I feel that if I were cold in my grave, I must rise and go if he called me. I wish I could tell you what it is like. It is as if some demon were shaking my soul till I yielded and went. Oh! don’t despise me. I can’t help it.”

“My darling, I don’t, I can’t despise you. You shall not go to him.”

“But I must,” answered she, with a despairing faintness more convincing than any vehemence; and then began to weep with a slow, hopeless weeping, like the rain of a November eve.

Margaret got out of bed. Euphra thought she was offended. Starting up, she clasped her hands, and said:

“Oh Margaret! I won’t cry. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

She entreated like a chidden child.

“No, no, I didn’t mean to leave you for a moment. Lie down again, dear, and cry as much as you like. I am going to read a little bit out of the New Testament to you.”

“I am afraid I can’t listen to it.”

“Never mind. Don’t try. I want to read it.”

Margaret got a New Testament, and read part of that chapter of St. John’s Gospel which speaks about human labour and the bread of life. She stopped at these words:

“For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me.”

Euphra’s tears had ceased. The sound of Margaret’s voice, which, if it lost in sweetness by becoming more Scotch when she read the Gospel, yet gained thereby in pathos, and the power of the blessed words themselves, had soothed the troubled spirit a little, and she lay quiet.

“The count is not a good man, Miss Cameron?”

“You know he is not, Margaret. He is the worst man alive.”

“Then it cannot be God’s will that you should go to him.”

“But one does many things that are not God’s will.”

“But it is God’s will that you should not go to him.”

Euphra lay silent for a few moments. Suddenly she exclaimed:

“Then I must not go to him,”—got out of bed, threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and holding up her clasped hands, said, in low tones that sounded as if forced from her by agony:

“I won’t! I won’t! O God, I will not. Help me, help me!”

Margaret knelt beside her, and put her arm round her. Euphra spoke no more, but remained kneeling, with her extended arms and clasped hands lying on the bed, and her head laid between them. At length Margaret grew alarmed, and looked at her. But she found that she was in a sweet sleep. She gently disengaged herself, and covering her up soft and warm, left her to sleep out her God-sent sleep undisturbed, while she sat beside, and watched for her waking.

She slept thus for an hour. Then lifting her head, and seeing Margaret, she rose quietly, as if from her prayers, and said with a smile:

“Margaret, I was dreaming that I had a mother.”

“So you have, somewhere.”

“Yes, so I have, somewhere,” she repeated, and crept into bed like a child, lay down, and was asleep again in a moment.

Margaret watched her for another hour, and then seeing no signs of restlessness, but that on the contrary her sleep was profound, lay down beside her, and soon shared in that repose which to weary women and men is God’s best gift.

She rose at her usual hour the next day, and was dressed before Euphra awoke. It was a cold grey December morning, with the hoar-frost lying thick on the roofs of the houses. Euphra opened her eyes while Margaret was busy lighting the fire. Seeing that she was there, she closed them again, and fell once more fast asleep. Before she woke again, Margaret had some tea ready for her; after taking which, she felt able to get up. She rose looking more bright and hopeful than Margaret had seen her before.

But Margaret, who watched her intently through the day, saw a change come over her cheer. Her face grew pale and troubled. Now and then her eyes were fixed on vacancy; and again she would look at Margaret with a woebegone expression of countenance; but presently, as if recollecting herself, would smile and look cheerful for a moment. Margaret saw that the conflict was coming on, if not already begun—that at least its shadow was upon her; and thinking that if she could have a talk with Hugh about what he had been doing, it would comfort her a little, and divert her thoughts from herself, even if no farther or more pleasantly than to the count, she let Harry know Hugh’s address, as given in the letter to her father. She was certain that, if Harry succeeded in finding him, nothing more was necessary to insure his being brought to Mrs. Elton’s. As we have seen, Harry had traced him to Buccleuch Terrace.

Hugh re-entered the house in the same mind in which he had gone out; namely, that after Mrs. Appleditch’s behaviour to him before his pupils, he could not remain their tutor any longer, however great his need might be of the pittance he received for his services.

But although Mrs. Appleditch’s first feeling had been jealousy of Hugh’s acquaintance with “carriage-people,” the toadyism which is so essential an element of such jealousy, had by this time revived; and when Hugh was proceeding to finish the lesson he had begun, intending it to be his last, she said:

“Why didn’t you ask your friend into the drawing-room, Mr. Sutherland?”

“Good gracious! The drawing-room!” thought Hugh—but answered: “He will fetch me when the lesson is over.”

“I am sure, sir, any friends of yours that like to call upon you here, will be very welcome. It will be more agreeable to you to receive them here, of course; for your accommodation at poor Miss Talbot’s is hardly suitable for such visitors.”

“I am sorry to say, however,” answered Hugh, “that after the way you have spoken to me to-day, in the presence of my pupils, I cannot continue my relation to them any longer.”

“Ho! ho!” resnorted the lady, indignation and scorn mingling with mortification; “our grand visitors have set our backs up. Very well, Mr. Sutherland, you will oblige me by leaving the house at once. Don’t trouble yourself, pray, to finish the lesson. I will pay you for it all the same. Anything to get rid of a man who insults me before the very faces of my innocent lambs! And please to remember,” she added, as she pulled out her purse, while Hugh was collecting some books he had lent the boys, “that when you were starving, my husband and I took you in and gave you employment out of charity—pure charity, Mr. Sutherland. Here is your money.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Appleditch,” said Hugh; and walked out with his books under his arm, leaving her with the money in her hand.

He had to knock his feet on the pavement in front of the house, to keep them from freezing, for half-an-hour, before the carriage arrived to take him away. As soon as it came up, he jumped into it, and was carried off in triumph by Harry.

Mrs. Elton received him kindly. Euphra held out her hand with a slight blush, and the quiet familiarity of an old friend. Hugh could almost have fallen in love with her again, from compassion for her pale, worn face, and subdued expression.

Mrs. Elton went out in the carriage almost directly, and Euphra begged Harry to leave them alone, as she had something to talk to Mr. Sutherland about.

“Have you found any trace of Count Halkar, Hugh?” she said, the moment they were by themselves.

“I am very sorry to say I have not. I have done my best.”

“I am quite sure of that.—I just wanted to tell you, that, from certain indications which no one could understand so well as myself, I think you will have more chance of finding him now.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” responded Hugh. “If I only had him!”

Euphra sighed, paused, and then said:

“But I am not sure of it. I think he is in London; but he may be in Bohemia, for anything I know. I shall, however, in all probability, know more about him within a few days.”

Hugh resolved to go at once to Falconer, and communicate to him what Euphra had told him. But he said nothing to her as to the means by which he had tried to discover the count; for although he felt sure that he had done right in telling Falconer all about it, he was afraid lest Euphra, not knowing what sort of a man he was, might not like it. Euphra, on her part, did not mention Margaret’s name; for she had begged her not to do so.

“You will tell me when you know yourself?”

“Perhaps.—I will, if I can. I do wish you could get the ring. I have a painful feeling that it gives him power over me.”

“That can only be a nervous fancy, surely,” Hugh ventured to say.

“Perhaps it is. I don’t know. But, still, without that, there are plenty of reasons for wishing to recover it. He will put it to a bad use, if he can. But for your sake, especially, I wish we could get it.”

“Thank you. You were always kind.”

“No,” she replied, without lifting her eyes; “I brought it all upon you.”

“But you could not help it.”

“Not at the moment. But all that led to it was my fault.”

She paused; then suddenly resumed:

“I will confess.—Do you know what gave rise to the reports of the house being haunted?”

“No.”

“It was me wandering about it at night, looking for that very ring, to give to the count. It was shameful. But I did. Those reports prevented me from being found out. But I hope not many ghosts are so miserable as I was.—You remember my speaking to you of Mr. Arnold’s jewels?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“I wanted to find out, through you, where the ring was. But I had no intention of involving you.”

“I am sure you had not.”

“Don’t be too sure of anything about me. I don’t know what I might have been led to do. But I am very sorry. Do forgive me.”