At first I heard nothing, probably because its inmates were still. Then I caught an exclamation of weariness, and soon some words of desultory conversation. Relieved beyond expression, not only because I could hear, but because they talked in English, I withdrew again into my own room. The most difficult problem in the world was solved. I had found the means by which I could insinuate myself, unseen and unsuspected, into the secret confidences of two women, at moments when they felt themselves alone and at the mercy of no judgment but that of God. Should I learn enough to pay me for the humiliation of my position? I did not weary myself by questioning. I knew my motive was pure, and fixed my mind upon that.
Several times before the day was over did I return to the secret chamber and bend my ear to the wall. But in no instance did I linger long, for if the two ladies spoke at all it was on trivial subjects, and in such tones as indicated that neither their passions nor any particular interests were engaged. For such talk I had no ear.
"It will not be always so," I thought to myself. "When night comes and the heart opens, they will speak of what lies upon their minds."
And so it happened. As the inn grew quiet and the lights began to disappear from the windows, I crept again to my station against the partition, and in a darkness and atmosphere that at any other time in my life would have completely unnerved me, hearkened to the conversation within.
"Oh, mamma," were the first words I heard, uttered in English, as all their talk was when they were moved or excited, "if you would only explain! If you would only tell me why you do not wish me to receive letters from him! But this silence—this love and this silence are killing me. I cannot bear it. I feel like a lost child who hears its mother's voice in the darkness, but does not know how to follow that voice to the refuge it bespeaks."
"Time was when daughters found it sufficient to know that their parents disapproved of an act, without inquiring into their reasons for it. Your father has told you that the marquis is not eligible as a husband for you, and he expects this to content you. Have I the right to say more than he?"
"Not the right, perhaps, mamma. I do not appeal to your sense of right, but to your love. I am very unhappy. My whole life's peace is trembling in the balance. You ought to see it—you do see it—yet you let me suffer without giving me one reason why I should do so."
The mother's voice was still.
"You see!" the daughter went on again, after what seemed like a moment of helpless waiting. "Though my arms are about you, and my cheek pressed close to yours, you will not speak. Do you wonder that I am heart-broken—that I feel like turning my face to the wall and never looking up again?"
"I wonder at nothing."