“What strange words you are muttering!” she exclaimed, in a sweet voice. “Are they from a book you are writing? Mr. Holdfast tells me you are very clever, Frederick.”
“They are words spoken by a dear friend,” I said, “at a tragic period in his life—a few moments, indeed, before he died.”
“How shocking,” she said, “to think of them now when you and I meet for the first time! A dear friend of yours? You shall tell me all about it, Frederick. You do not mind my calling you Frederick, do you? I have been thinking for days, and days, and days, what I should call you. Not Mr. Holdfast—that is my husband; nor Master Frederick.” She laughed heartily at this notion. “No, it shall be Frederick. And you musn’t call me mother; that would be too ridiculous. Nor madam; that would be too distant. You must call me Lydia.”
“It is a pretty name,” I said, summoning all my fortitude and composure; “is it your only one?”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “Is not one enough for such a little creature as me? I hope,” she whispered, “you are not angry with me for marrying your father. I could not help it, indeed, indeed I could not! He loved me so much—better even than he loves you, I believe, and his nature is so great and noble that I would not for the world give him the slightest pain. He feels so deeply! I have found that out already, and he is ready to make any sacrifice for me. We are both very, very happy!”
She had succeeded in making me more clearly understand the extraordinary difficulty of my position. Whether she did this designedly or not was not so clear, for every word she spoke might have been spoken by a simple innocent woman, or by a woman who was playing a double part. I could not discover whether she recognised me. She exhibited no sign of it. During the dinner she was in the highest spirits, and my father’s eyes followed her in admiration. Knowing his character, and seeing how deeply he was enamoured of this false and fascinating woman, I trembled perhaps more than she did at the consequences of an exposure.
But was it possible, after all, that I could be mistaken? Were there two women so marvellously alike in their features, in manner, in the colour of their hair and eyes, and could it have been my fate to meet them in positions so strange and close to me?
I observed her with the closest attention. Not a word, not a tone, not a gesture, escaped me; and she, every now and then, apparently unconscious of what was in my mind, addressed me and drew me into conversation in the most artless manner. She demanded attention from me with the usual licence of beauty, and later on in the evening my father, linking his arm in mine, said,
“My mind is relieved of a great anxiety. I am glad you like Lydia; she is delighted with you, and says she cannot look upon you with a mother’s eyes. She will be your sister, she says, and the best friend you have in the world. Our home will once more be happy, as in your mother’s days.”