“‘And not a word or message for me, or for her daughter?’
“Then the woman laughed a harsh scornful laugh.
“‘What would Monsieur have? Don Josef took care of her, and gave her all she wanted. He was by her side when she died, and held her in his arms.’
“I had no heart to ask more; and when Isola turned her back on me without another word or salutation of any sort, I did not seek to detain her. The least sign of penitence would have brought back my old love for my wife, but to die thus, as she had lived, in sin, was the bitterest blow of all.
“My great fear at this time was lest Amy should know, by some means, any part of this terrible story. I endeavoured, and successfully, to confuse her infant mind, by constantly speaking of her mother as her governess, and the thought soon suggested itself to me, that if she had another mother given to her, the recollection of the first would be completely obliterated. Accordingly, some short time after Aimée’s death, I married my second wife. The result you know, a life of peace and comparative happiness until now.”
Again Mr. Warden paused, his calmness was evidently failing him, and it was with increased effort and difficulty that he finished his narration.
“Soon after my second marriage,” he continued, “I left St. Sauveur, hoping still farther to blot the recollection of her early days from Amy’s young mind. To a certain extent I believe I succeeded; I imagined I had quite done so, when one day, some two years ago, to my great surprise, she suddenly asked me—
“‘Papa, dear, tell me about that beautiful lady who used to play with me when I was a child; wasn’t she my very own mamma?’
“Then it was I told my little daughter the first and only lie I ever uttered, and assured her that that beautiful lady was her governess, and that Mrs. Warden was her very own mamma.
“‘Is that the truth, papa?’ asked Amy, looking up into my face; and again I assured her that was the truth. ‘Then,’ said the child, persistently, ‘I love the governess better than my own mamma, for she used to kiss and play with me, and hold me in her arms, but this mamma only does embroidery, and receives visitors all day.’ The words cut me to the heart; there never was much affection between Amy and her step-mother, their characters were so opposite, and every year the want of sympathy between them became more and more apparent. Not one of my friends and relatives knew of my second marriage; they imagined Mrs. Warden to be my first and only wife, and Mrs. Warden, without any near relatives, found no difficulty in concealing the fact that she had married a widower. We had lived such a completely isolated life among the French peasantry, that there was no fear of Amy ever hearing her mother spoken of in England; and yet, after all these precautions, here was nature asserting herself in this extraordinary manner.” Then Mr. Warden broke off abruptly. “Lord Hardcastle, I can tell you no more of this sad story. What it has cost me to talk to you thus, you will never know; let us not speak on the subject again.”