There followed a pause, and then at last, slowly and with evident effort, Jeanne Satterlee began to speak. “Mr. Vaughan,” she said, “the fewer words the better. You’ve made up your mind to tell the story of that night. If it’s going to be told, it must be the true one. I’ve promised Jack to tell what I know to Miss Graham and to you. I’ve already told her.”
She paused, while Vaughan sat waiting breathlessly, his eyes fixed upon her face. And then she spoke again. “There’s no need to ask you,” she went on, “whether you remember all that happened on that night. You remember how you were all together at The Birches; how Jack said he was going to bed early; how you and Miss Rose sat out on the piazza; how Mr. Carleton played billiards with Jim Cummings, and then how he came down and told you he was going for a walk about the grounds. You remember every bit of that, of course?”
Vaughan assented silently. “And then,” she went on, “you went for a stroll yourself; you came to the rock opposite the cottage, and saw Tom when he came in. You heard the noise; you saw some one run out of the house, with Tom after him; and then you saw Tom fall, and a minute afterward you saw Jack bending over him, with Tom’s head on his knee.”
Again she stopped for his assent; again Vaughan nodded; and once more she continued, “You thought it was Jack who was in my room; you thought it was Jack who ran from the cottage. And no one could blame you, Mr. Vaughan, for what you thought. But I’m going to tell you the true story of that night—to my shame. Jack Carleton wasn’t in the cottage; there was never anything between Jack and me—though I tried—never mind, I’ve told Miss Graham—but there was some one in my room that night, and that man was the father of the girl whom you are going to marry.”
Vaughan’s heart seemed to stop beating; there came a ringing in his ears; his voice, when he spoke, sounded faint and far-away. “Henry Carleton?” he gasped.
Jeanne Satterlee bowed her head. “I said the fewer words the better,” she went on. “It wasn’t the first time. Things had been—that way—for nearly two years.”
Vaughan’s face flushed with anger. “Henry Carleton!” he cried again, “it’s impossible. How dare you say it?”
Jeanne Satterlee’s tone did not alter, its very calmness carrying conviction with it. “It’s true,” she said, “every word. And more, Mr. Vaughan, that you will never know. It’s all true. Jack knows—”
Vaughan started at the name. “But how did Jack—” he began. She broke in upon him. “Jack suspected,” she answered. “He saw me at the cottage that afternoon. He talked with Tom. He put two and two together. And you know what he thinks of his uncle, anyway. So he came down to the cottage that evening, early. He was hidden outside. And after Henry Carleton got away—he struck Tom from behind to do it—then Jack came down into the drive to help Tom—and you had to see him. And that was all.”
Vaughan sat as if stunned. “My God!” he muttered, under his breath, “my God!”