“We lived in Italy several years. My mother was an Italian, and so was Mr. Mancredo, and I felt to be the middle-aged, rich Italian woman whom, by adapting myself to dear Mr. Mancredo’s language and needs, in his lameness, I was becoming. When he died I was as much a widowed heart as if I had been his wife. He called me always a truthful, sound nature, and encouraged me to believe that my last ‘slap’ at Reginald would sicken him of vice, which, by the way, he curiously enough did not believe Reginald was particularly guilty of. He said the false conditions of woman’s environment had cultivated lack of frankness in me, and that a certain sort of farcical manœuvering even now made me like to put people in the wrong, to my own disadvantage, rather than to allow them to intrude on my business, which is true. ‘You are too fond of being privately good,’ said he, which was a funny fact.
“After everything was over and I had gotten back to America, Mr. Mancredo’s lawyer (and he was my guardian) wanted me to come down on old Grove, whose touch was turning everything to gold. They had come out West here, and Reg was riding the social wave buoyed up by my money, and I decided to come West and take a look at him, with the agreement that at a word from me my lawyer should come on and fetch old Grove with him, for he was under close surveillance on two accounts.
“And then at the hotel I found the poor fellow, awfully gone down, and drinking away like a man with something on his conscience. I felt vexed with him for getting nothing but brandy-slings out of all that money, for there were people who needed it, and could have used it if he couldn’t. I found it was said that he was a fellow who was afraid of women. He had a queer way of looking at them, and his way with me was his general way. Perhaps he thought any one of them might be me, and the dread wore on him. But he did not know me, and I rather had to press myself on his attention, to try to make things come about so we could settle on a divorce. But my attention to him made him shyer and more distrustful than ever; yet he was perplexed by a half recognition at times, too, I think.
“He never knew me, though, till that night on the stairs when I asked him what would have become of that sister of his if she had been as unprincipled as he had been. And then, oh dear, poor fellow, that was the end of all for him! I have never been much to him, and never anything to anyone else, but I have always been true to myself and to my guardian angel.”
She stopped and gave way to the weeping that had twice interrupted her, then said, drawing a full breath:
“So I am honestly and only Mrs. Reginald Grove.”
“Oh, my good Lord!”
It was Reginald’s voice, in full manhood’s tone.
“Oh, go to him, Ethel, I am afraid!” said Alitza.
But Reginald, parting the blinds, stepped out of the long window and stood in the moonlight looking about him, with his hand to his head, gazing at Ethel, who, rosy-red with joy, looked into the eyes of an irate but not insane man.