“Have you never petitioned your too-stolid friend over there to unravel the mystery for you? In the quiet of certain lonely, speculative hours have you not wondered where you had seen me before, long, long before the night in London? In all the years that you have been trying to convince yourself that Frederic is not your son has there not been the vision of———”
“What are you saying to me? Are you trying to tell me that you are Matilde?”
“If not Matilde, then who am I, pray?” she demanded.
He sank back frowning.
“It cannot be possible. I would know her a thousand years from now. You cannot trick me into believing—but, who are you?” He leaned forward again, clutching the edge of the table. “I sometimes think you are a ghost come to haunt me, to torture me. What trick, what magic is behind all this? Has her soul, her spirit, her actual being found a lodging-place in you, and have you been sent to curse me for———”
She rose half-way out of her chair, leaning farther across the table.
“Yes, James Brood, I represent the spirit of Matilde Valeska, if you will have it so. Not sent to curse you, but to love you. That's the pity of it all. I swear to you that it is the spirit of Matilde that urges me to love you and to spare you now. It is the spirit of Matilde that stands between her son and death. But it is not Matilde who confronts you here and now, you may be sure of that. Matilde loved you. She loves you now, even in her grave. You will never be able to escape from that wonderful love of hers. If there have been times—and God help me, there were many, I know—when I appeared to love you for myself, I swear to you that I was moved by the spirit of Matilde. I—I am as much mystified, as greatly puzzled as yourself. I came here to hate you, and I have loved you; yes, there were moments when I actually loved you.”
Her voice died away into a whisper. For many seconds they sat looking into each other's eyes, neither possessing the power to break the strange spell of silence that had fallen upon them.
“No, it is not Matilde who confronts you now, but one who would not spare you as she did up to the hour of her death. You are quite safe from ghosts from this hour on, my friend. You will never see Matilde again, though you look into my eyes till the end of time. Frederic may see, may feel the spirit of his mother, but you—ah, no! You have seen the last of her. Her blood is in my veins, her wrongs are in my heart. It was she with whom you fell in love, and it was she you married six months ago, but now the curtain is lifted. Don't you know me now, James? Can your memory carry you back twenty-three years and deliver you from doubt and perplexity? Look closely, I say. I was six years old then, and———”
Brood was glaring at her as one stupefied. Suddenly he cried out in a loud voice. “You are you are the little sister? The little Thérèse?”