She sat with one hand to her brow as though trying to reconcile two parts of an astounding narrative. Camilla's revelation did not seem in the least like reality. Cornelius Bent's part in it was so at variance with his character as she had known it. There had never been time for love or for play. When he had given up his profession of engineering and plunged into business downtown his youth was ended. She recalled that this must have been about the time he returned from the Western trip—the year before he was married. The making of money had been the only thing in life her brother had ever cared about. He had loved his wife in his peculiar way until she died, and he had been grateful for his children. His membership in the —— Regiment, years ago, had been a business move, and the service, though distinguished, had made him many valuable business connections, but all of Cornelius Bent's family knew that his heart and his soul were downtown, day and night, night and day.
And yet there seemed no chance that Camilla could be mistaken. The marks of handling, the stains of Time—perhaps of tears—the pin-hole at the top, these were the only differences between the photograph in her album at home and the one she now held in her fingers.
Camilla waited for her to speak again. Her own heart was too full of Jeff and of what this discovery might mean to him to be willing to trust herself to further speech until she was sure that her visitor understood the full meaning of the situation. There was a sudden appreciation of the delicacy of her own position and of the danger to which her friendship with Mrs. Rumsen was being subjected—and, highly as she had prized it, Camilla knew that if her visitor could not take her own point of view with regard to Jeff's father and with regard to Jeff himself she must herself bring that friendship to an end. In some anxiety she waited and watched Mrs. Rumsen while she read. The proud head was bent, the brows and chin had set in austere lines, and Camilla, not knowing what to expect, sat silently and waited.
"It is true, of course," said her visitor, softly. "There can't be the slightest doubt of it now. There are some allusions here which identify these letters completely. I don't know just what to say to you, child. From the first time I saw your husband he attracted me curiously—reflected a memory—you remember my speaking of it? It all seems so clear to me now that the wonder is I didn't think of it myself. The resemblance between the two men is striking even now."
"Yes—yes—I hadn't thought of that."
There was another silence, during which Mrs. Rumsen seemed to realize what was passing in Camilla's mind—her sudden reticence and the meaning of it, for she straightened in her chair and extended both hands warmly.
"It is all true. But my brother's faults shall make no difference in my feeling for his children. If anything I should and will love them the more. Come and kiss me, Camilla, dear," she said with gentle simplicity.
And Camilla, her heart full of her kindness, fell on her knees at Mrs. Rumsen's feet.
"You are so good—so kind," she sobbed happily.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Rumsen with a return of her old "grenadier" manner, at the same time touching her handkerchief to her eyes. "To whom should I not be good unless to my own. If my brother disowns your husband, there's room enough in my own empty heart for you both——"