She hated herself that she did not hate Monsieur Mornay. Struggle as she would, now that he was gone she knew that the impulsive words that she had used when she had spurned him had sprung from no origin of thought or reflection, but were the rebellious utterings of anger at his intrusion—of resentment and uncharity at the tale he told. But what if it were true? She sat upright, and with a struggle tried dispassionately and calmly to go over, one by one, each word of his speech, each incident of his bearing, as he told his portentous story of the secrets of her family. How had Monsieur Mornay come into possession of all this information? She knew that Eloise de Bresac had died in France and that the Duke of Nemours had sent the body to be buried on the estates in Normandy, where it lay in the family tomb. She knew that Sir Henry Heywood’s intimacy with the Duke was of long standing, and that there was a mystery in regard to the death of this daughter of the house which had never been explained to her. Her grandfather had been ill at the time, she remembered, and had died before Sir Henry Heywood and her father—who had gone to France—had returned. The story of the Frenchman tallied strangely with the facts as she knew them. How did Mornay know of the unfortunate woman’s death at Amiens? Was the story of the Spaniard D’Añasco invented to comport with the family’s traditionary hatred of the Spanish? Were the names Castillano, of the ship, and Ruiz, of the boy, mere fabrications, to achieve an end? How did he know these things? The family history of the Bresacs was not an open book to all the world. No one but Sir Henry Heywood and herself had known of the visits to Paris and the death-place of Eloise.
And Captain Ferrers! How could she explain his loss of countenance when the tale was told? What papers were these the very mention of which could deprive him of his self-possession? And what reason had he for keeping papers referring to her estate from her knowledge? They were matters which put her mind upon a rack of indecision. She should know, and at once. The Frenchman had planned well. He had proved that Captain Ferrers was concealing something from her—of this she was confident; although in her discovery she had scorned to show Mornay that she believed him in anything. If Sir Henry Heywood had intrusted matters pertaining to the estate to Captain Ferrers, she was resolved that she should know what they were. She judged from his actions that Captain Ferrers had reasons for wishing these papers kept from her; she therefore resolved to learn what they contained. If he would not give them to her—and this she thought possible—she would meet him in a different spirit and try with art and diplomacy what she might not accomplish by straightforward methods.
“What if Mornay’s tale were true?” she asked herself again. “What if these papers were the secret proofs of the marriage of Eloise de Bresac and of the birth of a son and heir to the estates in accordance with her grandfather’s will? What if Monsieur Mornay could prove that he was Ruiz, son of D’Añasco, and had sailed from Valencia upon the Castillano?” In the cool light of her reasoning it did not seem impossible. She recalled the face of Monsieur Mornay and read him again to herself. It seemed as though every expression and modulation of his voice had been burned upon her memory. Had he flinched—had he quivered an eyelash? Had he not borne the face and figure of an honest man? Argue with herself as she might, she had only to compare the bearing of the Frenchman with that of Stephen Ferrers for an answer to her questions.
She arose and walked to the table by the window. The sun was setting in an effusion of red, picking out the chimney-pots and gables opposite in crimson splendor, glorifying the somber things it touched in magnificent detail.
She looked long—until the top of the very highest chimney-pots became again a somber blur against the greenish glow of the east.
“I shall know,” she murmured at last. “At whatever cost, Captain Ferrers shall tell me.”
And before the captain arrived the next day she had resolved upon a plan of action. In justice to Monsieur Mornay, she would give his tale the most exhaustive test. For the sake of the experiment she would assume that it was true. But if it were, and she believed it, the difficulty lay in getting Captain Ferrers to acknowledge anything. She must deceive him. If her deception did not avail, she would try something else; but of one thing she was resolved—that tell he should, or all the friendship she bore him should cease forever.