She was alone, sitting in a low chair, her hands lying listlessly on the lap of her black gown. Her face was even whiter and more weary than it had looked in the morning, and she had been weeping, I saw, for her long lashes were still wet; but she summoned up a smile for me,—that brave smile, that was, in a way, sadder and more moving than tears.
“You have heard that my mother is dead?” she asked, in a low voice. “She died in my arms half an hour after we got in; and I am so glad,—so glad. I have been thanking God in my heart ever since. She never knew me; she knew none of us, but Yossof; and that only because he had been near her in that dreadful place. You saw her—just for a moment; you saw something of what those long years had made of her,—and we—my God, we had thought her dead all that time!”
She shuddered, and sat staring with stern, sombre eyes at the fire, her slender fingers convulsively interlaced.
She was silent for a space, and so was I, for I could find never a word to say.
Suddenly she looked straight at me.
“Maurice Wynn, if ever the time comes when you might blame me, condemn me,—justifiably enough,—think of my mother’s history. Remember that I was brought up with one fixed purpose in life,—to avenge her, even when I only thought her dead. How much more should that vengeance be, now that I know all that she had to suffer! And she is only one among thousands who have suffered,—who are suffering as much,—yes, and more! There is but one way,—to crush, to destroy, the power that has done,—that is doing these deeds. It will not be done in our time, but we are at least preparing the way; within a few days we shall have gone some distance along it—with a rush—towards our goal. I tell you that to further this work I would—I will—do anything; sacrifice even those who are dearer to me than my own soul! Therefore, as I said, remember that, when you would condemn me for aught I have done, or shall do!”
“I can never condemn you, Anne; you know that well! The queen can do no wrong!”
The fire that had flashed into her eyes faded, dimmed, I thought, by a mist of tears.
“You are indeed a true knight, Maurice Wynn,” she said wistfully. “I do not deserve such devotion; no, don’t interrupt me, I know well what I am saying, and perhaps you also will know some day. I have deceived you in many ways; you know that well enough—”
“As I now know your purpose,” I answered. “But why didn’t you trust me at first, Anne? When we were in London? Don’t think I’m blaming you, I’m not, really; but surely you must have known, even then, that you might have trusted me,—yes, and Mary, too.”