“What proof have you of this base and ungrateful fraud?” he asked, when the woman opened her eyes again.
“Look at the picture of your wife—the one which hangs in the library—and then tell me how it is that you have not found out the deception long ago. Amy grows more like the lady who is gone every day, and Phœbe has not a feature in her face to remind you of her.”
Mr. Tallant saw the justice of the remark in an instant, and it seemed like a rebuke when he remembered how dearly the wife was beloved. With the picture and the familiar face of the assumed Amy Somerton in his mind for a moment, his whole nature cried out in proof of the woman’s story; and now he bethought himself of the strange interest he had always taken in the girl, and how indifferent he had been in comparison to Phœbe, lovable as she undoubtedly was, beautiful as everybody must confess her to be.
It seemed for a moment as if a new link of interest between himself and the world had been forged by this confession.
“You will wait until I am dead, sir—pray do—before you repeat my story: do, do wait; I should not like to lose Luke’s respect in my last moments.”
“I will not divulge what you have confessed, at present at least,” said the merchant; “but justice must be done.”
“Yes, yes, that is right; but I am not long for this world—there is no hurry now.”
The merchant promised to keep her secret for the present, but she could get no other promise from him.
She asked his forgiveness, and he forgave her.
When he left her she seemed to be considerably better. Exhausted by the excitement of her confession, she lay motionless when Amy and her father returned. She had been slightly feverish all day; towards night brain fever set in, and then the doctor confessed there was danger.