“He may have done something to bring himself within the power of the law,” repeated Eleanor. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that he may have committed some crime for which he could be punished.”
“Could he be punished by the law for having cheated my father at cards?”
“That sort of charge is always difficult to be proved, Nell; impossible to be proved after the fact. No, I’m afraid the law could never touch him for that.”
“But if he were to commit some other crime, he might be punished?”
“Of course.”
“If I met him, Richard,” cried Eleanor Vane, with a dangerous light kindling in her eyes, “I would try and lure him on to commit some crime, and then turn round upon him and say, ‘The law of the land could not avenge my father’s death, but it can punish you for a lesser crime. I have twisted the law to my own purpose, and made it redress my father’s wrongs.’”
Richard Thornton started aghast at his companion.
“Why, Eleanor,” he exclaimed, “you talk like a Red Indian! This is quite shocking! You frighten me, really; you do, indeed.”
“I am sorry for that, Richard,” Miss Vane answered, meekly. She was a child in all things which concerned her affections alone. “I wouldn’t grieve you or the dear Signora for the world. But there are some things that are stronger than ourselves, Richard; and the oath that I took a year and a half ago, in the Rue de l’Archevêque, is one of those things. I have never forgotten, Dick. Night after night—though I’ve been happy and light-hearted enough in the day, for I could not be otherwise than happy with you and the Signora—night after night I have lain awake thinking of my father’s death. If that death had been a common one; if he had died in my arms at the will of God, instead of by the cruelty of a wretch, my grief might have worn itself out by this time. But as it is, I cannot forget—I cannot forgive. If all the Christian people in the world were to talk to me, I could never have one merciful feeling towards this man. If he were going to be hung to-morrow, I should be glad, and could walk barefoot to the place of his execution to see him suffer. There is no treachery that I should think base if employed against him. There is no slow torture I could inflict upon him that would seem cruel enough to satisfy my hatred of him. Think what a helpless old man my father was; a broken-down gentleman; the sort of man whom everybody pities, whom everybody respects. Remember this; and then remember the cold-blooded deliberation of the wretch who cheated him out of the money which was more than money to him—which represented honour—honesty—his child’s future—all he valued. Remember the remorseless cruelty of the wretch who looked on while this helpless old man suffered a slow agony of six or seven hours’ duration, and then left him alone in his despair. Think of this, Richard Thornton, and don’t wonder any longer if my feelings towards this man are not Christian-like.”