There was a pause, and then Eve spoke in a gentler tone.
“That was hard for you,” she said, with a touch of pity.
“Yes, it was hard. He had promised to marry me. I think he would have married me, for Paolo’s sake. My baby was not born till afterwards—after his father’s death.”
“Poor creature! All that was very sad. Was my husband—was Mr. Vansittart a friend of the man who died? Was it for his friend’s sake he was so kind to you?”
“No, he was not a friend. It was for my sake, and la Zia’s, that he was kind. I tell you again, he pitied us.”
Eve sank into a chair, drooping, miserable. Even yet she could not believe in this story of Vansittart’s chivalrous kindness to two foreign waifs who had no claim upon his friendship, not even the claim of country. She knew him to be benevolent, generous, full of compassion for all suffering of man or beast; but there was nothing Quixotic in his benevolence. That which he had done for Lisa was too much to be expected of any man who was not a millionaire or a musical fanatic. He could not have done so much without a strong motive. And then once again she reminded herself that Lisa was an actress, to whom all falsehoods and simulations must be easy. She started to her feet; indignant with this woman for deceiving her; angry with herself for being so easily duped.
“I don’t believe a word you have told me,” she cried. “I believe that Mr. Vansittart was your lover; my husband, John Vansittart, and no other; and when he came here the other day you had lured him back to your net.”
“You don’t believe—you don’t believe in Paolo’s dead father? Don’t cry, Carissimo; she is a cruel woman, but she shan’t hurt you.” The boy had begun to whimper, scared by the angry voices. “I will make you believe. I will show you his likeness—the likeness I have never shown to any one else. It is a bad one; it does not make him half handsome enough. He was handsome; he had hair as light as yours, only redder, and he was very fair—a true Englishman. He was not as handsome as your husband—no, there is no one else like him. Shall I show you his picture? Will you believe me then?”
She did not wait for an answer, but ran into the adjoining room, pulled a heavy, iron-clamped box from under the bed—the box which contained her jewels—unlocked it, and came running back with a photograph in her hand.
“Ecco, Signora. It was taken at Burano, by a man who came from Venice one summer morning, and photographed the church, and the street, and the bridge, and as many of the people as would pay him a few soldi for a likeness. I have kept it hidden away since he died. It hurt me to look at it, remembering his end. But there!”—pushing the photograph in front of Eve’s gloomy, distrustful countenance—“look at it to your heart’s content, Signora. That man was the father of my child! Believe, or not believe, as you please.”