“Was she your mother?” he at length asked, breaking the spell, and looking up at her.
“No, she was not my mother,” Isabel answered, guiltily, scarce knowing what to say, and yet strangely moved by his wild, sad words.
“Your aunt, perhaps, then?—she had a brother.”
“But—but,” he added, with sudden thought, “you are not the one who wore the corals that night at the opera; she was short, and darker than you. Those were my gifts to Meta, and she wore them last on that dreadful night. Ah! ah! I did not think the pain was so bitter still! But my heart was broken then, and though I have tried to live bravely, I find the wound is not healed even now.”
His lordship seemed to have lost all knowledge of where he was, in living over the sad past, and there is no knowing how long he might have gone on in his rambling talk, had not Sir Charles now made his appearance, bearing a salver filled with dainties for his companion.
Isabel was infinitely relieved to see him, for she was suffering torture under this forced inquisition.
The young man bowed to his lordship again as he drew near, although his face expressed some surprise at finding him conversing with Isabel.
“I beg your pardon for my seeming rudeness. There are certain circumstances under which one will sometimes forget one’s self. I beg you to forgive and forget what has just occurred.”
He turned and left them almost as abruptly as he came, while Isabel sank back into her seat, weak and frightened, although considerably enlightened upon some points. Her tongue had seemed glued to the roof of her mouth, and she could not have answered his questions had he given her the opportunity. She was immensely relieved, however, that it had not been required of her; for she feared she should have committed herself, since it was evident that he knew the history of the jewels which she wore.
She had wronged the governess; the property was hers beyond a doubt, and what should she do about it?