The deep emotion with which Colonel Cleeve spoke--the generally
self-contained man whose calmness almost bordered upon apathy--proved how true the words were, and how terribly the sense of disgrace would have told upon him.
"But your unhappy brother has paid the forfeit of his crimes by death," he continued, "and it is to be hoped and expected that in time the remembrance of him and of what he did will die out of people's minds. Therefore we have resolved to trust to this hope, and give you Lucy. It will be better than to let her die." Sir Karl Andinnian drew in his slender lips. But that he had passed through a course of most bitter humiliation--and that, wherever it falls, seems for the time to wash out pride--he might have shown resentment at the last words. The Colonel saw he felt the sting: and he wished it had not been his province to inflict it.
"It was best to explain this, Sir Karl. Pardon me for its sound of harshness. And now that it is over and done with, let me say that never for a moment have I or Mrs. Cleeve blamed you. It was not your fault that your brother lost himself; neither could you have helped it: and we have both felt almost as sorry for you as though you had been a relative of our own. I beg that henceforth his name may never be mentioned between you and us: the past, so far as regards him, must be as though it had never been. You will observe this reticence?"
"Unquestionably."
"The affair is settled then, Andinnian. Will you see Lucy?"
"If I may," replied Karl, a bright smile succeeding to the sadness on his face. "Does she know I am here?"
"She knows nothing. Her mother thought it might be better that I should speak to you first. You can tell her all yourself. But mind you do it quietly, for she is very weak."
Lucy happened to be alone in, the salon. She sat in a red velvet
arm-chair as big as a canopy, looking at the pretty étrenne her mother had given her the previous day--a bracelet of links studded with turquoise and a drooping turquoise heart. A smile of gratitude parted her lips; though tears stood in her eyes, for she believed she should not live to wear it long.
"Lucy," said her father, looking in as he opened the door. "I-have brought you a visitor who has called--Sir Karl Andinnian."
Lucy rose in trembling astonishment; the morocco case, which had been on her lap, falling to the ground. She wore a dress of violet silk, and Aglaé had folded about her a white shawl--for chillness was present with her still. Karl advanced, and the Colonel shut them in together.