“It will not hurt you. Don’t delay, don’t delay!” cried Lydia; “if you knew what a thing it is to wait. And think how my poor mother has been waiting all these ten years—and I said when I left her that I should find him. Mrs. —— no, no, I cannot call you by that name—it is unworthy! Mrs. Harry—will you go and say this to him from me? Listen, listen; you must not make any mistake. Uncle Henry is dead. He has left all his money to his nephew who went away. If he does not come home it will be divided, and wrong will be done. Will you say that to your husband for me?”
“Uncle Henry—and his money—and his nephew. What is the meaning of all this? What do we know about all this—and who are you?” It was Rita now who was losing command of herself.
“If he understands,” said Lydia, dropping down in a chair in the mingled exhaustion and relief of having at last had her say, “I will tell you who I am. You don’t know the meaning, but I am sure he will know. Oh, Mrs. Harry, it is so simple a test! Will you not try it? If he does not understand no harm will be done, and you can judge of it for yourself. If he knows what it means you will soon know all about me.”
She began to cry, with little tremulous laughs between, in her agitation. She was entirely overcome by the excitement of the crisis—so near finding out, so sure, and yet still a little cloud of suspense and uncertainty between. Rita stood and looked at her—her rival was it? who was it?—with a tremor of wonder and rising excitement, and even a sympathy which nature exacted, which she was most unwilling to bestow. Then reluctantly she went out of the room, slowly and carefully closing the door behind her, and walking along the corridor as if counting every step she took. It was the last struggle of her instinctive opposition with awakened interest, excitement, curiosity, and alarm. She ran along the passage to the office as soon as she was out of hearing of the other. In a moment more she would know.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DECISIVE MOMENT.
MR. BONAMY felt weary of his morning’s expedition. It was not that there was really anything to tire him in it; but he was dejected, disappointed, mortified. He did not feel able to go into the office as usual, to meet Harry as usual, to do and say the usual things. He thought he would go into the house instead, and rest a little, and see Rita and the children, and try to console himself with the reflection that this painful discovery only made them all belong to himself the more. It was a poor consolation, and yet in a way it was sure. He felt them more his now that he was certain no other family could claim them. Poor girl! poor babies! some time they might be glad to take the name of Bonamy instead of that wretched one that was their own. He did not intend to say a word to Rita on the subject, but he did what it was the habit of this imprudent man to do, he thrust himself into temptation. He went, all emotional and disturbed as he was, into the dwelling-house, into the room where his daughter would most likely be found, and where she was certain to inquire into the cause of his depression. In half an hour, in the ordinary state of affairs, he would have been at Rita’s mercy, and notwithstanding all his fine resolutions would have betrayed everything to her. He went in, however, determined not to say a word, only to show his child who was injured, though she did not know it, that her father’s tenderness would never fail her. He was so foolish that he went into a jeweller’s on his way, and bought a little ornament for her. And he meant to say something very kind of Harry too, though it was by Harry that his humiliation had come. A peasant, a servant! and his poor child who might have been a princess! but he would make it up to her, and she should never know.
In this mood Mr. Bonamy went into the dim and cool drawing-room, out of the heat and glare of the streets. He saw some one seated near the window, but he could not for the first moment make out who it was. He was greatly disappointed, however, to have the privacy of his first interview with his daughter interfered with, and though he was too polite to show his annoyance, yet it was with no friendly feelings towards the intruder that he made his way among the furniture to the spot where she sat. He had looked for a moment of attendrissement, of something like the old unbroken union between the father and child. Your husband is a disappointment, but your father will never forsake you; he did not mean to say this, would not have said it for the world; but he intended that it should be understood, and there was no doubt a melancholy enjoyment in the anticipation. Whoever this stranger might be he wished her at Jericho; nevertheless courtesy goes before all, and he went up to her, with the full intention of being friendly if he knew her, and at all events civil, as became a man in all circumstances towards a lady in his daughter’s drawing-room. Lydia looked up as he approached. She saw him well enough, her eyes being accustomed to the darkness. She was white as a ghost, and trembling, expecting, though there was not yet time, the return of Rita with an answer to her message—perhaps, if she was right, of Harry himself, and his recognition, and the clearing up of the whole matter. But when she saw only Mr. Bonamy, her heart seemed to stand still. She threw up her arms with a pained and wondering cry.
“Oh, is it only you? Oh, am I wrong, am I wrong, after all?”
The Vice-Consul was as much surprised as she was to find her there; and he was piqued, as an oldish (not very old) man, who knows himself to be a handsome man, notwithstanding his years, would naturally be by such an address; but he pulled himself together, and laughed, and bowed.
“It’s only I, as you say, Miss Joscelyn. I am very sorry to disappoint you. I daresay some one more interesting will soon be here.”