‘What did my mother tell you?’
‘Well! you ought to care more about what she says than about any other woman’s pretences. She says that it’s very uncertain whether they were ever married at all. Look here, don’t you know, it isn’t me, it’s your mother. She says they went off from her house together, eloping, as far as I could make out, in the middle of the night: and that the next time she saw them, she—this lady—was with my uncle in Paris and called Lady William. That’s all. Of course, if it was a marriage she’ll be able to prove everything about it; but if not, it does seem a little hard, doesn’t it, that those fifty thousand pounds of old John’s money should be lost? And you must remember, Swinford, it is your mother who says so; it is not I.’
Leo was silenced by this speech. He had not been prepared for so bold a statement, nor that Mrs. Swinford would interfere in such a way as this. Whence had she derived this hate against her old friend? His mind went back easily to the period when Emily Plowden was the pet of the house. He had only been a child, indeed, but a child remembers every detail which older people forget. And he remembered more vaguely, yet well enough, to have heard his father speak of Lady William after their establishment in Paris. Leo had not known very much of his father, who was a reserved man, and not demonstrative to the boy, who was his mother’s toy and darling, a little drawing-room puppet, everything that an English father would most dislike in his son. Leo was aware of all this now, and exaggerated it, as was natural, his own later conduct in life having been revolutionised more or less by compunctions and repentances in respect to his father. He could not tell how it was that in a moment the image of that father leaped into his mind. It seemed to him that he could almost see the little scene—the ornate suite of rooms in Paris, his mother lying back scornful and splendid in a great chair, his father walking up and down in high indignation and something about Lady William on his lips. What it was he did not remember, but that his father had spoken in respect, he was sure. The recollection came to his mind like an assurance and pledge that all was well.
‘You must take care,’ he said, taking the cue which Lord Will had thrown down, and beginning in his turn to torture the balls, ‘that the wish is not father to the thought. When it is for one’s interest that a thing should be, it is so easy to persuade oneself that it is.’
‘That is not my case, Swinford. I did hope I might have made something of the business; but to have it settled for good and all in this way was never in my thoughts. The governor himself never knew, nor any one. I don’t believe he ever suspected——’
‘And yet you are certain, all at once?’
‘Well, not certain,’ said Lord Will; ‘but when a lady, a friend of the woman, with nothing in her mind but justice, I suppose——’
‘My mother,’ said Leo, ‘has told you nothing from her own knowledge. She informs you of a possibility of wrong. Your own father was on the spot; he went over when his brother died, but he suspected nothing; and my father, a man of the highest honour, though I did not know him as I ought, suspected nothing. Take care how you let a mere insinuation—a doubt——’
‘It was your mother who made it, Swinford.’
Leo was very pale, and an angry cloud came over his countenance. He turned round with an impulse of indignation towards the young man who forced this upon him. ‘My mother,’ he said, ‘may be mistaken; she is human, like the rest of us. In the meantime, I think you are showing little knowledge of human nature, Pakenham. Do you think that lady whom you saw to-day could have lived as she has done for all these years under a burden of shame? and could look as she does if she knew that she might be found out any day?’