Cradock could not help smiling at this, knowing what Eoa was.
“We want no strong expressions, my dear, on one side or the other,” for he saw that a word would have overthrown Eoaʼs new–born discipline; “Mrs. Corklemore is far too clever not to perceive her mistake. She knows quite well that any inquiry as to my dear fatherʼs state of mind can now be of no use to her. And if she thinks of any further proceedings against myself, perhaps she had better first look at just this—just this document.”
He laid before her a certificate, granted by three magistrates, that indisputable evidence had been brought before them as to the cause and manner of Clayton Nowellʼs death, and that Cradock Nowell had no share in it, wittingly or unwittingly. That was the upshot of it; but of course it extended to about fifty–fold the length.
Mrs. Corklemore bent over her, in her most bewitching manner, and perused it very leisurely, as if she were examining Floreʼs attempts at pothooks. Meanwhile, with a side–glint of her eyes, she was watching both of them; and it did not escape her notice that Eoa was very pale.
“To be sure,” she said at last, looking full at the Eastern maid, “I see exactly how it was. I have thought so all along. A female Thug must be charmed, of course, by the only son of a murderer. My dear, I do so congratulate you.”
“Thank you,” answered Eoa, and the deep gaze of her lustrous eyes made the clever woman feel a world unopened to her; “I thank you, Georgie Corklemore, because you know no better. My only wish for you is, that you may never know unhappiness, because you could not bear it.”
Saying so, she turned away, and, with her light, quick step, was gone, before her enemy could see a symptom of the welling tears which then burst all control. But Cradock, who had dwelt in sorrow, compared to which hers was a joke, stayed to say a few soft words, and made a friend for evermore of the woman who had plotted so against his life and all his love.
Madame la Comtesse since that time has seen much tribulation, and is all the better for it. Mr. Corklemore died of the gout, and the angel Flore of the measles; and she herself, having nursed them both, and lost some selfishness in their graves, is now (as her destiny seemed to be) the wife of Mr. Chope. Of course she is compelled to merge her strong will in a stronger one, and, according to natureʼs Salique law, is the happier for doing so. Whether this union will produce a subject for biography to some unborn Lord Campbell, time alone can show.
From the above it will be clear that poor Eoa Nowell was now acquainted with the secret of the Garnet family. Bob himself had told her all, about a month after his fatherʼs death, renouncing at the same time all his claims upon her. Of that Eoa would not hear; only at his urgency she promised to consult her friends, and take a week to think of it. And this was the way she kept her promise.
First she ran up to Cradock Nowell, with the bright tears still upon her cheeks, and asked him whether he had truly and purely forgiven his injurer. He took her hand, and answered her with his eyes, in which the deepened springs of long affliction glistened, fixed steadily upon hers.