Cartaret thought again of Vitoria’s parting word to him.
“I know it now,” he said.
“You are my guest,” Eskurola pursued. “I shall tell you something. You have seen me only as what must seem to you a strange and hard man—perhaps a fierce and cruel man. I am the head of my ancient house; on me there depends not only its honor, but also its continuance. Sir, I exact of my relatives no less than I have already exacted of myself.”
Cartaret looked at him in amazement. Could it be possible that there had ever been in this medieval mind anything but ruthless pride of race?
“Years ago—but not so many years ago as you, sir, might suppose—there came to this house a young lady. She came here as a governess for my sister, but she was a lady, a person of birth. Also, she spoke your language.” He paused, and then went on in a still gentler voice. “Sir, because of her, your language, barbarous as it is, has always been dear to me, and yet, still because of her, I have ever since wanted not to speak it.”
Cartaret looked at the floor. Even though this confession of a past weakness was voluntary, it seemed somehow unfair to watch, during it, the man whose pride was so strong.
“And you sent her away?” he found himself asking.
“She went when her work was finished. She went without knowing.”
Cartaret raised his eyes. There was no false assumption in the man upon whom they rested: it was impossible to believe that, seeing him thus, a woman would not love him.
“I’ll go,” said Cartaret. Eskurola’s words had assured him of Vitoria’s safety. “I’ll go now.”