“God forbid!” she said solemnly. And in her turn she rose in agitation; moved for once out of the gracious ease and self-possession of her life, so that in the contrast there was something unexpected and touching. “God forbid!” she repeated. “But because I feel that I might have done more. Because I feel that a word from me might have checked her, and it was not spoken. True, I was young, and it might have made things worse—I do not know. But when I saw her face at the window yesterday—and she was changed, Sir Robert—I felt that I might have been in her place, and she in mine!” Her voice trembled. “I might have been lonely, childless, growing old; and alone! Or again, if I had done something, if I had spoken as I would have another speak, were the case my girl’s, she might have been as I am! Now,” she added tremulously, “you know why I came. Why I plead for her! In our world we grow hard, very hard; but there are things which touch us still, and her face touched me yesterday—I remembered what she was.” She paused a moment, and then, “After long years,” she continued softly, “it cannot be hard to forgive; and there is still time. She did nothing that need close your door, and what she did is forgotten. Grant that she was foolish, grant that she was wild, indiscreet, what you will—she is alone now, alone and growing old, Sir Robert, and if not for her sake, for the sake of your dead child——”
He stopped her by a peremptory gesture, but for the moment he seemed unable to speak. At length, “You touch the wrong chord,” he said hoarsely. “It is for the sake of my dead child I shall never, never forgive her! She knew that I loved it. She knew that it was all to me. It grew worse! Did she tell me? It was in danger; did she warn me? No! But when I heard of her disobedience, of her folly, of things which made her a byword, and I bade her return, or my house should no longer be her home, then, then she flung the news of the child’s death at me, and rejoiced that she had it to fling. Had I gone out then and found her in the midst of her wicked gaiety, God knows what I should have done! I did try to go. But the Hundred Days had begun, I had to return. Had I gone, and learned that in her mad infatuation she had neglected the child, left it to servants, let it fade, I think—I think, Madam, I should have killed her!”
Lady Lansdowne raised her hands. “Hush! Hush!” she said.
“I loved the child. Therefore she was glad when it died, glad that she had the power to wound me. Its death was no more to her than a weapon with which to punish me! There was a tone in her letter—I have it still—which betrayed that. And, therefore—therefore, for the child’s sake, I will never forgive her!”
“I am sorry,” she murmured in a voice which acknowledged defeat. “I am very sorry.”
He stood for a moment gazing at the blank space above the fireplace; his head sunk, his shoulders brought forward. He looked years older than the man who had walked under the elms. At length he made an effort to speak in his usual tone. “Yes,” he said, “it is a sorry business.”
“And I,” she said slowly, “can do nothing.”
“Nothing,” he replied. “Time will cure this, and all things.”
“You are sure that there is no mistake?” she pleaded. “That you are not judging her harshly?”
“There is no mistake.”