‘That is precisely what I am desirous of ascertaining for myself,’ he said drily.
With her right hand she was now trying with all her strength to loosen his grasp on the one that he still held. ‘Wretch!’ she half screamed, with a stamp of her foot. ‘Don’t I tell you that you are hurting me!’
There was a brief struggle, not lasting longer than a few moments. Oscar’s second hand was now engaged as well as his first. Slowly but irresistibly the clenched fingers were forced open till the palm of the hand was fully exposed to view. One glance at it sufficed for his purpose. He relaxed his hold.
Estelle started back with a cry; then, with a quick instinctive movement, she hid her hands behind her. ‘So!’ she said, drawing a long deep breath. ‘You know all.’ She was glaring at him like some wild creature brought to bay, her eyes flashing with mingled fury and defiance.
‘Yes, all. Give me your hand.’
‘Never!’
‘Give me your hand, or I will ring this bell, and expose your infamy before every soul in the house.’ Then, without giving her time for any further refusal, he strode forward, and grasping her by the left wrist, he drew forth her arm to its full length. ‘Here are the letters D. R. burnt indelibly into your palm,’ he said. ‘What is the meaning of them?—You do not answer. I will answer for you.’ He let her hand drop with a gesture of contempt.
‘You are not Estelle Duplessis, the woman I made my wife at New Orleans. You are her twin-sister, of whom I remember having heard her speak, but whom I never saw till to-day. You are Catarina Riaz, the wife, or widow, of Don Diego Riaz, a gentleman who bred cattle in Mexico. When angered, Don Diego was not a courteous man to the ladies; at such times he treated them much after the fashion in which he treated his cattle. As an instance, when you ran away from home on a certain occasion, and were found and brought back by his servants, he caused you to be branded on the palm of your hand with the initials of his name, so that, should you ever run away again, all the world might know you were his property. Here the letters are to this day, never to be effaced. Catarina Riaz, you are a vile impostor!—I hear the noise of wheels. The carriage is at the door. Go!’
It was morning—the morning of the day following that on which the events related took place. The weather was hot and sunny, and on such a forenoon the lawn at Rosemount was a very pleasant place. In the veranda, in an ample easy-chair, sat Captain Bowood, spectacles on nose, deep in the Times. On the lawn itself, under the pleasant shade of an ancient elm, sat Mrs Bowood and Sir Frederick, the former busy with her crewels, the latter lazily cutting the pages of a review and skimming a paragraph here and there. To the extreme left, some distance from the others, and hidden from them by a thick clump of evergreens, sat Lady Dimsdale, making-believe to be repairing sundry rents in the frock of a large doll, which she held on her knee, but far more occupied with her own thoughts than with the work she had in hand. Close to her, and seated on a swing, suspended from a stout limb of a tree, was Master Tommy, a bright boy of nine, profoundly immersed in a new book of fairy tales, which Lady Dimsdale had that morning made him a present of.
‘Just listen to this, Aunty Laura,’ he said. She was always ‘Aunty Laura’ to the children.