A great contentment settled on his soul.
He would get on with his pictures, and the old past would fade. There would be no ghosts this time, and after a time the new Lady Reckavile would presume him dead, perhaps marry again, it was all one to him.
The soft night air played about them, and only the sound of some night insect came from the garden.
All at once his attention was rivetted by the sight of what Carlotta was sewing. Half consciously he looked at it, wondering at first, and then his mind became focussed, and he could not take his eyes from the little garment. Slowly realisation came, and a wave of mixed emotion swept over him. Horror, exaltation, pity and regret were equally blended.
In a hushed voice he said “Little Daphne, what are you working at?”
Her face sunk down over her work, and a crimson like a sunset dyed her neck.
“Can’t you guess?” she whispered. “I could not tell you.”
A tumult of many waters went over him. What did this mean? He knew of course, what she was telling him, there was no doubt of that, but what in God’s name was to be the outcome now.
The line he had sworn to end, with its Curse and madness. And the child. What of that? By all the laws of God and man this was the heir, and why should he be kept from his title? What right had he to say that this should be plain Desmond, when he should be Reckavile. He was dumb, and rose and fled into the night without a word. Here he paced the rose garden wrestling with his thoughts. Cursed fool! He had never thought, never realised.
And that farce in London, if he had only known before. Oh God! talk about honour, where was the honour in giving his name to a woman who had sought trouble with her eyes open, when he had betrayed an innocent child unborn, and sold his birthright for a freakish principle. Well, he need not decide now, sufficient for the day; that was the old motto. Anything might happen. And then a sudden realisation of what Carlotta must be feeling struck him like a blow, and he turned to the loggia.