There was but one way of answering her.
It was far from easy to a man like myself, unaccustomed to state

circumstances in their proper order--but I had no other choice
than to reply, by telling the long story of the theft and

discovery of the Rector's papers. So far as Father Benwell was
concerned, the narrative only confirmed her suspicions. For the

rest, the circumstances which most interested her were the
circumstances associated with the French boy.

"Anything connected with that poor creature, " she said, "has a
dreadful interest for me now."

"Did you know him?" I asked, with some surprise.
"I knew him and his mother--you shall hear how, at another time.

I suppose I felt a presentiment that the boy would have some evil
influence over me. At any rate, when I accidentally touched him,

I trembled as if I had touched a serpent. You will think me
superstitious--but, after what you have said, it is certainly

true that he has been the indirect cause of the misfortune that
has fallen on me. How came he to steal the papers? Did you ask

the Rector, when you went to Belhaven?"
"I asked the Rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell

me all that he knew of the theft."
She drew her chair nearer to me. "Let me hear every word of it!"

she pleaded eagerly.
I felt some reluctance to comply with the request.

"Is it not fit for me to hear?" she asked.
This forced me to be plain with her. "If I repeat what the Rector

told me," I said, "I must speak of my wife."
She took my hand. "You have pitied and forgiven" target="_blank" title="forgive的过去分词">forgiven her," she

answered. "Speak of her, Bernard--and don't, for God's sake,
think that my heart is harder than yours."

I kissed the hand that she had given to me--even her "brother"
might do that!

"It began," I said, "in the gratefulattachment which the boy
felt for my wife. He refused to leave her bedside on the day when

she dictated her confession" target="_blank" title="n.招供；认错；交待">confession to the Rector. As he was entirely
ignorant of the English language, there seemed to be no objection

to letting him have his own way. He became inquisitive as the
writing went on. His questions annoyed the Rector--and as the

easiest way of satisfying his curiosity, my wife told him that
she was making her will. He knew just enough, from what he had

heard at various times, to associate making a will with gifts of
money--and the pretended explanation silenced and satisfied him."

"Did the Rector understand it?" Stella asked.
"Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although he was

not ready at speaking French, he could read the language, and
could fairly well understand it, when it was spoken. After my

wife's death, he kindly placed the boy, for a few days, under the
care of his housekeeper. Her early life had been passed in the

island of Martinique, and she was able to communicate with the
friendless foreigner in his own language. When he disappeared,

she was the only person who could throw any light on his motive
for stealing the papers. On the day when he entered the house,

she caught him peeping through the keyhole of the study door. He
must have seen where the confession" target="_blank" title="n.招供；认错；交待">confession was placed, and the color of

the old-fashioned blue paper, on which it was written, would help
him to identify it. The next morning, during the Rector's

absence, he brought the manuscript to the housekeeper, and asked
her to translate it into French, so that he might know how much

money was left to him in "the will." She severely reproved him,
made him replace the paper in the desk from which he had taken

it, and threatened to tell the Rector if his misconduct was
repeated. He promised amendment, and the good-natured woman

believed him. On that evening the papers were sealed, and locked
up. In the morning the lock was found broken, and the papers and

the boy were both missing together."
"Do you think he showed the confession" target="_blank" title="n.招供；认错；交待">confession to any other person?"

Stella asked. "I happen to know that he concealed it from his
mother."

"After the housekeeper's reproof," I replied, "he would be
cunning enough, in my opinion, not to run the risk of showing it

to strangers. It is far more likely that he thought he might
learn English enough to read it himself."

There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She was
thinking, and I was looking at her. On a sudden, she raised her

head. Her eyes rested on me gravely.
"It is very strange!" she said

"What is strange?"
"I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged me to doubt

you. They advised me to be silent about what happened at
Brussels. And they too are concerned in my husband's desertion of

me. He first met Father Benwell at their house." Her head drooped
again; her next words were murmured to herself. "I am still a

young woman," she said. "Oh, God, what is my future to be?"
This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that

she had dear and devoted friends.
"Not one," she answered, "but you."

"Have you not seen Lady Loring?" I asked.
"She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me to

make their house my home. I have no right to blame them--they
meant well. But after what has happened, I can't go back to

them."
"I am sorry to hear it," I said.

"Are you thinking of the Lorings?" she asked.
"I don't even know the Lorings. I can think of nobody but you."

I was still looking at her--and I am afraid my eyes said more
than my words. If she had doubted it before, she must have now

known that I was as fond of her as ever. She looked distressed
rather than confused. I made an awkward attempt to set myself

right.
"Surely your brother may speak plainly," I pleaded.

She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to go--with a
friendly word, intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my

pardon for that time. "Will you come and see us to-morrow?" she
said. "Can you forgive my mother as generously as you have

forgiven" target="_blank" title="forgive的过去分词">forgiven me? I will take care, Bernard, that she does you justice
at last."

She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply? If I had
been a resolute man, I might have remembered that it would be

best for me not to see too much of her. But I am a poor weak
creature--I accepted her invitation for the next day.

January 30.--I have just returned from my visit.
My thoughts are in a state of indescribableconflict and

confusion--and her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not
gone to the house. Am I a bad man, I wonder? and have I only

found it out now?
Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in.

Judging by the easy manner in which she got up to receive me, the
misfortune that has befallen her daughter seemed to have produced

no sobering change in this frivolous woman.
"My dear Winterfield," she began, "I have behaved infamously. I

won't say that appearances were against you at Brussels--I will
only say I ought not to have trusted to appearances. You are the

injured person; please forgive me. Shall we go on with the
subject? or shall we shake hands, and say no more about it?"

I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was