Part 41

"No," said Hermione. "You are wrong, aunt Annie; it is an abominable lie."

"I tell you I know it is true," retorted her aunt, still whispering, but emphasizing every word with the greatest decision. "If you do not believe it, go to him and say, 'Paul, where is your brother?' and you will see how he will look."

"I will. I will ask him, and I will tell you what he says."

"He murdered him, Hermione," continued Madame Patoff, not heeding the interruption. "He murdered him in Constantinople,--he and a Turkish soldier whom he hired. And now he has come here to marry you. He thinks I am mad--he is the worst man that ever lived. You must never see him again. There is blood on his hands--blood, do you hear? Rather than that you should love him, I will tell them all that I am a sane woman. I will confess that I have imposed upon them in order to be alone, to die in peace, or, while I live to mourn for my poor murdered boy,--the boy I loved. Oh how I loved him!"

This time her tears could not be controlled, and at the thought of Alexander she sobbed again, as she had sobbed before. Hermione was too much astonished and altogether thrown off her mental balance to know what to do. Her amazement at discovering that her aunt had for more than a year imposed upon Professor Cutter and upon the whole household was almost obliterated in the horror inspired by Madame Patoff's words. There was a conviction in her way of speaking which terrified Hermione, and for a moment she was completely unnerved.

Meanwhile, Madame Patoff's tears ceased again. In the strange deception she had practiced upon all around her for so long, she had acquired an extraordinary command of her features and voice. It was only Hermione's discovery which had thrown her off her guard, and once feeling that the girl knew her secret, she had perhaps enjoyed the luxury of tears and of expressed emotion. But this stage being past, she regained her self-control. She had meditated so long on the death of her eldest son that the mention of his name had ceased to affect her, and though she had been betrayed into recognizing Paul, she had cleverly resumed her play of apathetic indifference so soon as he had left her. Had Hermione known of the early stages which had led to her present state, she would have asked herself how Madame Patoff could have suddenly begun to act her part so well as to deceive even Professor Cutter from the first. But Hermione knew nothing of all those details. She only realized that her aunt was a perfectly sane woman, and that she had fully confirmed the fearful accusation against Paul.

"Go now, my child," said Madame Patoff. "Remember your promise. Remember that I am a wretched old woman, come here to be left alone, to die. Remember what I have told you, and beware of being deceived. You love a murderer--a murderer--remember that."

Hermione stood a moment and gazed at her aunt's face, grown calm and almost beautiful again. Her tears had left no trace, her thick gray hair was as smooth as ever, her great dark eyes were deep and full of light. Then, without another word, the young girl turned away and left the room, closing the door behind her, and nodding a good-night to Mrs. North, who sat by her lamp in the outer room, gray and watchful as ever.

If her aunt was sane, was she human? The question suggested itself to Hermione's brain as she walked along the passage; but she had not time to frame an answer. As she went out into the hall she saw Paul standing by the huge carved, fireplace, his back turned towards her, his tall figure thrown into high relief by the leaping flames. She went up to him, and as he heard her step he started and faced her. He had finished his cigar with us, and was about to go quietly to his room in search of solitude, when he had paused by the hall fire. His face was very sad as he looked up.

"Paul," said the young girl, taking both his hands and looking into his eyes, "I believe in you,--you could not do anything wrong. People would never suspect you if you answered them, if you would only take the trouble to defend yourself."

"Defend myself?" repeated Paul. "Against what, Hermione?"

"When people say, 'Where is your brother?'--or mean to say it, as aunt Chrysophrasia did this evening,--you ought to answer; you ought not to turn pale and be silent."

"You too!" groaned the unhappy man, looking into her eyes. "You too, my darling! Ah, no! It is too much." He dropped her hands, and turned again, leaning on the chimney-piece.

"How can you think I believe it? Oh, Paul! how unkind!" exclaimed Hermione, clasping her hands upon his shoulder, and trying to look at his averted face. "I never, never believed it, dear. But no one else must believe it either; you must make them not believe it."

"My dearest," said Paul, almost sternly, but not unkindly, "this thing has pursued me for a long time. I thought it was dead. It has come between you and me on the very day of our happiness. You say you believe in me. I say you shall not believe in me without proof. Good-by, love,--good-by!"

He drew her to him and kissed her once; then he tried to go.

"Paul," she cried, holding him, "where are you going?" She was terrified by his manner.

"I am going away," he said slowly. "I will find my brother, or his body, and I will not come back until then."

"But you must not go! I cannot bear to let you go!" she cried, in agonized tones.

"You must," he answered, and the color left his cheeks. "You cannot marry a man who is suspected. Good-by, my beloved!"

Once more he kissed her, and then he turned quickly away and left the hall. Hermione stood still one moment, staring at his retreating figure. Then she sank into the deep chair by the side of the great fire and burst into tears. She had good cause for sorrow, for she had sent Paul Patoff away, she knew not whither. She had not even the satisfaction of feeling that she had been quite right in speaking to him as she had spoken, and above all she feared lest he should believe, in spite of her words, that in her own mind there was some shadow of suspicion left. But he was gone. He would probably leave the house early in the morning, and she might never see him again. What could she do but let her tears flow down as freely as they could?

Late at night I sat in my room, reading by the light of the candles, and watching the fire as it gradually died away in the grate. It was very late, and I was beginning to think of going to bed, when some one knocked at the door. It was Paul Patoff. I was very much surprised to see him, and I suppose my face showed it, for he apologized for the intrusion.

"Excuse me," he said. "It is very late, but could you spare me half an hour before going to bed?"

"Certainly," I answered, noticing his pallor, and fancying that something had happened.

"Thank you," said he. "I believe I have heard you say that you know Constantinople very well?"

"Tolerably well--yes. I know many of the natives. I have been there very often."

"I am going back there," said Patoff. "They sent me to Persia for a year and more, and now I am to return to my old post. I want to ask your advice about a very delicate matter. You know--or perhaps you do not know--that my brother disappeared in Stamboul, a year ago last summer, under very strange circumstances. I did all I could to find him, and the ambassador did more. But we never discovered any trace of him. I have made up my mind that I will not be disappointed this time."

"Could you tell me any of the details?" I asked.