Evil was in my mouth as I spoke: the devil's unction was on my tongue, and I could feel it draw my lips in a barely hidden, mocking smile. But there was no evil in Jim's heart, and by this grace I might yet be saved.
One path of thought that my mind had taken had caused me to wonder what kind of man Godwine Tarlton was before he took command of Our Eliza. The inkling had come to me that he might have been a puny man in his own eyes—his captaincy obtained by preferment—and not much more than that in other eyes. Was it thereafter that the rattle of sleet came into his voice, that his bearing grew princely, his eyes wintry blue, his smile terrifying? This would require no miracle of the devil. The vision of himself that a man sees in the mirror comes to be his real self, or else he goes mad. Men grow or change or deteriorate according to their self-opinion. Immense and unshakable conceit is only second to great achievement in winning public acclaim.
In these studies, I had Alan make an extensive—and expensive-inquiry. To do so, he had to engage several professional genealogists —some of them former underlings in the College of Heralds, others retired curates who had made a hobby of the strangely unchristian pursuit—who supplied pedigrees for burghers newly rich in trade. They were a pack of genteel liars, on the whole, but in this operation Alan demanded strict truth. Its purpose was to determine whether Lord Tarlton was of the inordinately high descent to which all ascribed him, and which he himself appeared to believe.
Compared to him—so I had often heard—the Hanovers were upstarts. The saying had become a catchword in London society, in the ear and out the mouth, and hence highly suspect in my mind. Still, I was somewhat astonished at the facts brought out in the search. Then a new problem rose—what use, if any, should I make of them? I had no real interest in them now that my curiosity was satisfied; I had taken not a grain of satisfaction in having my suspicions confirmed; the matter seemed to me completely irrelevant to future issues. Even so, they might prove useful as a weapon. In that case I could not afford to let them lie.
So I called at Lord Tarlton's town house, a redoubtable mansion on West Piccadilly. A footman informed me that his lordship was out, but expected to return within the hour. Then could I pay my addresses to either of his daughters, Mrs. Alford or Miss Eliza Tarlton? Leaving me in a sumptuous hall, he went straightway to see.
Presently he returned and showed me into a quite wonderful library, its shelves lined by books in many colored leathers, its chairs deep and luxurious, its oak fire blazing. In only a few minutes Sophia, clad very simply and strikingly in dark brown, came with great quietude into the room.
"What is your will with me, Mr. Blackburn?" she asked, white in the face.
"Isn't that a strange question to put to a visitor—at least a peculiar wording? I presume to ask because I'm unacquainted with the ways of polite society and desire to learn."
"Pray sit down." And when we were both seated, "No, I don't regard it as strange under the circumstances. I'm very anxious about the purpose of your call. What your will is in regard to me, as well as to others in our family, has become a question of great moment to me."
"Do you mean, what I want you to do?"
"Yes, and what will happen to us if we don't obey?"
"That's a surprising remark, too."
"Why should it surprise you, Mr. Blackburn? My father can't make it to you because he's too proud. He would have forbidden me to make it if he'd had any notion I would so humble myself; but women can humble themselves without great agony of soul if the consequences serve those whom they love. Yet my father, too, would give a great deal to know the answers I seek. And, by your pardon, I doubt if you're surprised. I believe you expected me to come out with it."
"How could I expect that?"
"By knowing me very well."
372
"How could I have known you very well?"
"That I can't answer."
"Do you mean you are unable to answer, or you could if you would?"
"Your using that expression—I could if I would—indicates you know me very well. That 'if was once a great issue in my life, the most consequential step—or misstep—I've ever taken hinged upon that. But that's aside from the main question."
"You must love your father very much."
"I don't dare refuse to reply to your remarks, no matter how personal. It may be you've already been told—long ago—how I regard my father; but I'll speak again. I love my husband very much. If my father falls, one of its worst effects on me would be my husband falling with him, which I fear would happen."
"You ask what is my will with you and your family, and what will happen if you don't obey it. What would be your opinion?"
"There are two possible answers to the first part—only two. One is that you want something—perhaps a large sum of money. My father wants to believe that's the case. The other is, that you intend to ruin him—perhaps destroy him utterly—because of some evil done to you or to those you love. That's what I believe."
"Blackmail or revenge?"
"It could be reparations instead of blackmail, and retribution instead of revenge."
"Are you interested in whether or not they are deserved?"
"No, sir, I'm not. Not now. I can't interest myself in that. Too much is at stake."
"Are you truly interested in who I am, whether a runaway from a Devon workhouse, or some other?"
She gazed a long time into the fire before she answered.
"I think of you not as a person but as a force. It's what you've become, whether you know it or not—if you can ever be a person again, it will be after all this is over. But you were once a person, although I try not to think who. If I knew for sure, it wouldn't help us—there could be nothing I could do about it—and it might weaken me. Because—if you were a certain person—the one that my heart tells me you were—I, too, did you a great wrong. So even if you tell me you were that person, I won't accept it as fact. It might be only part of your campaign."
"Do you mean Homer Whitman, from whom the little woodman brought you a message?"
"The little woodman was a ventriloquist."
"You haven't answered my question."
"And I must answer your questions—I'm afraid not to. Of course I mean Homer Whitman."
"Does Lord Tarlton believe I was ever he?"
"I've never asked him. I was careful not to. But he gave me his opinion anyway—or what he pretended was his opinion. He said you couldn't possibly be he. The confidential records of the Admiralty showed that the Vindictive went down with all hands. But perhaps he changed his mind after Holmes, that awful renegade, came here. It was the first time they had met since May, 1801—I heard him say so— and the ship was sunk in June, and Papa left Malta in July. Captain Holmes may have told him there were survivors. But if so, Papa was so triumphant over some turn of the affair that he didn't care who you were—perhaps he would be glad to have you be Homer whom I had loved—until, of course, you had the man killed. I think he's gone back to beliving you're a blackmailer, one of the greatest in history. You can ask him if you like. I've just heard him come in."
"Instead I'll repress my ill-mannered curiosity."
"Before he comes, I'll tell you something. You haven't won yet. Papa hasn't broken—he's a man of wonderful stamina and will power. Losing Holmes was a stunning blow, but he revived. He's also a terrible and cunning fighter. In a last-ditch fight it may be you who'll be destroyed, not he. Think of that before you press too hard. If he'll compromise, meet him halfway."
A moment later I heard the tap of his stick. A servant opened the door for him; he came in walking like an Indian. I could detect no deterioration in him. He answered my bow gravely and with grace.