"Not till weeks and months had passed," she said, "not till it was too late. I was ill at the time. When my mind got clear again, I began to suspect one particular person--little by little, you know; noticing trifles, and thinking about them afterwards." She stopped, evidently restraining herself on the point of saying more.
Amelius tried to lead her on. "Did you suspect the person--?" he began.
"I suspected him of casting the child helpless on the world!" Mrs. Farnaby interposed, with a sudden burst of fury. "Don't ask me any more about it, or I shall break out and shock you!" She clenched her fists as she said the words. "It's well for that man," she muttered between her teeth, "that I have never got beyond suspecting, and never found out the truth! Why did you turn my mind that way? You shouldn't have done it. Help me back again to what we were saying a minute ago. You made some objection; you said--?"
"I said," Amelius reminded her, "that, even if I did meet with the missing girl, I couldn't possibly know it. And I must say more than that--I don't see how you yourself could be sure of recognizing her, if she stood before you at this moment."
He spoke very gently, fearing to irritate her. She showed no sign of irritation--she looked at him, and listened to him, attentively.
"Are you setting a trap for me?" she asked. "No!" she cried, before Amelius could answer, "I am not mean enough to distrust you--I forgot myself. You have innocently said something that rankles in my mind. I can't leave it where you have left it; I don't like to be told that I shouldn't recognize her. Give me time to think. I must clear this up."
She consulted her own thoughts, keeping her eyes fixed on Amelius.
"I am going to speak plainly," she announced, with a sudden appearance of resolution. "Listen to this. When I banged to the door of that big cupboard of mine, it was because I didn't want you to see something on the shelves. Did you see anything in spite of me?"
The question was not an easy one to answer. Amelius hesitated. Mrs. Farnaby insisted on a reply.
"Did you see anything?" she reiterated
Amelius owned that he had seen something.
She turned away from him, and looked into the fire. Her firm full tones sank so low, when she spoke next, that he could barely hear them.
"Was it something belonging to a child?"
"Yes."
"Was it a baby's frock and cap? Answer me. We have gone too far to go back. I don't want apologies or explanations--I want, Yes or No."
"Yes."
There was an interval of silence. She never moved; she still looked into fire--looked, as if all her past life was pictured there in the burning coals.
"Do you despise me?" she asked at last, very quietly.
"As God hears me, I am only sorry for you!" Amelius answered.
Another woman would have melted into tears. This woman still looked into the fire--and that was all. "What a good fellow!" she said to herself, "what a good fellow he is!"
There was another pause. She turned towards him again as abruptly as she had turned away.
"I had hoped to spare you, and to spare myself," she said. "If the miserable truth has come out, it is through no curiosity of yours, and (God knows!) against every wish of mine. I don't know if you really felt like a friend towards me before--you must be my friend now. Don't speak! I know I can trust you. One last word, Amelius, about my lost child. You doubt whether I should recognize her, if she stood before me now. That might be quite true, if I had only my own poor hopes and anxieties to guide me. But I have something else to guide me--and, after what has passed between us, you may as well know what it is: it might even, by accident, guide you. Don't alarm yourself; it's nothing distressing this time. How can I explain it?" she went on; pausing, and speaking in some perplexity to herself. "It would be easier to show it--and why not?" She addressed herself to Amelius once more. "I'm a strange creature," she resumed. "First, I worry you about my own affairs--then I puzzle you--then I make you sorry for me--and now (would you think it?) I am going to amuse you! Amelius, are you an admirer of pretty feet?"
Amelius had heard of men (in books) who had found reason to doubt whether their own ears were not deceiving them. For the first time, he began to understand those men, and to sympathize with them. He admitted, in a certain bewildered way, that he was an admirer of pretty feet--and waited for what was to come next.
"When a woman has a pretty hand," Mrs. Farnaby proceeded; "she is ready enough to show it. When she goes out to a ball, she favours you with a view of her bosom, and a part of her back. Now tell me! If there is no impropriety in a naked bosom--where is the impropriety in a naked foot?"
Amelius agreed, like a man in a dream.
"Where, indeed!" he remarked--and waited again for what was to come next.
"Look out of the window," said Mrs. Farnaby.
Amelius obeyed. The window had been opened for a few inches at the top, no doubt to ventilate the room. The dull view of the courtyard was varied by the stables at the farther end, and by the kitchen skylight rising in the middle of the open space. As Amelius looked out, he observed that some person at that moment in the kitchen required apparently a large supply of fresh air. The swinging window, on the side of the skylight which was nearest to him, was invisibly and noiselessly pulled open from below; the similar window, on the other side, being already wide open also. Judging by appearance, the inhabitants of the kitchen possessed a merit which is exceedingly rare among domestic servants--they understood the laws of ventilation, and appreciated the blessing of fresh air.
"That will do," said Mrs. Farnaby. "You can turn round now."
Amelius turned. Mrs. Farnaby's boots and stockings were on the hearthrug, and one of Mrs. Farnaby's feet was placed, ready for inspection, on the chair which he had just left. "Look at my right foot first," she said, speaking gravely and composedly in her ordinary tone.
It was well worth looking at--a foot equally beautiful in form and in colour: the instep arched and high, the ankle at once delicate and strong, the toes tinged with rose-colour at the tips. In brief, it was a foot to be photographed, to be cast in plaster, to be fondled and kissed. Amelius attempted to express his admiration, but was not allowed to get beyond the first two or three words. "No," Mrs. Farnaby explained, "this is not vanity--simply information. You have seen my right foot; and you have noticed that there is nothing the matter with it. Very well. Now look at my left foot."
She put her left foot up on the chair. "Look between the third toe and the fourth," she said.
Following his instructions, Amelius discovered that the beauty of the foot was spoilt, in this case, by a singular defect. The two toes were bound together by a flexible web, or membrane, which held them to each other as high as the insertion of the nail on either side.
"Do you wonder," Mrs.