What a change! To think that we should meet like this!" She dabbed her eyes with a crumpled, soiled lace pocket-handkerchief.
"I think you forget how we parted," he said, coldly.
"But are we not friends?"
"Friends!" he repeated, scornfully.
"You are not kind to one you have known so long. You don't appear glad to see me." There was something sickening about her fawning, false manner.
"I am not glad to see you."
"You don't ask me how I am." She passed over his look of contempt for her, and added, "You don't ask after Regine—no, nor Alexis; he has grown quite a man, has Alexis. You don't know how useful he is to me. Perhaps I should not have seen you now but for Alexis."
"And your husband?" She trembled a little—the blood rushed to her face and heightened her rouge.
"Dominique is in Paris. He is not well; he is confined to his room; he is no longer so young as he has been. He is often ill now, and unable to go out, or he would be here now."
"And now, tell me—you have found me—I am here in consequence of your request,—What is your wish?"
"We are not to be friends, then? You seek to quarrel with me."
"What is it you want?" he said, harshly. Her manner changed—it became more brusque and abrupt. They had been standing hitherto.
"Let us sit down," she said. "Perhaps our conversation may be of some length. You desire to know why I sent to you?" He signified assent. "Well, it will not be hard to explain that to you—it would not be difficult for you, perhaps, to discover the reason without any explanation. Look around you—you see where we are living—you see the sort of neighbourhood—the position we occupy—our manner of life. Is it the sort of sphere in which I ought to move, or Regine, or Alexis?"
"I have known you in a humbler one," he remarked. The words angered her. "You were not always Madame Boisfleury nor even Pichot. You are English born—of obscure parents. Years ago, when you were—"
"Enough!" she cried, almost fiercely. "Is it a fit position for Alexis—for Regine? Do you know what she is doing to earn her livelihood? Do you know to what an occupation she has been compelled to stoop?"
She tossed over a thin printed paper which she took from the mantel-shelf. He glanced at the paper, then folded it, and put it in his pocket.
"I am glad it is even so honest as this," he said, calmly; "for, after all, this may be honest."
His quiet manner, whether genuine or affected, ruffled the woman.
"If you will not gather my object from what I have said already, if you will not guess it by the aid of your memory as to what has happened in the past, I will tell you my meaning in plain words." She struck the table smartly with her closed hand. "I want money."
"I imagined as much."
"And I will have it."
"You will not. For a sufficient reason—I have none. Years ago I gave all I had. You may remember the conditions—my presence here, at your request, is a breach of them."
"You have been unmolested for a long while; application would not be made to you now were it not inevitable. I am in debt. I am much in want of money. I am speaking only in my own name, but I might comprise others in my remarks—money must be had. To whom should I apply for it, if not to you?"
"You misunderstand my position. You are unacquainted with the plain facts of the case."
"Pardon me, that is not so."
"The situation of the Wilford Hadfield whom you knew years ago, and of the man who now stands before you, are widely different."
"Pardon me, I say again. Perhaps I am better acquainted with the real facts of the case than you think. Your father is dead. He died nearly three years ago. I saw the notice in the newspapers. By his death—"
"By his death I was not—am not—one sou the richer."
"I know it, Mr. Wilford; he bequeathed the whole of his property to his younger son, and cast you off. Why,—you best know."
"Then with these facts before you—though how you became acquainted with them I know not—"
"Bah!" she interrupted, rudely, "there need be no mystery in the matter on my part. Wills can be read at Doctors' Commons for a shilling; and to make sure, I travelled down to Grilling Abbots."
"You did?" he cried, frowning.
"I did. Why should I not? Is not the place free to all the world? There are no passports in this country. What was to hinder my going there—with Alexis, my son—to stop at the George Inn, for a little holiday and change of air? Who was to recognise me? I was not there as Madame Pichot; nor Madame Boisfleury neither, for that matter. Why should I not go to see all the show places in the neighbourhood—the castle at Mowle, the druidical remains at Chingley, the Norman church at Grilling Abbots—yes, and the picture gallery at the Grange?"
What a hateful sneer was on her face as she ran through this list!
"You went to the Grange?"
"Yes. Why not? Mr. Stephen Hadfield is liberal; he throws open his house for inspection two days in the week, the visitor producing his card, or procuring a ticket from Mr. Joyce of the George Inn. Why should I not go over the Grange? Though I knew every inch of it years ago; many years now. Well, the people talk in that neighbourhood just as much as they used to talk in the old time. The servants talk at the Grange, the frequenters of the George talk, all Grilling Abbots talks. I soon learnt that you had been disinherited."
"Well, did not that satisfy you?"
But she did not heed the question.
"And I learnt that Mr. Stephen was master of the Grange, and I saw him often about the place, with his wife and children—quite a family party.