And the girl, pressed against his knee, with face
hidden, gave him no help. Impossible to keep it from her, now that her
instinct was roused! Silence, too, would answer for him. And clenching
his hand on the arm of his chair, he said:
"Yes, Gyp; your mother and I loved each other." He felt a quiver go
through her, would have given much to see her face. What, even now, did
she understand? Well, it must be gone through with, and he said:
"What made you ask?"
She shook her head and murmured:
"I'm glad."
Grief, shock, even surprise would have roused all his loyalty to the
dead, all the old stubborn bitterness, and he would have frozen up
against her. But this acquiescent murmur made him long to smooth it
down.
"Nobody has ever known. She died when you were born. It was a fearful
grief to me. If you've heard anything, it's just gossip, because you go
by my name. Your mother was never talked about. But it's best you should
know, now you're grown up. People don't often love as she and I loved.
You needn't be ashamed."
She had not moved, and her face was still turned from him. She said
quietly:
"I'm not ashamed. Am I very like her?"
"Yes; more than I could ever have hoped."
Very low she said:
"Then you don't love me for myself?"
Winton was but dimly conscious of how that question revealed her
nature, its power of piercing instinctively to the heart of things, its
sensitive pride, and demand for utter and exclusive love.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38