“What’s become of him?” asked John Cairns, suddenly.
“Hubert died years and years ago, father.”
“And you never had any children?” asked the old farmer, with interest.
“One I had, and I—lost her.” Marian paused, seeming to consider. “Yes, it’s true—I lost her. But she didn’t die. I’d best be open with you all. I gave her away.”
“Gave her away?” Jervis roused himself to utter. “Your own child?”
“Yes—my own child! I don’t know how ever I could,” Marian said mournfully. “You can’t despise me more than I despise myself; Jervis—so you may say what you will. I knew it was wrong then, and I know it better now. But I’d been in bad health, and a quack doctor, who was said to be clever, told me I was soon to die; and I had nowhere to leave my child. I couldn’t take her to William, and let him bring her up. I loved her too well for that—and Hubert had made me promise faithfully that I’d keep her from my own relations. I had no business to make the promise, but I did. So I couldn’t bring her here either.”
“Ay, ay, he had plenty of pride, if he had nought else to boast of,” said John Cairns.
“Yes it was pride, of course. But I suppose we are all proud, one way and another. I was proud of him, and proud of his grand relations, even though they wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I thought perhaps they might some day, and that’s why I was willing to give the promise.”
“And you gave your child away?” Jervis repeated, incredulously.
Marian dropped her head, in utter shamefacedness. “It’s true,” she said. “I would cut off my right hand, now, to live that time over again; but the past can’t be undone. I left her in the way of one who I thought would have pity, and I wrote a letter and took myself off. I knew I was doing wrongly; but it wasn’t till later that the evil and meanness of it all came back to me.”