A deep flush spread itself over the Squire's face. He sat down suddenly; and Maurice saw the shaking hands, the trembling underlip. He took a seat himself, unasked, and made an effort to speak calmly.
"I am sorry to distress you, but I can put off no longer. Things cannot go on like this. I must know more. One fact you have made clear to me. That is, that the man who married my mother was a cad at heart, though he may have been a gentleman by birth. How, otherwise, could he have visited his own weakness upon a woman—his wife!"
"You are speaking of your father—remember!"
"No father to be proud of!"
"He was good to her, I believe,—always—"
"I don't call that being good to her."
"It is not possible for you—knowing so little—to estimate his position. You pass judgment, not understanding."
"I hope I know the duty of a husband to his wife. To marry—and then be too much of a coward to acknowledge what he had done! Abominable!" After a pause, Maurice went on—"When he died, why did she not speak out? What possible cause could there have been then, for silence?" He turned upon the Squire. "Why have you insisted on this silence— made her income depend upon secrecy?"
"I am not able to explain fully. There were reasons!"
"I dare say! For the sake of his grand connections—no doubt!" Maurice all but gave expression to the thought which flamed up—"Perhaps you are one of them!" But the deep flush had come again, mounting to Mr. Stirling's forehead, and he held both hands there, murmuring with evident pain and difficulty—