"You must not misunderstand me here. I have the warmest respect and regard for Farmer Paine. I believe he is not here this afternoon. But, if he were, he would, I am certain, agree with me in admitting that there are, and that there must be, differences in birth and in position; and that those differences are apt to tell against happiness in married life. Farmer Paine is a better and nobler man than many a one in a higher social position. That, however, does not touch the question. My brother's marriage was, in my opinion, a grave mistake."
"Such considerations and others also weighed with me; and I decided— wrongly, as I see now—to insist on continued secrecy. The widow was left in extremely straitened circumstances. I made it my condition of helping her that she should remain in retirement, and that nothing should be said. She agreed to all that I proposed; and she has since carried out loyally all that she undertook to do."
"I do not suppose that she had any clear idea at the time of all that would be involved in this plan; and certainly I had not. But I cannot offer ignorance as any excuse for myself. If I did not realise, I ought to have done so. Nothing can be worse than to plunge headlong, not realising, into a course of deceit and wrong. And that was what I did."
"My little niece, Katherine, I adopted; and she has been to me since as a daughter."
"There were two other little girls and one boy. The boy, as my heir, I have kept as much as I could away from his own people, that he might be brought up in a manner suitable to his future position. This I believe to have been, on the whole, wise and necessary—yet it has been hard upon his mother."
"I have always hoped and intended that matters should continue thus through my own life. But of late it has been strongly impressed on my mind that the facts ought to be known, that my brother's wife and children have a right to open acknowledgment. It has been hard work, as you will believe, to make up my mind to speak. But having so resolved, all I can do is frankly to confess the whole. I trust that all who in any way have suffered through this long silence will pardon me, even as I hope to be forgiven by One above, Whom most sorely I have wronged."
He spoke haltingly, as if the words were difficult to utter; and then, with a slight turn, he laid a hand on Dick's arm.
"This is my nephew, the only son of my dear brother. His name is Richard Raye Maurice Stirling. Till to-day he was not aware of his parentage, or of his true surname. Now he knows! I present to you all— my heir!"
Dick stood, pale and grave, facing the throng of curious faces, without a word. Dead silence followed, broken only by subdued whispers. The Squire, having made his statement, remained upright, dignified and calm, gazing down upon his audience with a singular detachment of expression, as if he had little to do with them. Some present noted a look of intense relief, almost amounting to gladness, as of one who had just parted with a heavy burden.
No one knew what to say, or how to meet the situation. It was a perplexing position to handle on the spur of the moment.