“Oh, mother, you do not know what you are saying. It is some wretched, horrid dream! You have been too much alone. You have brooded over this thought of our differences. Children and parents are often unlike. At all events I have never known any other mother. You must live and let me prove a true daughter.”
“I did not think there could be any wrong then. If you were cast on the world friendless, why should I not fill my aching heart with baby love. Yes, you did love me then, you clung to me. I never thought of there being someone else—a father, perhaps—oh, heaven help us both!”
She had raised herself soon after she began to talk; now she fell back on the pillow fainting. Lilian was sobbing. Miss Arran came to her relief.
“I think we must have a physician. I will see Mrs. Barrington.”
The faint was of short duration. Miss Arran was strangely mystified. Was Mrs. Boyd’s talk an hallucination or some secret kept for years that must needs make its way out at last? Had she any right to repeat it on mere suspicion?
Mrs. Barrington sent for Dr. Kendricks at once. Then she went to Mrs. Boyd’s room. How very frail she looked.
“My poor child,” the lady said, “this is very hard for you, and I think you did not come in to dinner. Suppose you go down stairs for awhile?”
“Oh, no, I must stay here. Poor mother—”
“Lilian,” murmured the feeble voice and the thin hand wandered out as if for a clasp.
She took it, pressed it to her lips, her firm, warm cheek. Should she pray for life? Would not God send what was best? Oh, that she might have strength to accept it. She raised her eyes to Mrs. Barrington in entreaty. Oh, who was she so like at that moment?