Mrs. Judson drew a small embroidered portfolio from her pocket, and springing the gold clasp, took from among other documents a copy of the letter which Jane Kelly had found in the prayer-book, and which so long after had reached Louis De Marke.
Mrs. Oakley reached forth her hand with an effort, and nerved herself to read the letter through. Her face grew paler and paler as she proceeded; the tears crowded to her eyes, and spite of all her efforts, the letter quivered like a dry leaf in her grasp. At last she looked sadly up at her mother.
“And did they both die with his name upon their lips?”
“It is the usual infatuation,” answered Mrs. Judson, bitterly, but evading the direct question.
“But the child, poor Louisa’s child, what became of that?”
Spite of her self-command, Mrs. Judson shrunk from the question. She had never inquired regarding this child, and a sensation of shame crept over her as she admitted the fact.
“Then you do not know if it is dead or living?” inquired Mrs. Oakley, in a low, grave voice, which fell upon the proud woman’s ear like a rebuke, which she was instantly ready to resent.
“Did you expect me to drag proofs of our own disgrace before the world, Mrs. Townsend Oakley?”
The widow arose, her cheeks flushed and her lips quivering.
“I will search for this child. If it is alive, God will permit me to make atonement,” she said, gently.