“And what of him?” The voice in which this question was asked had grown so husky, that the listener could scarcely hear it.
“Listen to me,” was the answer. “I have no human being, except yourself, from whom it is possible for me to seek advice: and my position is a terrible one. You are not like a stranger to me, I can trust you.”
“Yes, you may trust me,” said Catharine, in a low, firm voice, “I will deal honestly by you.”
“Look at this boy. Is he not beautiful? His eyes, his mouth, his every movement, can anything be more frank?”
“He is lovely. No angel could be more innocent.”
“And yet that boy’s father, his own father, remember! with a brow as open, an eye as frank, a lip always smiling, that boy’s father is—oh! my God that I should live to say it—is a traitor—a—a—”
The poor lady broke off, closing the last words in bitter sobs. Her clasped hands unlocked, and she buried her face in them, trembling from head to foot, and weeping bitterly.
“You may wrong him,” said Catharine, faintly.
“No, it is all too clear,” answered Mrs. Oakley, shaking her head mournfully; “his mother was poor Oakley’s sister. You saw her, she called herself by his name; it was Oakley, not De Marke, that she called herself; are you sure of that? Oh! it would be something to believe that he married her.”
Catharine stood by a sofa. She sunk slowly down among the cushions, breathless and aghast.