Lord Clare did not touch the fruit, but fell slowly back on the cushion with his great burning eyes upon my face.
“Turner,” he said at last, sitting upright and speaking in quick gasps—“Turner, what is this? Who is she?”
“I do not know,” answered the old man, “we found her on the door-step years ago. Be tranquil, Master Clarence. If she is the one we have sought for, there is no proof but those eyes—that face.”
Lord Clare reached out his arms, and tears smothered the painful gaze of his eyes.
“Aurora,” he said, in a voice of such tenderness that my tears followed it, “forgive me before I die.”
Turner clasped his hands and held them up toward heaven, trembling like withered leaves, while tears rolled silently down his cheeks.
“You know, Master Clarence, it cannot be herself.”
Lord Clare turned his eyes from me to Turner, then lifting one pale hand up to his forehead, he settled it over his eyes, and directly great drops came starting from between the fingers. A feeble shudder passed over his frame, and he murmured plaintively, “No, it is her child, our child. But where is she?”
“I never learned,” answered Turner, sadly.
“Ask her, I cannot.”