“Listen,” said he. Then he read.
“Isabel Purvis.—Hiding from the police for the abandonment and attempted murder of her child. Repentant, and desirous of gaining an honest livelihood. The daughter of Satan discovers her—she pretends friendship, worms from her the relation of her crime, threatens to hand her over to justice if she refuses to obey her, and to destroy her.”
Mrs. Grover groaned.
“Yes, yes!” she ejaculated; “all this is but too true—every word of it. How could it have become known to you?”
“That is my business,” said he, turning to another page.
“Alfred Purvis runs away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and sells birds’ nests in London. The fiend finds him in a low lodging-house in Westminster, takes him to her den, depraves his mind by slow degrees, teaches him to cheat, places him under a notorious thief, sends Mrs. Grover upon the streets because she, warned by the instincts of a mother’s love——”
“I did not know at that time that he was my son,” cried the miserable woman.
“Possibly not. Indeed it is certain you did not; but listen. Alfred Purvis was placed under the care of Mr. Jamblin—he ran away to London. In different hands he might have been a credit to his relatives—I say he might—it is not certain—but he might; but under an obstinate agriculturist he became mischievous, and under a fiend——”
“Why do you not continue?” exclaimed the woman. “There is more writing on the page. Go on. Pray go on. I can bear it—indeed I can. I am quite calm, as you see.”
He closed the book, she sprang towards him with a yell, but his eyes repelled her; it was not because they were stern—it was because they were so sorrowful. She crept back from him.