"And there is no tittle of evidence to make any one think so. But in her early youth, when she was quite a child, she was given in marriage to a man—to a man of whom it is impossible to speak in terms too black, or in language too strong. And now, this day—"
But here he paused. It had been his intention to say that that very man, the first husband of this loved mother now looked upon as dead for so many years, this miscreant of whom he had spoken—that this man had been in that room that very day. But he hardly knew how to frame the words.
"Well," said Herbert, "well;" and he spoke in a hoarse voice that was scarcely audible.
Mr. Prendergast was afraid to bring out the very pith of his story in so abrupt a manner. He wished to have the work over, to feel, that as regarded Herbert it was done,—but his heart failed him when he came to it.
"Yes," he said, going back as it were to his former thoughts. "A heartless, cruel, debauched, unscrupulous man; one in whose bosom no good thing seemed to have been implanted. Your father, when he first knew your mother, had every reason to believe that this man was dead."
"And he was not dead?" Mr. Prendergast could see that the young man's face became perfectly pale as he uttered these words. He became pale, and clutched hold of the table with his hand, and there sat with mouth open and staring eyes.
"I am afraid not," said Mr. Prendergast; "I am afraid not."
"And—"
"I must go further than that, and tell you that he is still living."
"Mr. Prendergast, Mr. Prendergast!" exclaimed the poor fellow, rising up from his chair and shouting out as though for mercy. Mr. Prendergast also rose from his seat, and coming up to him took him by the arm. "My dear boy, my dear boy, I am obliged to tell you. It is necessary that you should know it. The fact is as I say, and it is now for you to show that you are a man."