‘How should you be?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Didn’t I take you over with the mother when I married her at York? The widow Conlan, she was then, and you her only child.’
‘Conlan is my name then?’
‘By rights, yes; but you’ve took that of Larkins now, and you are a credit to it; so you may take it for what it’s worth, and keep it till you can find a better.’
Was there ever a chance of that? Was he really a Farrington after all, and might he yet prove his claims? Of this no one could give him a clue but Mrs. Larkins, and he gathered from her manner that the subject was one which she would only discuss when they were alone. He had no chance that time of speaking to her on this the subject nearest his heart. The rest of the evening was spent in the interchange of personal news, as is the case when friends and relatives meet after a long separation, and there is so much on both sides to tell and hear.
But Herbert went to the cottage next day. The sergeant, fortunately, was at the barrack-office; Mimie was out of the way, and Mrs. Larkins had the house all to herself.
‘I want to know all you can tell me, mother. Is it not natural? To whom else should I come? For you are my mother, are you not?’
‘No mother could feel more warmly for her child than I do for you, Hercules.’
‘Do but tell me, plainly—I am really your son?’
Mrs. Larkins was silent.
‘It is cruel to keep me in this suspense, mother,—for you have been one to me always. I implore you to tell me the whole truth.’