“And the child?” eagerly. “My grandson, my heir!”
“You remember the great ball you gave last June?”
“Of course—of course,” irritably. “It will not be forgotten in a hurry.”
“He died that night,” said Mr. Wynne, slowly.
“Eh! what did you say? Nonsense!”
“He died of diphtheria. Madeline came too late to see him alive. It was from the child she caught the infection. Yes, I believe she kissed him. He was a lovely boy—with such a bright little face and fair hair. We kept him at a Hampshire farmhouse. Many a time I told Madeline that the very sight of him would soften you towards us; but she would not listen. She made promises and broke them. She feared you too much.”
“Feared me!”
“Since his death, I have had nothing to say to her; but I heard that she was very ill in London; and I used to find how she was going on from various people, including yourself, as you may remember. I thought my heart was steeled against her, but I find it is not. I am ready to make friends. I heard accidentally that she was in a most critical state—that day I saw you at the club—and I threw up all my briefs and business and took a passage.”
“And so she is your business in Sydney?”
“She—she is most woefully changed. When I first saw her under the lamp, I—I—I—cannot tell you——” He paused, and drew in a long, slow breath, which said much.