“Now you talk sense,” said he; “if he is yours, he is mine; and, as he is certainly yours, this is a very foolish conversation, which must not be renewed, otherwise—”
“I shall be insulted by my own husband?”
“I think it very probable. And, as I do not choose you to be insulted, nor to think yourself insulted, I forbid you ever to recur to this subject.”
“I will obey, Charles; but let me say one word first. When I was alone in London, and hardly sensible, might not this child have been imposed upon me and you? I'm sure he was.”
“By whom?”
“How can I tell? I was alone—that woman in the house had a bad face—the gypsies do these things, I've heard.”
“The gypsies! And why not the fairies?” said Sir Charles, contemptuously. “Is that all you have to suggest—before we close the subject forever?”
“Yes,” said Lady Bassett sorrowfully. “I see you take me for a mad-woman; but time will show. Oh that I could persuade you to detach your affections from that boy—he will break your heart else—and rest them on the children that resemble us in mind and features.”
“These partialities are allowed to mothers; but a father must be just. Reginald is my first-born; he came to me from Heaven at a time when I was under a bitter trial, and from the day he was born till this day I have been a happy man. It is not often a father owes so much to a son as I do to my darling boy. He is dear to my heart in spite of his faults; and now I pity him, as well as love him, since it seems he has only one parent, poor little fellow!”
Lady Bassett opened her mouth to reply, but could not. She raised her hands in mute despair, then quietly covered her face with them, and soon the tears trickled through her white fingers.