The old lady started, and whispered back—
“It's false! it is a calumny! it is monstrous! look at her face. It is blasphemy to accuse such a face.”
“Tut! tut! tut!” said the other; “you might as well say this is not my hand. I ought to know; and I tell ye it is so.”
Then, much to Margaret Van Eyck's surprise, she went up to the girl, and taking her round the neck, kissed her warmly.
“I suffered for Gerard, and you shed your blood for him I do hear; his own words show me that I have been to blame, the very words you have read to me. Ay, Gerard, my child, I have held aloof from her; but I'll make it up to her once I begin. You are my daughter from this hour.”
Another warm embrace sealed this hasty compact, and the woman of impulse was gone.
Margaret lay back in her chair, and a feeble smile stole over her face. Gerard's mother had kissed her and called her daughter; but the next moment she saw her old friend looking at her with a vexed air.
“I wonder you let that woman kiss you.”
“His mother!” murmured Margaret, half reproachfully.
“Mother, or no mother, you would not let her touch you if you knew what she whispered in my ear about you.”