“Why did he go?” asked Stella suddenly.
“Well, that was my fault. I was always so dreadfully worried over the way in which I had spoilt his life that when he thought he ought to go and fight for his country, I could not bear to dissuade him. You see, having no heir, he was always fretting and fretting about the extinction of his family, and he had a fancy that the last of his name should do something for his country. He had given up his country for me, and I knew that if he went to the war he would feel that he had paid the debt. I never minded so much that we weren’t married, but I always minded the feeling that I had robbed him by my love. He was such a very dear fellow. He was always so good and patient, when I begged him not to see you both. That was his greatest sorrow. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you, dear children. You must not blame me for that. I knew it was better that you should be brought up in ignorance. It was, wasn’t it?” she asked wistfully.
“Better,” Michael murmured.
“Better,” Stella echoed.
Mrs. Fane stood up, and Michael beheld her tall, tragical form with a reverence he had never felt for anything.
“Children, you must forgive me,” she said.
And then simply, with repose and exquisite fitness she left Michael and Stella to themselves. By the door Stella overtook her.
“Mother darling,” she cried. “You know we adore you. You do, don’t you?”
Mrs. Fane smiled, and Michael thought he would cherish that smile to the end of his life.
“Well?” said Michael, when Stella and he were sitting alone again.