“Yes. It is about my earliest distinct recollection,” I answered.
“Do you remember how your mother received the news?”
Yes, I remembered. Even at that moment a vision rose up before me. I saw her standing beneath the ivy-covered porch of our farmhouse, her beautiful face ghastly with sudden pallor, and her wild eyes riveted upon my father’s burly figure, as he shouted out the tidings. I described the scene to Lord Langerdale.
“And afterwards did she ever mention Mr. Ravenor’s name to you? Did she see anything of him?” he asked, when I had finished.
Briefly I told him of her warnings, of my meeting with Mr. Ravenor, of his proposal to adopt me, and of my mother’s death, and how at the end she suddenly turned round and left me to his guardianship. When I had finished he laid his hand upon my arm.
“Let us go upstairs to my rooms,” he said kindly. “If my wife were to come in now and learn the truth—and I’m a bad hand at keeping anything back from her—I’m afraid the shock would be too much for her. Come with me and I will tell you your mother’s history.”
So I rose and followed him with beating heart.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
A PAGE OF HISTORY.
Lord Langerdale’s suite of apartments was on the second floor, and when we reached them it was no small relief to me to find the room into which we turned empty. I sank mechanically into the chair to which he pointed, whilst he himself remained standing a few feet away from me.
“From what you have told me,” he said gravely, “I have not the least doubt but that my wife and your mother were sisters.”