CHAPTER V
CLOSED DOORS
By the time Don Lane had reached his mother's house he partially had pulled himself together, but his face was still pale and sullen, not yet recovered from the late encounter.
He cast himself down in a chair, his chin in his hand, looking everywhere but at his mother. His wounds, poor lad, were of the soul, slow to heal. The white-faced woman who sat looking at him had also her wounds, scarred though they were, these years. Her features seemed sharpened, her eyes larger for the dark shadows now about them. But she was first to speak.
"Wasn't it enough, Don," said she—"didn't I have enough without all this? And on the very day I have looked forward to so long—so long! You don't know how I have worked and waited for this very day. Why, it's the first time I've ever seen you, since you were a baby. You're a stranger to me—I don't know you yet. And then all this comes—now, on my one happy day."
"Well, how about it, then?" he demanded brusquely. "You know what they've been saying—I couldn't let it go. I had to fight!"
"Yes, yes, you have—and in a few hours you've undone twenty years of work for me. The sleeping dogs were lying. Why waken them this late?"
"Who was my father?" demanded the young man, now, sternly. "Come, it's time for me to know. I couldn't help loving you—no one could. But—him! Tell me—was it that man who defended me? Is my name Don Brooks?"
She made him no answer, though her throat throbbed and she half started as though at a blow.
"Oh, no, oh, no! What am I saying! Of course you understand, mother," he went on after a long, long silence, "I don't believe anything of this, not even what you have said to me about my being—well, filius nullius. There was a quick divorce—a hidden decree—you separated, you two—he was poor—that often happens. Women never like to talk about it. I can't blame you for calling me 'nobody's son,' for that sort of thing does happen—secret and suppressed divorces, you know. But as to that other——"