"Then for a time we sent you to an institution for orphans. But we told everybody here that you had died. I told him so—your—your father—and I forbade him ever to speak to me again. I told you he was dead. I told him you were dead. He is dead. So are you dead. But all the dead have come to life. The lost is found. Oh, Don, Don, the lost is found! I've found so much today—so much, so much. You're my boy, my own boy. A man!"
He sat mute. At length she went on.
"We schemed and saved and contrived, all the little ways that we could to save our money—we have both done that all our lives for you. We wanted to educate you, your mothers did. And oh! above all things we wanted the secret kept. I did the best I knew. They all thought you died. I didn't want you to come here—it was Miss Julia. I didn't know you were coming till you wired. I was going to tell you not to come up—even from the depot. But you got in the bus. I was delayed there in the square by those men. And then all this happened. And after twenty years!"
She sat silent, using all her splendid command of her own soul to still the stubborn fluttering in her throat.
Dieudonné Lane looked everywhere but at her.
"Mother," said he at length, "did you—did you ever—love him?"
His own face flushed at the cruelty of this question, too late, after the words were gone. He saw her wince.
"I don't know, Don," said she, simply. "It happened. It couldn't again. You don't know about women. Seal your lips now, as mine are sealed. Never again a question such as that to me."
The sight of her suffering at his own words stirred the elemental rage in his heart.
"Tell me," he demanded again and again. "Who was he? Is that the man? I begin to see—I'd kill him if I knew for sure."