"Wait," she said in a cracked scream; "if you denounce me, you ruin--your mother!"
[CHAPTER XXI]
LADY WATSON'S STORY
"My mother!" Beatrice stopped short at the door, and caught hold of a chair to support herself. The shock of this discovery came upon her with overwhelming force. "Impossible!"
"It is true," said Lady Watson, advancing towards her with outstretched arms. "I am your most unhappy mother."
The girl suffered the little woman to embrace her, but did not return the caress. "My mother!" she repeated again faintly; "it is impossible, Lady Watson."
"Don't call me Lady Watson. I am your mother. I should not have told you: I promised Durban that I would not. But Nature is too, too strong," cried Lady Watson theatrically; "my heart spoke, and I responded. Darling! darling!" She embraced Beatrice still more affectionately, and guided her to a low armchair, into which the bewildered girl sank unresistingly.
Was Lady Watson in earnest? Was she really her mother? Were these violent demonstrations genuine? Beatrice could not tell. The whole thing seemed to be beyond the bounds of possibility. What of the supposed mother who was buried in Hurstable churchyard? Revolving these things in a much-puzzled brain, Beatrice sat silently staring at the artificial little woman who claimed so sacred a relationship. Lady Watson, seeing the girl's coldness--as she thought it was--squeezed out a few serviceable tears.
"Oh, cruel, cruel!" she wept. "My own child--the baby that I carried in my arms--to act like this! It is wicked, it is incredible."
"Mother!" said Beatrice blankly. "Are you really and truly my mother?"