"She is--in Hurstable churchyard, under a beautiful tomb I got second-hand at a bargain. See how I loved her."
"You never loved anyone in your life, Mr. Alpenny," said the girl, freezing again.
Alpenny's brow grew black, and he looked at her with glittering eyes. "You are mistaken, child," he said, quietly. "I have loved and lost."
"My mother----?"
"Perhaps," said he enigmatically, and passed his hand over his bald head in a weary manner. Then he burst out unexpectedly: "I wish I had never set eyes on your mother. I wish she had been dead and buried before she crossed my path!"
"She is dead, so----"
"Yes, she is dead, stone dead," he snarled, rising, much agitated, "and don't think you'll ever see her again. If I----" He was about to speak further; then seeing from the wondering look on the girl's face that he was saying more than was wise, he halted, stuttered, and sat down again abruptly, moving the papers with trembling hands. "Leave the past alone," he said hoarsely. "I can't speak of it calmly. It is the past that makes the future," he continued, drumming feverishly on the table with his fingers, "the past that makes the future."
Beatrice wondered what he meant, and noticed how weary and worn and nervous he seemed. The man did not love her; he had not treated her as he should have done; and between them there was no feeling in common. Yet he was old, and, after all, had sheltered her in his own grudging way, so Beatrice laid a light hand on his arm. "Mr. Alpenny, you are not young----"
"Eighty and more, my dear."
The term startled her, and she began to think he must indeed be near the borders of the next world when he spoke so gently.