"Because I did not want to sink deeper than I had done. I was brought up by pious parents, Basil Beaumont, and the sin I committed with you seemed to cut me off for ever from all hope of mercy. I resolved to sin no more--to expiate, if I could, by prayer and charity the evil life I had led in London. When I came down here, my parents were dead, and I was alone in the world."
"You had the child."
"Yes, I had the child--your child and mine--but no one ever knew I was his mother; no, I did not wish our sin to be visited on his head. I did not want him to be pointed at as a nameless outcast."
"Very creditable of you, I'm sure," said Beaumont, with a sneer, "and what did you do?"
"I invented a story that I had been in the service of the child's parents, who had afterwards gone to France and died there. I said I was the child's nurse, and placed him in the care of Doctor Larcher to be brought up. What little money I could spare out of my salary as housekeeper was given to the vicar as money left to the child by his father, and to this day the vicar does not suspect the truth."
"Quite a romance," said Beaumont, lightly. "I had no idea you had such inventive powers. But there is one thing I would like to know--the child's name."
"In order to claim him?" she asked, bitterly.
"My faith! no; I've got enough to do in looking after myself, without troubling about a hulking boy. You need never be afraid of that, Patience. Come, tell me the boy's name."
"Reginald Blake."
The cigarette dropped out of Beaumont's nerveless fingers, and his white face grew a shade whiter.