"He loves you," said the negro rebukingly.
"Did he ever tell you that?"
"No. He never mentioned your existence."
"Judge then how he loves me," said Cyril coolly.
"However, in spite of all, Edwin Lister is my father, so I shall speak as respectfully of him as I possibly can." He threw away a blade of grass he was chewing, and laughed ironically. Bella looked pained.
"Cyril! Cyril! your own father!"
"Quite so, dear. He is my father. I can say no more, and no less. As to what I know relative to this mystery, you shall hear."
The sky had clouded over, and the sun no longer shone. The lark was silent, and a chill wind seemed to breathe over the golden broom and the yellow blossoms of the gorze. Bella shivered, as the change of temperature seemed to suit with cruel exactitude the cynical tones of her lover. She had never heard him talk in this way before, but then she knew very little about him, and absolutely nothing of his past life. Now she was about to hear it, and, from the hard expression of his face, she judged that the story he had to tell was not a pleasant one. As for Durgo, he waited silently, and nothing could be read of his feelings from the dark mask of his face. Edwin Lister had saved his life, and no matter what was said, Durgo did not intend to change his opinion of his master, as the finest man in the wide world.
"My mother died when I was young," said Cyril, after a pause, "and I was brought up by a maiden aunt. My father I rarely saw, as he was always travelling round the world in search of a fortune which he never seemed to find. Sometimes he returned to England, and treated me with careless affection, but I saw very little of him. But for my aunt I should have been utterly neglected. Bless her! she is dead," and he raised his hat.
"Poor Cyril!" murmured Bella affected by this picture of a dull childhood.