Clara Allardi half raised herself in bed; her eyes shone with unnatural lustre, her delicate features thickened with a sort of fury and fever of determination.
"You refuse?" she said with terrible distinctness. "You refuse? Then—I curse you. I curse you. You—you're taking your revenge now when I'm dying and helpless for the years that I've put him before you. I curse you—why can't you let me die in peace? You'll tell—you'll tell the Thayers; they'll make you give him up or turn you out of doors. How will you look after him then on a miserable pittance that depends upon your strength anyway and may fail at any moment? Ah, you're your father in the flesh,"—she spoke, slowly and with a concentrated bitterness that appalled Lynn. "Good—hard—hateful! Why did I ever bring you into the world?"
"That I might look after the child whom you love, I suppose," returned Lynn with equal bitterness. "Have no fear, mother. You needn't curse me. If nothing else will make you happy, I'll swear. You know, of course, that you're making me deceive and lie to my guardians and all the rest of the world and that you may land me in hopeless confusion and trouble; but if you think that will benefit Liol and minimize the chances of his being deprived of anything or annoyed in any way—why, of course, there is nothing more to be said—is there?"
But Clara Allardi had sunk back with a look of satisfaction and relief at hearing her daughter's bitter promise to take the oath required, and it is doubtful whether she even heard the rest.
"Swear, then!" was all she answered.
Lynn hesitated; looked imploringly at her mother; then slowly and reluctantly repeated her former oath. "By God Almighty—by the memory of my father—by all I hold sacred in heaven and earth—mother, mother, mother!"
Clara's fair face had turned the colour of parchment; no breath of life seemed issuing from her blue lips. Struck by a deadly fear, a still more poignant longing, Lynn Thayer bent over her mother's death-bed, yearning with an intensity which surprised herself, for some word of kindness, of recognition, ere the poor dust turned to dust. It almost seemed as though her prayer had been answered, for Clara opened her eyes and looked at Lynn, a lovely light of longing in them. Her lips moved faintly.
"My child!"—the whisper came softly—"my boy—my only child!"
She did not realize, of course, what she was saying. Lynn understood that. She rose from her knees, with lips firmly set. Her face was a little white.
"You want to see him again," she said, in tones which sounded clearly. "I will bring him to you."