She was not prepared for what happened next, and lost a little placidity through it. The simple, loving creature fell at her feet and caught hold of her dress, sobbing.
"He's thirty-three years old," she cried, "an' I've never seen the day when he's give me a hurt. He's been the pride of my life an' the hope of it. I've looked up to him and prayed for him an' believed in him—an' they say he's black with shameful sin—an' I don't know him, nor never did, for he's deceived me from first to last."
The yellow hyacinths fell from Miss Ffrench's hand on the carpet, and she looked down at them instead of at the upturned face.
"Who said it?" she asked.
But she was not answered.
"If it's true—not that I believe it, for I don't—if it's true, what is there left for me, as loved and honored him—where's my son as paid me for all I bore? He's never been—he's never been at all. I've never been his mother nor he's never been my son. If it's true—not as I believe it, for I don't—where is he?"
Miss Ffrench bent down and picked up her hyacinths. She wondered, as she bent down, what her reply would be.
"Will you believe me?" she asked, as she rose up again.
"Yes, ma'am," she was answered, "I know I may do it—thank God!"
"Yes, you may," said Miss Ffrench, without flinching in the least. "I can have no feeling for or against him. I can have no end to serve, one way or the other. It is not true. It is a lie. He is all you have believed."