‘Then he told me of his early life, and that of the two Dales; of his falling in love with my mother, Ethel Osborne; of the rivalry between himself and Tom Dale for her hand; of Dale’s success; of the miserable married life of the couple; of Dale’s mission to Canada, and of his presumed death in the Numidian disaster, and of my father’s own marriage with the widow. All this I had known more or less vaguely before, and I could not understand why my father recited the circumstances in such detail. But he soon made it clear to me.
‘ “As you know,” he went on, “your dear mother and I have lived happily together ever since. She had her time of suffering, but thank God, she has enjoyed her after-life, and please God, she shall never learn what I am about to tell you.”
‘ “Some four years ago,” continued my father, “I happened to be in London, and walking down Cheapside I met a man whose face seemed vaguely familiar. He was short and slight, with small features, rather delicately moulded, white hair, and a short goatee beard. He saw me at the same time, and his eyes fixed themselves on my face with an expression of almost incredulous recognition. For a few seconds we stood facing each other, while I racked my brains to recall his identity. And then suddenly I knew him. It was Tom Dale!”
‘My father paused, but for some seconds I did not grasp the full meaning of his statement. Then gradually its significance dawned on me. I need not repeat it. You have heard what it involved. I was appalled and horrified. Though upset on my own account, I ask you to believe that what distressed me most was its possible effect on my mother and sister. Of my mother I just couldn’t bear to think, and it also hurt me beyond words to believe that any such secret should have power to throw a shadow over Enid’s life.’
‘Did you speak to your father on this particular point?’ Tanner interjected.
‘Speak? I should rather think so. I was beside myself with horror.’
‘Can you recollect the exact words you used?’
Austin considered.
‘I hardly think so,’ he said at last, ‘though every detail of the scene is fixed in my memory; I said as the thing began to dawn on me, “And my mother—it can’t be that she—?” I did not wish to speak the words, and my father completed my sentence for me. “Yes,” he said, “there’s no escape from it; she is the wife of that drunken ruffian.” Then I cried, “Good Heavens! She can’t be,” or something to that effect, and he answered that it was only too true.’
‘Might the words you used have been, “My God, sir, she isn’t?” ’