The old lawyer stopped, the look on the girl’s face was so piteous to see.
Her large grey eyes were wide and dark, the sweet mouth was quivering with feeling.
He went up to her and took her hands in his kindly.
“It is a sorry tale for young ears, my child, but I promised a dying woman to tell you, and to hide nothing. Cheer up a little, it ended better than could have been hoped. Captain Ainslie had gone off with his friend’s wife. But Major Winstanley was a modern Don Quixote; he traced them, followed them, and found his wife in a Paris hotel, sobbing with grief for her sin, the consciousness of which could not be effaced in spite of her companion’s attempts at consolation.
“Her husband went up to her and said very quietly, ‘Marion, come home dear.’ To Captain Ainslie he uttered one reproach, ‘What had I done to you to merit this?’ But his heart was broken. He took his wife home, and to the day of his death, which occurred a month afterwards, he showed her nothing but love and kindness.
“When she was left a widow, Mrs. Winstanley found that a bank, in which most of her husband’s money was deposited, had failed—misfortunes never come singly—and so she was reduced to poverty. She thereupon sold her furniture, and came to Abbott Mansfield with her child, changing her name to that of Standen, for she wished to be forgotten by all who had formerly known her. As both she and her husband had few relations, and these but distant ones, her object was attained. She lived quite alone.
“When she knew that her days were numbered, she sent for me and told me all the painful story, making me take it down in writing, to be handed to my executors in case of my death before you became of age.
“By her wish I was to be her child’s guardian, to place her in the care of some trustworthy person, and, on her twenty-first birthday to acquaint her with the facts; also to hand over to her the sum of one thousand pounds, which was all that Mrs. Winstanley had to leave. The interest of this has been paid to Mrs. O’Hara for her care of you.
“I need not tell you, my dear, that no other person has the slightest idea of your identity—or of this story. Here is the paper with your mother’s signature.”
He handed her the document, which she took with trembling hands, looking at the shaking writing “Marion Orme Winstanley” with dim eyes.