“Not true!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, with her sallow cheeks flushing. “Ask your father. Is it so hard,” she added, bitterly, “to find that you have a father and mother alive instead of in the grave?”
“It is impossible!” cried Richard.
“Hush, hold your tongue!” she said, angrily. “You know the secret now—keep it. What is it to a soul? I never had the heart to send Humphrey away, but treated him well. Send him away now—give him money to go away. He’ll soon forget Polly. You must many her; and Richard—say a kind word to me,” she whispered, softening, “kiss me once—once only, my boy—your mother—before she goes back to be your servant, and to hold her peace for ever.”
She crept closer to him, as he stood staring straight away, her thin hands rested on his shoulders, and she gazed up into his eyes, with her face working and growing strangely young, even as his tinned old.
“Dick, my darling, handsome son, kiss me—once only. And you’ll marry her, won’t you, and make her happy? One kiss, my own boy.”
She uttered a hoarse cry, for he looked down at her with a look of loathing, and thrust her away.
“Mother? No!” he cried. “I can’t call you that. Woman, you thought to bless me, and what you have done comes upon me like a curse. Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. Take away your hands. I cannot bear it.”
She clung to him; but he tore her hands away, and pushed her from him.
“Dick,” she cried, throwing herself on her knees to him, and embracing his knees. “Your mother. One loving word.”
“I can’t,” he gasped—“I can’t. It is too much. An impostor—a pretender; and now to be an outcast! My God! what have I done that I should suffer this? Oh, Tiny! My love—my love!”