Lucy’s eyes, which had been looking back into that glorified past of love and youth, returned to her daughter’s face.
“But Jake is your father,” she said. “That’s what I had to tell you. He’ll be good to you. That was why he wanted to find you and help you.”
“Yes,” said Mariposa, dully, “I understand that now; that was why he wanted to help me.”
“He’ll be good to you,” went on the low, weak voice, interrupted by quick breaths. “I know Jake. He’ll be proud of you. You’re handsome and talented, not weak and poor spirited, as I was. You’re his only legitimate child; the others are not; they were born in California. They’re Bessie’s children, and I was his only real wife. You’ll let him take care of you? Oh, Mariposa, my darling, I’ve told you all this that you might understand and let him take care of you.”
She made a last call on her strength and leaned forward. Her dying body was re-vivified; all her mother’s agony of love appeared on her face. In determining to destroy the illusions of her child to secure her future, she had made the one heroic effort of her life. It was done, and for a last moment of relief and triumph she was thrillingly alive.
Mariposa, in a spasm of despair, threw herself forward on the bed.
“Oh, why did you tell me? Why did you tell me?” she cried. “Why didn’t you let me think it was the way it used to be? Why did you tell me?”
Lucy laid her hand on the bowed head.
“Because I wanted you to understand and let him be your father.”
“My father! That man! Oh, no, no!”