“I don’t know how it was done, but she was here, and Junia got this from her. I shan’t know how till I’ve seen Junia.”
“Junia is the best friend,” said the stricken woman gently, “in all the world; she’s—”
“She’s so good a friend she must be told the truth,” he said firmly.
“Oh, not while I live! I could not bear that—”
“How could I ask Junia to marry me and not tell her all the truth—mother, can’t you see?”
The woman’s face flushed scarlet. “Ah, yes, I see, my boy—I see.”
“Haven’t we had enough of secrecy—in your letter you lamented it! If it was right for you to be secret all these years, is it not a hundred times right now for me to tell you the truth.... I have no name—no name,” he added, tragedy in his tone.
“You have my name. You may say I have no right to it, but it is the only name I can carry; they both are dead, and I must keep it. It wrongs no one living but you, and you have no hatred of me: you think I do not wrong you—isn’t that so?”
His cheek was hot with feeling. “Yes, that’s true,” he said. “You must still keep your married name.” Then a great melancholy took hold of him, and he could hardly hide it from her. She saw how he was moved, and she tried to comfort him.
“You think Junia will resent it all?... But that isn’t what a girl does when she loves. You have done no wrong; your hands are clean.”