Hester's eyes as well as her tone pleaded for an assurance that at least she could exonerate her husband from the terrible stain such knowledge must shed on his conduct that evening.
"How can I tell her," he thought. "Listen, my child! When Alfred was in Calcutta he learnt that David Morpeth, the old East Indian, was his father. He disowned me and scornfully refused my allowance to him from that day forward. As I have explained to you, it was my own fault for weakly consenting to a foolish promise—for allowing my child to pass from me as I did. The fact is my own will inclined to it. I had always been too sensitively conscious of the disabilities of Eurasians—perhaps unduly dominated by the aristocracy of colour in the white man. Mr. Cheveril, now, has turned those very disabilities which were my weakness into strength, but I bent my head before the prejudice, having suffered in many-sided ways from my youth up. To shield my son against it seemed in my mistaken judgment worthy of the sacrifice I had to make. I desired to save him from the cup that had been so bitter to my taste, forgetting that the cup Our Father offers is the only safe one for us. I dreamt too of his having a very different training in England, idealising everything there, as I did in those days. I thought no sacrifice too great to bring about this end; but my wife's sister thwarted my purposes and even deceived me for long. Ignorant as I was of English ways save through literature, I shrank from going there to arrange matters for my son until it was too late. I have long known, however, that it was not only my foolish promise to the dead mother that bound me—it was my own pride and self-will. Long ago, of course, I saw the fatal mistake I had made. But we have to reap as we sow. My reaping time is sore indeed. Oh, the bitterness to think of his being a forger and a felon."
With a groan the old man bent his head and covered his face with his hands. Hester's pity, even at this her own dark hour, was stirred for the forlorn man. She rose and laid her hand on his grey head.
"Try to forgive him," she murmured. "It is terrible to think of, but Alfred is dead. We must try not to judge him hardly any more."
The pathetic ring in her voice caused the old man to look up at her.
"You have suffered too, my child," he said, taking her hand. "Have I not been a silent witness of your trials—haunted by the thought of them even when I went about my daily work? How I longed to spare you, to protect you. Now, at last, in that matter I can have my wish," he added, with a touch of his old energy coming into his face. "As Alfred's father, it is my right to do all I can to help and protect you at this terrible time. The responsibility will be my greatest comfort now. First, may I go and ask your good friend Mrs. Fellowes to come and be with you?"
"No, no, just for to-day let me be alone. There is such a thing as getting acquainted with grief, you know," returned Hester, with a sad smile.
"As you will, my dear! Then, I should like to tell you that all the offices for the dead will be my care. You will let me have my son just once in his father's house?" he asked, in a pleading tone. "It is my purpose to take him to Calcutta and lay him beside his young mother. And you, Hester, will want to return to your happy home? You have youth and hope still with you. It is no doubt your wish to go back to England?"
"Oh, yes, I shall go home. He needs me no more. I did try to help him—but——" She broke off with a sob.
"Didn't I see you did? Ah, how my heart yearned for you as well as for my poor wayward son! But I was powerless to help either the one or the other. That was my punishment. But now you must allow me to atone for it by giving you all the help I can."