She nodded. “My letter told you that,” she answered. “He died in Paris three years ago.”
“And—and had he no relatives here in England?”
She hesitated before replying. “No near relatives whom he cared to recognize,” she answered haughtily. “My father, Mr. Knowles was a gentleman and, having been most unjustly treated by his own family, as well as by OTHERS”—with a marked emphasis on the word—“he did not stoop, even in his illness and distress, to beg where he should have commanded.”
“Oh! Oh, I see,” I said, feebly.
“There is no reason why you should see. My father was the second son and—But this is quite irrelevant. You, an American, can scarcely be expected to understand English family customs. It is sufficient that, for reasons of his own, my father had for years been estranged from his own people.”
The air with which this was delivered was quite overwhelming. If I had not known Strickland Morley, and a little of his history, I should have been crushed.
“Then you have been quite alone since his death?” I asked.
Again she hesitated. “For a time,” she said, after a moment. “I lived with a married cousin of his in one of the London suburbs. Then I—But really, Mr. Knowles, I cannot see that my private affairs need interest you. As I understand it, this interview of ours is quite impersonal, in a sense. You understand, of course—you must understand—that in writing as I did I was not seeking the acquaintance of my mother's relatives. I do not desire their friendship. I am not asking them for anything. I am giving them the opportunity to do justice, to give me what is my own—my OWN. If you don't understand this I—I—Oh, you MUST understand it!”
She rose from the chair. Her eyes were flashing and she was trembling from head to foot. Again I realized how weak and frail she was.
“You must understand,” she repeated. “You MUST!”