“Yes,” said the merchant; “do not delay; I have business letters of importance to write for post.”
“You would not think I was a very ambitious woman, Mr. Tallant; it is true, nevertheless. I was vain and full of being great when I was a girl, and all my life long I seem to have been going backwards instead of onwards. Nothing has come about as I expected.”
“We have all our disappointments,” said Mr. Tallant, dryly; “I hope you are not going to recount all yours.”
“How hard you are, sir; how little you seem moved by my wretched position. Have you no fears concerning this confession I am about to make?”
“None,” said the merchant; “my troubles are about over. You can’t hit me any harder than I have been hit already, whatever you may have to tell.”
“You remember your second wife,” went on the woman, half raising herself in bed; “you remember her dark eyes, and her graceful, ladylike form. You remember how she wore her dark hair, and how musical her voice was?”
The merchant did remember. The loss of this woman had been the saddest episode in his life.
“Have you never seen any one like her?” the sick woman asked, looking steadfastly at him.
“Never,” he replied; “but why all this mystery?—go straight to the point, my dear woman, at once, or I must leave you.”
“I have not much more to say. I thought your own fatherly instinct would have assisted me. Do you remember that you left me in charge of your child after Mrs. Tallant’s death? You were so stricken with grief that you never saw the child but once; and when the poor lady was buried you travelled on the Continent for more than six months. I had an infant two months old when your child was born. You left your house and child in my care. I was to do everything that was right and proper under the circumstances. Do you remember?”