"Is your love dead, child, quite dead?"
"Don't ask."
"My God," said the sick man; "her love is dead before she knows—even before she knows. What a punishment is here?"
A queer light filled his eyes; Valentine remembered that whispers had reached her with regard to her father's sanity. She tried again to soothe him.
"Let us talk common-places; it does not do every moment to gauge one's feelings. Shall I tell you about baby?"
"No, no; don't drag the child's name into the conversation of this hour. Valentine, one of two things is about to happen to me. I am either going to die or to become quite hopelessly mad. Before either thing happens I have a confession to make."
"Confession? Father!"
Her face grew very white.
"Yes. I want to confess to you. It won't pain me so much as it would have done had any of your love for me survived. It is right you should know. I have not the least doubt when you do know you will see justice done. Of late you have not troubled yourself much about my affairs. Perhaps you do not know that I have practically retired from my business, and that I have taken steps to vest the whole concern absolutely in your hands. When you know all you will probably sell it; but that is your affair. I shall either be in my grave or a madhouse, so it won't concern me. If any fragment of money survives afterwards—I mean after you have done what you absolutely consider just—you must hold it in trust for your son. Now I am ready to begin. What is the matter, Valentine?"
"Only that you frighten me very much. I have not been quite—quite well lately. Do you mind my fetching a chair?"