"Yes," replied the Rector.
There was a pause, but the young eavesdropper had very sharp ears.
"You told me yourself, you silly man, that you are dying. It is true, that having taken the best medical advice, you may possibly hold on for a year or two, but you confess that your days are numbered. Now a year here or there does not much matter to me. I shall be a widow before long. Now I have my own girls to provide for—my Daisy and my Henrietta. I can do well for them, and your insurance money and your private means are settled on Kitty and the two boys by marriage settlement. There is nothing, therefore, for Maureen. When you adopted her, Patrick, you should have provided for her. I tell you, frankly and plainly, that after your death I will do nothing for the child. Maureen will be a beggar. She has never been properly educated, and I see nothing for her but to go into service. If she were a little taller she might make a parlourmaid. It is a pity she is so short and so plain. Well, I am outspoken. I tell you the exact truth. Maureen will not get one shilling from me, and your children's money cannot be touched; so now you know."
"Constance, you can speak like that to a dying man. May God forgive your cold heart. Once, Constance, I thought you both beautiful and good; I was even fool enough to think there was something of the angel about you. Alas, I quickly learnt my mistake. Now, Constance, I will tell you plainly that my children and Maureen share and share alike."
"Ah," said Mrs. O'Brien, with a sort of groan, "how very stupid and silly you are, Patrick; but when you talk with Mr. Murphy he will tell you a very different story."
"Listen to me, Constance," continued the Rector, "I know well that I have not long to live, but I may hold out for a few years. My boys, my girl, and I will provide for Maureen. I never told you how she came into the family."
"You did not; but I cannot wait to hear your romantic story now. I may miss Mr. Murphy."
"Constance, you must wait. It will not take up five minutes of your time. My little brown-eyed Maureen came to me in this fashion. I had a twin-brother. I loved him better than myself. The thought of meeting him again is one of the joys I look forward to; he died of wounds received in the field of battle. His young wife had died before him, and he left his little child, Maureen, to me. I brought her up as my own. The boys look upon her as their sister. Kitty does the same. Little Maureen came to the Rectory, and since then her sweetness and innocence have helped me to bear the greatest sorrow of my life—the loss of that brother who was dearer to me than myself. Now you can go, Constance, but Maureen shall be provided for."
"You are about the most silly, out-of-the-world person I ever came across," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Well, let me tell you that your story about yourself and your twin-brother does not affect me in the least. When you die, Maureen has to earn her living—or go to the workhouse. Well, you know the truth. As to upsetting your marriage settlement, it cannot be done. Ta-ta. I may not be back until very late. I was always outspoken, and shall be to my dying day."
The overdressed woman turned swiftly and left the room.