“Ah! Then I am right. I have been thinking. Cessation from society duties is at least restful. Last night, lying awake and wondering where you were, my thoughts reverted to that girl. I remembered her face. All at once a long-forgotten chord of memory hummed its note. Twenty years ago, when you were a little boy, Rex, I met a Mrs. Marchbanks. She was a sweet singer. Does your Winifred sing?”
Carshaw drew his chair closer to his mother and placed an arm around her shoulder.
“Yes,” he said.
“Rex,” she murmured brokenly, hiding her face, “do you forgive me?”
“Mother, I ask you to forgive me if I said harsh things.”
There was silence for a while. Then she raised her eyes. They were wet, but smiling.
“This Mrs. Marchbanks,” she went on bravely, “had your Winifred’s face. She was wealthy and altogether charming. Her husband, too, was a gentleman. She was a ward of the elder Meiklejohn, the present Senator’s father. My recollection of events is vague, but there was some scandal in Burlington.”
“I know all, or nearly all, about it. That is why I was called to Vermont. Mother, in future, you will work with me, not against me?”
“I will—indeed I will,” she sobbed.