"Oh, Miss Litchfield, can I ever forgive myself, can I ever forget that you did for him while his own mother left him? Surely now, in my deep trouble and sorrow, you will believe me when I say I am sorry for those careless words you heard me speak about your mother."
Dolores is sitting beside the little white casket, and on the floor, clasping Dolores' hands, is the child's mother. Dolores wonders if her sorrow is real, or is she so polished that she can deceive people? Sometimes the awful suspicion does actually flash through Dolores' mind. Yes, it is to Dolores she goes in her trouble, nor is it in Dolores' nature to refuse any one her sympathy.
"Will you have a dispatch sent his father, Mrs. St. James? We would have sent before, but did not know the address."
"No, no?" Mrs. St. James answers hurriedly. "I shall have him buried here."
Dolores opens her pretty eyes in shocked astonishment. Then Mrs. St. James rises from her kneeling posture, draws the black shawl over her handsome shoulders, and paces the long room hurriedly; then stops in front of Dolores, and says, with a half smile:
"Miss Litchfield, if I entreat you to silence, and entrust to you a secret, will you help me, for my dead boy's sake, to keep it?" She draws an easy chair beside Dolores, and goes on. "Yes, yes, you will promise, for the child's sake, will you not, Dolores? will you not?" and Dolores, with tears in her eyes, promises.
"You may have wondered why the child never spoke of his father, and I suppose, when I tell you his father believed him dead three years ago, you will be still more surprised. I was jealous of my husband's love for Roy. I never have been to Canada since we came here, three years ago. At that time the child was sick, and after Mr. St. James went home I never mentioned Roy's name, for my letters were not very frequent. Of course he considered the boy had died. If he had had the slightest fancy the infant lived he would have had him home, and I would hold but a secondary place in my husband's heart; that would never do. I know it is selfish in me, but I must have all the love of my husband; it cannot be divided, not even with my own child. Now he must never be any the wiser about the child having died, for if he should find out I have deceived him so long, I should never be forgiven. I do not profess to love my husband passionately; I never could love any one or any thing very much; it is all owing, I suppose, to my selfish disposition. There is not the slightest doubt but that I am wholly beloved by my husband. I do not deserve so much goodness; I am utterly unworthy of him. Promise me, Dolores, that if ever we meet again—Heaven only knows if we ever shall—but if we do, never breathe of what has taken place here. Your face tells me I have merited your disapproval, but try and pity me, for I never had any one to teach me better, or instil good principles in my mind. When you judge me, remember a spoilt child, brought up by nurses and teachers, has not had the benefit of home discipline."
Dolores does not know what to say, she has heard such a cruel story. Contempt and pity struggle together in her heart. She buries her pretty face in her pocket handkerchief and weeps—weeps for the little child lying there, who has no fond mother's heart to mourn over him, and for the far off father who will never see his little son now, and whose heart would no doubt be well nigh broken if he knew no parent's face was present to catch the last glimpse of the fast dimming baby eyes. And seeing Dolores cry, Mrs. St. James does likewise; probably she is more touched than she has ever been before in her life.
"Mrs. St. James, I have promised," Dolores says presently, "and no matter what my feelings are, I shall not go back on my word."
She takes no heed of her companion's words of gratitude, neither does she accept or notice the outstretched hand, but hurries from the room, to find Sir Barry in the parlor opposite.