“He went to his office after dinner; we shall not be interrupted.”
“It’s an unhappy business that brings me here.”
Her heart beat fast, assailed by vague premonitions.
“Your mother died to-day, quite suddenly, at Burlington. You had heard of it?”
“Yes—to-night, only a little while ago,” she faltered.
“You probably wondered, that afternoon we drove in the park, what I knew of her. I did not tell you then; there was no use in it. I knew what troubled you, and I told you I would help you—and I did.”
“Yes—yes; I remember.”
He sat rigid in his chair, a man without grace of speech or person; and his next words came harshly, without any colour of feeling.
“She was my wife; you are my daughter. Your name is Adelaide Walsh. Some things you probably don’t know. I kept a livery stable in Burlington. When you were five years old she ran off with a man named Pendleton. I didn’t know at first what she carried you away for—but I knew later, when she had finished with Pendleton and you had grown up. I closed out the business I had there and came here; but I kept watching you. I sent her money for your use—and she lived on it. There’s nothing for you to tell me—I know everything you’ve done—what you’ve gone through—the whole business. I might have taken you away from her, but—I’m only Tom Walsh; I wasn’t fit. But I guess she didn’t do you so much harm; I guess you’re a good woman.”
She began to speak, but he stumbled on, like a stubborn schoolboy reciting a hard lesson.