He lay there silent through the short summer night, moving with precaution upon the uneasy couch, which was too short and too small, but where the good fellow would have passed the night waking and dosing for anybody’s comfort, even were it only an old woman’s who had been kind to him. But was she his mother—his mother? He could not believe it—he could not, he could not! Her wonderful speeches and looks were all explained now, and went to his heart: but they did not convince him, or bring any enlightenment into his. Was she the victim of an illusion, poor lady, self-deceived altogether? Or was there something in it, or was there nothing in it? He thought of his father, and his heart revolted. His poor father, whom he remembered with the halo round him of childish affection, but whom he had learned to see through other people’s eyes, not a strong man, not good for very much, but yet not one to desert a woman who trusted in him. But of the young man’s thoughts through that long uneasy night there was no end. He heard whisperings and movements in the next room, subdued for his sake as he subdued his inclination to turn and toss upon his sofa for hers, during half the night. And then when the daylight came bright into the room through the bars of the venetian blind there came silence, just when he had fully woke up to the consciousness that life had begun again in a new world. A little later, Gilchrist stole into his room, bringing him a cup of tea. “You must come upstairs now; there’s a room where ye will get some sleep. She’s sound now, and it’s broad daylight, and no fear of any disturbance,” she said.
“I want no more sleep. I’ll go and get a bath, and be ready for whatever is wanted.” He caught her apron as she was turning away, that apron on which so many hems had been folded. “Don’t go away,” he said. “Speak to me, tell me, Gilchrist, for heaven’s sake, is this true?”
“The Lord knows!” cried Gilchrist, shaking her head and clasping her hands; “but oh, my young gentleman, dinna ask me!”
“Whom can I ask?” he said. “Surely, surely you, that have been always with her, can throw some light upon it. Is it true?”
“It is true—true as death,” said the woman, “that all that happened to my dear leddy; but oh, if you are the bairn, the Lord knows; he was but two days old, and he would have been about your age. I can say not a word, but only the Lord knows. And there’s nothing—nothing, though she thinks sae, that speaks in your heart?”
He shook his head, with a faint smile upon his face.
“Oh, dinna laugh, dinna laugh. I canna bear it, Mr. Harry; true or no’ true, it’s woven in with every fibre o’ her heart. You have nae parents, my bonnie man. Oh, could you no’ take it upon ye, true or no’ true? There’s naebody I can hear of that it would harm or wrong if you were to accept it. And there’s naebody kens but me how good she is. Her exterior is maybe no’ sae smooth as many; but her heart it is gold—oh, her heart it is gold! For God’s sake, who is the Father of all of us, and full of mercy—such peety as a father hath unto his children dear—oh, my young man, let her believe it, take her at her word! You will make her a happy woman at the end of a’ her trouble, and it will do ye nae harm.”
“Not if it is a fiction all the time,” he said, shaking his head.
“Who is to prove it’s a fiction? He would have been your age. She thinks you have your grandfather’s een. I’m no’ sure now I look at you but she’s right. She’s far more likely to be right than me: and now I look at you well I think I can see it. Oh, Mr. Harry, what harm would it do you? A good home and a good inheritance, and to make her happy. Is that no’ worth while, even if maybe it were not what you would think perfitly true?”
“It can’t be half true, Gilchrist; it must be whole or nothing.”