Othmar

by Ouida

'Tell me, my dear—your grandfather died after you had left the island some months? Well, did you never hear any details of his death or of his will? You know only what the pedlar said?'

'Only that.'

'Then I think you should know more. He may have repented him of his cruelty, or he may have made some sort of bequest to you, even if the bulk of what he had has gone to your cousin. My people there could soon inquire. Will you allow me to do that?'

'If you wish. But I am certain he left me nothing—never thought of me. You did not know him: once he had put any person out of his heart, it was to him as if they never had lived at all. He was very hard, and he never by any chance forgave. Beside—he told me—I had no claim on him, was nothing to him.'

'Legally. But sixteen years of life spent beside him could scarcely pass utterly out of his memory. If he had left you anything, it is possible your cousin was not honest enough to say so. I will inquire at any rate. It will be more satisfaction to you to know more definite tidings than the hawker could possibly give you.'

'I am sure he left me nothing. But I should be glad to hear of Raphael and the dogs.'

'You shall hear. Raphael, I have no doubt, will be as glad to hear of you. Meanwhile be sure that both my wife and I should be unhappy if you fled away from our roof out into the world again. The world is not a kind place or a safe place, my dear, for those who are young and motherless.'

'But I must do something,' she repeated feverishly. 'I must do something. I cannot live on your charity. I would die sooner!'

'I tell you I do not like the word of "charity,"' said Othmar. 'When people have all a common misfortune, they have as it were a common tie. We have all the misfortune, the supreme misfortune, of human life.'

Even absorbed as she was in her own great straits and needs, Damaris was astonished at such words from one who, it seemed to her, was at the very summit of all earthly happiness.