The story was as complete as she could make it. The work was done. Her sister's name, and ill-fame, had been kept from her son.
As the moments passed and no word came in answer, Monica's apprehension grew, and she urged him. She could face his utmost scorn better than this suspense.
"That is all, Frank," she said, with a dignity she was wholly unaware of.
The man stirred. He stretched out his great limbs upon the couch and drew them up again. Then he turned his eyes upon the waiting woman. They were unsmiling, but they had no condemnation in them. He had fought out his little battle with himself.
"So I am a—bastard," he said, slowly and distinctly. "Frank; oh, Frank! Not that word."
The boy laughed, but without any mirth.
"Why not? Why be afraid of the truth? Besides, I have always known—at least suspected it."
Monica suddenly buried her face in her hands. He had known. He had suspected. And all these years she had endeavored to keep the secret from him. The thought of it all hurt her as much as if the shame of it were really hers.
Presently he left his seat and came to her side. "Don't worry, mother, dear," he said, with one hand tenderly laid upon her shoulder. "You see, we never talked much of my father. You were never easy when you spoke of him. I guessed there was something wrong; and being young, and perhaps imaginative, I found the truth without much guessing. Still I didn't ask questions. It was not up to me to hurt you. What was the use. I knew I should hear some day, and quite made up my mind how to act." He smiled. "You see, if you told me I knew I could bear it almost—easily. I should have far less to bear than you who told it, and—and that showed me how small a thing it was for me—by comparison. If it came through other sources I should have acted differently, particularly if the telling of it came from—a man."
He paused, and Monica looked up at him with wondering admiration.