‘He loves you, Desmond. He’d give his right hand to put things right. If you will remain he will acknowledge you as his son—make you his heir.’
Desmond shook his head.
‘He can’t give me the one thing I want,’ said Desmond proudly and sadly. ‘He can’t take the blot off my name, the stain off my mother’s. He can’t turn back the years and bring her from the grave.’
‘He can make amends,’ said Dulcie. ‘He will.’
‘It’s too late for that, too,’ answered Desmond. ‘Ah, spare me, Dulcie! Don’t speak of it! Don’t remind me of my disgrace!’
‘Your disgrace?’ repeated Dulcie. ‘Where is the disgrace to you? Where there is no sin there can be no shame; and you are innocent. Desmond, there are others who care for you. There’s one,’ she added softly, ‘who would give all the world to see you happy. Don’t make her miserable by going away.’
‘You mean that?’ cried the boy. ‘No? Oh, Dulcie, don’t be too good to me! Don’t let me think you care for me!’
‘Why not, when I do care for you?’ returned the girl. ‘And I do, I do!’ She took his hand and rose from her seat. ‘I think you’re very ungrateful.’
‘Ungrateful! To you!’
‘Yes. You think me a child still, a doll, with no heart, or head, or will of my own. Ah! you don’t know me. If you were to say, now, “Dulcie, I want you,” I’d follow you to the end of the world.’