Paul's face turned pale. His eyes gazed into his mother's eyes with a fixed look. The clock ticked audibly. Not another sound broke the silence. At last Paul spoke.
"Speak, mother," he said; "is it something about my father?"
Mrs. Ritson's face fell on to her son's breast. A strong shudder ran over her shoulders, and she sobbed aloud.
"You are not your father's heir," she said; "you were born before we married.... But you will try not to hate me, ... your own mother.... You will try, will you not?"
Paul's great frame shook visibly. He tried to speak. His tongue cleaved to his mouth.
"Do you mean that I am—a bastard?" he said in a hoarse whisper.
The word seemed to sting his mother like a poisoned arrow. She clung yet closer about his neck.
"Pity me and love me still, though I have wronged you before God and man. I whom the world thought so pure—I am but a whited sepulcher—a dishonored woman dishonoring her dearest son!"
The door opened gently, and Hugh Ritson stood in the door-way. Neither his brother nor his mother realized his presence. He remained a moment, and then withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
Beneath the two whom he left behind, the world at that moment reeled.