“No, no, stop!” she cried. “If there is no other way, I accept your condition.”
“Good. But you must clearly understand that you have absolutely no interest in the child’s life; she goes or comes as I bid or as I permit; you have no voice in anything which concerns her. But you may see her, provided always that you respect that condition, and that she does not learn of the relationship between you. The instant I discover that she even guesses what it is, you leave this house, and you never return. Is that clear?”
“Yes, yes, I accept. Indeed, if there is no other way—and I know I deserve not even so much as this—if there is no other way, then I am grateful.”
“You have need to be. For the future you take your old name, and we will prefix something respectable to it, for propriety’s sake and for the child’s. You will be known as Mrs. Dawson, and there is no necessity for you to tell anything concerning yourself that you do not care to have known.”
“I understand; I understand perfectly. May I—may I see the child—now?”
“She is asleep, I suspect,” replied the man, coldly.
“Indeed—indeed I will not wake her,” cried the eager woman.
“Very well. You will find her room at the top of the house, the door on the left.” Then, as she was moving rapidly across the room, he called to her. “You will find a spare bed in that room; it was used by the woman Blissett, who attends on her, when ’Linda was very ill some time since. You may sleep there to-night; I will have another room prepared for you to-morrow.”
She reached the door, and then turned to look back at him, with some words of thanks on her lips. But he was at his desk, with his head buried among his books and papers; and she stole quietly out and closed the door. Then, with a light and rapid step she flew up the stairs, calling softly as she went, in a whisper, “’Linda, ’Linda, my baby!”