“Yes,” she answers.
“Did that make the trouble, mother?” And he looks as if he thinks he has guessed it all.
“No, my son; if I had been a Catholic then, it would never have happened, and I should never have been here, and perhaps not you, either.”
He refrains from any further questions, but goes on declaring that he will take her from there, and work for her. It is pleasant to this lonely woman to feel that here is a manly heart and strength to lean on which she may honestly claim, but she answers:
“No, George; I cannot allow it; you must work, and take a wife, by-and-by, to yourself. I have my place and my work here, and there is another for whom I work too. But I have some money besides. There is no need for you to work for me, although I am here. Why, I am almost rich.”
“Another?” he says curiously, and scarcely noticing her last words.
“Yes,” she says, and has the pain of blushing before her own son, as she tells him he has a brother. “There is another George who is as near to you as those sisters of whom you have told me. I named him George to fill your place, after the law gave you to your father and not to me. O my son! I never meant to leave you. God knows I did not.”
“I do believe that,” he said; “but keep quiet, or they’ll notice. Where is—my—brother?” There is a slight hesitation over the last word—ever so slight—and he puts it bravely, but she feels it. That nice sense of motherhood has always been so quick with her. In all her vicissitudes, it has never been blunted. She tells him where George Rodney is, and asks if he wishes to see him.
“Yes; I do, for your sake; and, besides, he is my namesake, and did almost crowd me out, which I can’t allow, you know. But—is—is—Mr. Rodney living?”
Ah! what a keen although unconscious thrust is that!