“Oh, Chester would never do such a thing,” mother gasped.
“Then, where did Paul pick up that old scandal to throw at me?” I demanded.
“What old scandal do you mean, Clinton?” she asked, faintly.
“Are you sure you wish to talk about it now, mother?” I asked, for I was troubled by what the doctor had said the night before.
“Better now than at any other time,” she said, with some decision. “I suppose poor Paul heard some of the servants, or other people like that, repeating the story. Oh, Clinton! it almost broke my heart at the time. That anybody should think your father would contemplate taking his own life—it was awful. Of course, you do not remember.”
“Well—hardly!” I exclaimed. But I was troubled again by the manner in which she spoke of Paul Downes. Hanged if she wasn’t excusing my cousin!
“It was a very wretched time for me,” said my mother, weakly. “I really do not know what I would have done had it not been for Chester. He came immediately, and he took charge of everything. I can never forget his kindness.”
A sudden thought struck me, and I could not help putting the suspicion to the test. “Mother,” I asked, “was father and Mr. Chester Downes very good friends?”
She looked startled again for an instant. I saw her smooth cheek flush and then turn pale again. My mother blushed as easily as any girl of fifteen.
“Why, Clinton, that is a strange question,” she said.