“It will be quite dead.”
“You are his father, you know, really,” she whispered.
“The law of England takes no count, unfortunately, of things of the spirit,” said I.
“What are things of the spirit?”
“The things, my dear,” said I, “that you are beginning to understand.” I bent down and kissed the child as it lay on her lap. “Poor little Marcus Ordeyne,” I said. “My poor quaintly fathered little son, I’m afraid there is much trouble ahead of you, but I’ll do my best to help you through it.”
“Bless you, dear,” said Carlotta, softly.
I looked at her in wonder. She had spoken for the first time like a grown woman—like a woman with a soul.
A few weeks later.
We were sitting at breakfast. The morning newspaper contained the account of a battle and the lists of British officers killed. I scanned as usual the melancholy columns, when a name among the dead caught my eye—and I stared at it stupidly. Pasquale was dead, killed outright by a Boer bullet. The wild, bright life was ended. It seemed a horrible thing, and, much as he had wronged me, my first sentiment was one of dismay. He was too gallant and beautiful a creature for death.
Carlotta poured out my tea and came round with the cup which she deposited by my side. To prevent her peeping over my shoulder at the paper, as she usually did, I laid it on the table; but her quick eye had already read the great headlines.