“Did you know? How long? I only learned it after her death—Leroux's last illness. My God! does all the country-side know?”
“No, Syl. I alone.”
He sought his son's hand on the coverlet, and then continued in the calm, assured tone that Sylvester knew had given strength and comfort to so many. The voice had grown suddenly strong.
“She came to me herself, and told me, a soul-stricken woman,—just after. She loved the man, Syl, and had always loved him. Circumstances estranged them, they thought for ever. And then—she was a brave woman, Syl—she fancied she could make a good man's life happy,—yours. But the mistake was cleared up, and he returned. She loved him,—my boy, we can't kill love,—but she was proud of her honour and scorned running from temptation; relied on her strength too far, until one day, only one day, Syl, it failed her, in a whirl of madness. She came to me to ask what she should do. I have never seen such frantic grief in a human soul. And a good many have brought their troubles to me,” he added with one of his rare smiles.
“That is true,” said Sylvester. And a sudden impulse made him add, “God bless you!”
For the thought, of a soul in pain flying instinctively to the sympathy of those kind eyes brought a gush of tenderness. He saw him again as the wise counsellor, the generous friend, the child-hearted lover of all things, great and small.
“And you told her—?” he queried in a low voice, deeply moved.
“A greater judge than I set the precedent. She was the truest wife to you thereafter.”
“Tell me, father,” said Sylvester, huskily, “when was it? Dorothy?”
“Your own flesh and blood,” said the old man, gripping his hand. “My poor boy, how you must have suffered!”