“Mrs. Temple!” The girl repeated the name sorrowfully, but perplexedly, not grasping its full significance.
“She is my mother,” said Nick, with a bitterness I had not thought in him, “she is my mother, or I would curse her. For she has ruined my life and brought shame on a good name.”
He paused, his breath catching for very anger. Mrs. Temple hid her face in her hands, while the girl shrank back in terror. I grasped him by the arm.
“Have you no compassion?” I cried. But Mrs. Temple interrupted me.
“He has the right,” she faltered; “it is my just punishment.”
He tore himself away, and took a step to her.
“Where is Riddle?” he cried. “As God lives, I will kill him without mercy!”
His mother lifted her head again.
“God has judged him,” she said quietly; “he is beyond your vengeance—he is dead.” A sob shook her, but she conquered it with a marvellous courage. “Harry Riddle loved me, he was kind to me, and he was a better man than John Temple.”
Nick recoiled. The fierceness of his anger seemed to go, leaving a more dangerous humor.