Desrolles either did not see the gesture, or did not care to take the hand. He snatched up his greasy-looking hat and hurried from the room.
“Dearest, do you think any worse of me now you know that man is my father,” asked Laura, when the door had closed upon Desrolles, and the bell had been rung to warn Trimmer of the guest’s departure.
“Do I think any worse of a pearl because it comes out of an oyster,” said her husband, smiling at her. “Dear love, if the parish workhouse were peopled with your relations, not one of them more reputable than Mr. Mansfield, my love and reverence for you would not be lessened by a tittle.”
“You don’t believe in hereditary genius, then. You don’t think that we derive our characters mainly from our fathers and mothers.”
“If I did I should believe that your mother was an angel, and that you inherited her disposition.”
“My poor father,” said Laura, with something between a sigh and a shudder. “He was once a gentleman.”
“No doubt, love. There is no saying how low a man may descend when he once takes to travelling downhill.”
“If he had not been a gentleman my adopted father could never have been his friend,” mused Laura. “It would not have been possible for Jasper Treverton to associate with anything base.”
“No, love. And now tell me, when first your father presented himself to you, was not his revelation a great surprise, a shock to your feelings?”
“It was indeed.”
“Tell me, dear, how it happened. Tell me all the circumstances, if it does not pain you.”
“No, dear. It pained me for you to know that my father had fallen so low, but now that you know the worst, I feel easier in my mind. It is a relief to me to be able to speak of him freely. Remember, Jack, he had bound me solemnly to secrecy. I would not break my promise, even to you.”
“I understand all, dear.”
“The first time I saw my father,” Laura began falteringly, as if even to speak of him by that sacred name were painful to her, “it was summer time, a lovely August evening, and I had strolled out after dinner into the orchard. You know the gate that opens from the orchard into the field. I saw a man standing outside it smoking, with his arms resting on the top of the gate. Seeing a stranger there, I turned away to avoid him, but before I had gone three steps he stopped me. ‘Miss Malcolm, for God’s sake let me speak to you,’ he said. ‘I am an old friend whom you must remember.’ I went up to him and looked him full in the face; for there was such earnestness in his manner that it never occurred to me that he might be an impostor. ‘Indeed, I do not remember you,’ I said, ‘when have I ever seen you?’ Then he called me by my Christian name. ‘Laura,’ he said, ‘you were six years old when Mr. Treverton brought you here. Have you quite forgotten the life that went before that time?” ’
She paused, and her husband drew her to the low chair by the fire, and seated himself beside her, letting her head rest on his shoulder.
“Go on, love,” he said, gently, “but not if these memories agitate you.”
“No, dear. It is a relief to confide in you. I told him that I did remember the time before I came to the Manor House. Some events I could remember distinctly, others faintly, like the shadows in a dream. I remembered being in France, by the sea, in a place where the fisherwomen wore bright-coloured petticoats and high caps, where I had children of my own age to play with, and where the sun seemed always shining. And then that life had changed to dull grey days in a place near a river, a place where there were narrow lanes, and country roads and fields; and yet there was a town close by with tall chimneys and busy streets. I remembered that here my mother was ill, lying in a darkened room for many weeks; and then one day my father took me to London in the omnibus, and left me in a large cold-looking house in a great square—a house where all the rooms were big and lofty, and had an awful look after our little parlour at home, and where I used to sit in a drawing-room all day with an old lady in black satin, who let me amuse myself as best I could. My father had told me that the old lady was his aunt, and that I was to call her aunt, but I was too much afraid of her to call her anything. I think I must have stayed there about a week, but it seemed ages, for I was very unhappy, and used to cry myself to sleep every night when the maid had put me to bed in a large bleak room at the top of the house; and then my father came and took me home again in the red omnibus. I could see that he was very unhappy, and while we were walking in the lane that led to our house he told me that my dear mamma had gone away, and that I should never see her again in this world. I had loved her passionately, Jack, and the loss almost broke my heart. I am telling you much more than I told the stranger. I only said enough to him to prove that I remembered my old life.”
“And how did he reply?”
“He took a morocco case from his pocket and gave it into my hand, telling me to look at the portrait inside it. Oh, how well I remembered that sweet face. The memory of it flashed upon me like a dream one has forgotten and tried vainly to recall, till it
