“Come and have supper,” he said. “I’ve been out to buy it, and haven’t much time to help you eat it. My father and mother don’t know where I am.”

Then he told her what he had been about.

With a happy heart Richard made his way home, for he left happy hearts behind him.

When he opened the door to greet his parents, his mother was not in the least surprised to see him and she looked strangely troubled.

“What does this telegram mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know, mother,” he replied. “Won’t you give me a kiss first?”

She threw her arms about him.

“You won’t stop saying mother to me, will you?” she pleaded, fighting with her emotion.

“It will be a bad day for me when I do!” he answered. “My mother you are and shall be. Whatever do you mean?”

The telegram let him know that sir Wilton and his grandfather had been in communication, and gave him hope that things might be accommodated between him and his father.

“You’ve got your real father now, Richard!” said his mother.

But she saw an expression on his face that made her add,—

“You must respect your father, Richard, now that you know him for your father.”

“I can’t respect him, mother. He is not a good man. I can only love him.”

“You have no right to find fault with him. He did no wrong to your mother. He was not to blame that I carried you away when she died! I was terrified at your stepmother!”

“My mother—my stepmother—who do you mean?” said Richard, staring at her in bewilderment. “He said I was his son—his bastard son, and for your sake, how can I respect him?”

“No, Richard—you are his true son,” said Jane. “Your mother, my sister Robina, was the wife of sir Wilton, and you are his heir. And I am not your mother.”

— Thirty-Nine —

The Bookbinder’s Heritage

It would be but stirring a muddy pool to inquire what forces compelled sir Wilton Lestrange to marry a woman nobody knew. His motives were mainly low ones, as demonstrated by their intermittent character and final cessation. The marriage to a social inferior brought about great surprise, and just as much annoyance, among the families of the county—many of their own grandmothers failing to remind themselves that they had been no better known to the small world than lady Lestrange.

The union caused yet more surprise, though less annoyance, among the men of sir Wilton’s clubs—they set him down as a greater idiot than anyone had previously imagined him. Had he not been dragged to the altar by a woman whose manners and breeding were hardly on the level of a villa in St. John’s Wood? Did anyone know whence she sprang, or even her name before sir Wilton replaced it with his own?

Even sir Wilton himself displayed no pride in his lady. His mother, a lady less dignified than eccentric, out of pure curiosity asked him to enlighten her concerning her origin, and received for answer from the high-minded baronet, “Madam, the woman is my wife!”—after which the prudent dowager asked no more questions. Sir Wilton, however, soon came to begrudge his wife the fact that he had married her and so generously bestowed upon her his name. The marriage was the fruit of but a momentary passion. Springing up suddenly, just as suddenly it died away.