Neither he nor his wife went to bed until far
along in the wee sma' hours. The great house was as still as the
grave, save for the occasional crack of shrinking woodwork and the
rattle of dislodged icicles on the window-ledges outside. The wind had
died away. It seemed that all nature, respecting their mood, had
hushed its every noise in order that they might think, and think, and
think on without hope or a single sign of promise in this time of
despair.
They were to lose Kathleen. The man had been somewhat vague about it,
but the situation was clear to them, even though it was not so to him.
Their claim to the child--the one they loved best of all--was no
longer undivided. A real father had turned up to assert his rights.
They might dispute his claim and make the affair so awkward and so
unpleasant for him that he would withdraw, but what would be their
gain? The man existed. He was the real father. Kathleen was the flesh
and blood of this tardy penitent, this betrayer of women, this coward.
Never again, so long as she lived, could she be looked upon as theirs.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214