This last sentence was uttered with an abrupt emphasis, and she paused
after it as if the words had raised a crowd of remembrances which
obstructed speech. Her son was listening to her with feelings more and
more highly mixed; the first sense of being repelled by the frank
coldness which had replaced all his preconceptions of a mother's tender
joy in the sight of him; the first impulses of indignation at what
shocked his most cherished emotions and principles--all these busy
elements of collision between them were subsiding for a time, and
making more and more room for that effort at just allowance and that
admiration of a forcible nature whose errors lay along high pathways,
which he would have felt if, instead of being his mother, she had been
a stranger who had appealed to his sympathy. Still it was impossible to
be dispassionate: he trembled lest the next thing she had to say would
be more repugnant to him than what had gone before: he was afraid of
the strange coercion she seemed to be under to lay her mind bare: he
almost wished he could say, "Tell me only what is necessary," and then
again he felt the fascination which made him watch her and listen to
her eagerly. He tried to recall her to particulars by asking--

"Where was my grandfather's home?"

"Here in Genoa, where I was married; and his family had lived here
generations ago. But my father had been in various countries."

"You must surely have lived in England?"

"My mother was English--a Jewess of Portuguese descent. My father
married her in England. Certain circumstances of that marriage made all
the difference in my life: through that marriage my father thwarted his
own plans. My mother's sister was a singer, and afterward she married
the English partner of a merchant's house here in Genoa, and they came
and lived here eleven years. My mother died when I was eight years old,
and my father allowed me to be continually with my Aunt Leonora and be
taught under her eyes, as if he had not minded the danger of her
encouraging my wish to be a singer, as she had been. But this was it--I
saw it again and again in my father:--he did not guard against
consequences, because he felt sure he could hinder them if he liked.
Before my aunt left Genoa, I had had enough teaching to bring out the
born singer and actress within me: my father did not know everything
that was done; but he knew that I was taught music and singing--he knew
my inclination. That was nothing