was
always a disgrace to us. Always a weak, untruthful, vicious young brute
with low tastes--my son and heir, Bevis, Lord Fauntleroy. The woman is
an ignorant, vulgar person, you say?"
"I am obliged to admit that she can scarcely spell her own name,"
answered the lawyer. "She is absolutely uneducated and openly mercenary.
She cares for nothing but the money. She is very handsome in a coarse
way, but----"
The fastidious old lawyer ceased speaking and gave a sort of shudder.
The veins on the old Earl's forehead stood out like purple cords.
Something else stood out upon it too--cold drops of moisture. He took
out his handkerchief and swept them away. His smile grew even more
bitter.
"And I," he said, "I objected to--to the other woman, the mother of
this child" (pointing to the sleeping form on the sofa); "I refused to
recognize her. And yet she could spell her own name. I suppose this is
retribution."
Suddenly he sprang up from his chair and began to walk up and down the
room. Fierce and terrible words poured forth from his lips. His rage and
hatred and cruel disappointment shook him as a storm shakes a tree. His
violence was something dreadful to see, and yet Mr. Havisham noticed
that at the very worst of his wrath he never seemed to forget the little
sleeping figure on the yellow satin cushion, and that he never once
spoke loud enough to awaken it.
"I might have known it," he said. "They were a disgrace to me from their
first hour! I hated them both; and they hated me! Bevis was the worse of
the two. I will not believe this yet, though! I will contend against it
to the last. But it is like Bevis--it is like him!"
And then he raged again and asked questions about the woman, about her
proofs, and pacing the room, turned first white and then purple in his
repressed fury.
When at last he had learned all there was to be told, and knew the
worst, Mr. Havisham looked at him with a feeling of anxiety. He looked
broken and haggard and changed. His rages had always been bad for
him, but this one had been worse than the rest because there had been
something more than rage in it.
He came slowly back to the sofa, at last, and stood near it.
"If any one had told me I could be fond of a child," he said, his harsh
voice low and unsteady, "I should not have believed them. I always
detested children--my own more than the rest. I am fond of this one; he
is fond of me" (with a bitter smile). "I am not popular; I ne
|