He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. My people don’t know what to do. If my Mom found out, she’d kill me. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. I do not know anything of him since I have fourteen years, and that he sent me to Blaye to be a nun. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. I know I am undeserving of your bounty; but if I were to tell you what hardships I have undergone—to what frightful extremities I have been reduced—and to what infamy I have submitted, to earn a scanty subsistence for this child's sake, —if you could feel what it is to stand alone in the world as I do, bereft of all who have ever loved me, and shunned by all who have ever known me, except the worthless and the wretched,—if you knew (and Heaven grant you may be spared the knowledge!) how much affliction sharpens love, and how much more dear to me my child has become for every sacrifice I have made for him,—if you were told all this, you would, I am sure, pity rather than reproach me, because I cannot at once consent to a separation, which I feel would break my heart. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. This is your moment.
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