"You'd better know the truth. It is too late now to discuss whose

fault it was that the trouble arose between your mother and me. We

lived together only a few weeks. She was in love with her cousin;

she didn't realise it until she'd married me. I have nothing more

to say on that score; she tried to be faithful, I believe she was;

but he was a scoundrel. And she ended by thinking me one.

"Even before I married her I was made painfully aware that our

dispositions and temperaments were not entirely compatible. I

think," he added grimly, "that in the letters read to you this

afternoon she used the expression, 'ice and fire,' in referring to

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herself and me."

Berkley only looked at him.

"There is now nothing to be gained in reviewing that unhappy

affair," continued the other. "Your mother's family are headlong,

impulsive, fiery, unstable, emotional. There was a last shameful

and degrading scene. I offered her a separation; but she was

unwisely persuaded to sue for divorce."

Colonel Arran bent his head and touched his long gray moustache

with bony fingers.

"The proceeding was farcical; the decree a fraud. I warned her;

but she snapped her fingers at me and married her cousin the next

day. . . . And then I did my duty by civilisation."

Still Berkley never stirred. The older man looked down at the

wine-soiled cloth, traced the outline of the crimson stain with

unsteady finger. Then, lifting his head:

"I had that infamous decree set aside," he said grimly. "It was a

matter of duty and of conscience, and I did it without

remorse. . . . They were on what they supposed to be a wedding trip.

But I had warned her." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "If they

were not over-particular they were probably happy. Then he broke

his neck hunting--before you were born."

"Was he my father?"

"I am taking the chance that he was not."

"You had reason to believe----"

"I thought so. But--your mother remained silent. And her answer

to my letters was to have you christened under the name you bear

to-day, Philip Ormond Berkley. And then, to force matters, I made

her status clear to her. Maybe--I don't know--but my punishment of

her may have driven her to a hatred of me--a desperation that

accepted everything--even you!"

Berkley lifted a countenance from which every vestige of colour had

fled.




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