Was I so ill read as to imagine that a mother must of necessity be
a good woman? Was he to speak of his mother as he did not believe of her,
or be unfit for my company? Would untruth be a bond between us?
"I beg your pardon," I said; "I was wrong. But you can hardly wonder I
should be shocked to hear a son speak so of his mother--and to one all
but a stranger!"
"What!" he returned, with a look of surprise; "do you think of me so? I
feel as if I had known you all my life--and before it!"
I felt ashamed, and was silent. If he was such a stranger, why was I
there alone with him?
"You must not think I speak so to any one," he went on. "Of those who
know my mother, not one has a right to demand of me anything concerning
her. But how could I ask you to see me, and hide from you the truth about
her? Prudence would tell you to have nothing to do with the son of such a
woman: could I be a true man, true to you, and hold my tongue about her?
I should be a liar of the worst sort!"
He felt far too strongly, it was plain, to heed a world of commonplaces.
"Forgive me," I said. "May I sit down again?"
He held out his hand. I took it, and reseated myself on the
clover-hillock. He laid himself again beside me, and after a little
silence began to relate what occurred to him of his external history,
while all the time I was watching for hints as to how he had come to be
the man he was.
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