"I do not believe that one drop of your blood runs in my veins."

He bent forward, laying his hands flat on the cloth, then gripping

it fiercely in clenched fists:

"All I want of you is what was my mother's. I bear the name she

gave me; it pleased her to bestow it; it is good enough for me to

wear. If it be hers only, or if it was also my father's, I do not

know; but that name, legitimate or otherwise, is not for exchange!

I will keep it, Colonel Arran. I am what I am."

He hesitated, rigid, clenching and unclenching his hands--then drew

a deep, agonised breath:

"I suppose you have meant to be just to me, I wish you might have

dealt more mercifully with my mother. As for what you have done to

me--well--if she was illegally my mother, I had rather be her

illegitimate son than the son of any woman who ever lived within

the law. Now may I have her letters?"

"Is that your decision, Berkley?"

"It is. I want only her letters from you--and any little

keepsakes--relics--if there be any----"

"I offer to recognise you as my son."

"I decline--believing that you mean to be just--and perhaps

kind--God knows what you do mean by disinterring the dead for a son

to look back upon----"

"Could I have offered you what I offer, otherwise?"

"Man! Man! You have nothing to offer me! Your silence was

the only kindness you could have done me! You have killed

something in me. I don't know what, yet--but I think it was the

best part of me."

"Berkley, do you suppose that I have entered upon this matter

lightly?"

Berkley laughed, showing his teeth. "No. It was your damned

conscience; and I suppose you couldn't strangle it. I am sorry you

couldn't. Sometimes a strangled conscience makes men kinder."

Colonel Arran rang. A dark flush had overspread his forehead; he

turned to the butler.

"Bring me the despatch box which stands on: my study table."

Berkley, hands behind his back, was pacing the dining-room carpet.

"Would you accept a glass of wine?" asked Colonel Arran in a low

voice.

Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.

"Shall a man drink wine with the slayer of souls?" Then, pallid

face horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm. "Not that

you ever could succeed in getting near enough to murder hers!

But you've killed mine. I know now what died in me. It was that!

. . . And I know now, as I stand here excommunicated by you from

all who have been born within the law, that there is not left alive

in me one ideal, one noble impulse, one spiritual conviction. I am

what your righteousness has made me--a man without hope; a man with

nothing alive in him except the physical brute. . . . Better not

arouse that."




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