But now it was Monica's turn to urge. All the joy had gone out of her eyes. He had reminded her of the tissue of falsehood she had prepared for him. No, no, she could not tell him yet, and, with all a coward's procrastination, she put him off.

"I'll--I'll tell you about it when you've eaten," she said hastily.

"We've--we've got to have a serious talk. But not--now. Afterwards."

Frank gave her a quick, sidelong glance.

"Righto," he said simply. But a shadow had somehow crept into his eyes.

So deep was the sympathy between these two that he promptly read something of the trouble underlying her manner.

Frank was seated on the lounge beside the window. His att.i.tude was one of tense, hard feeling. His blue eyes were full of bitterness as they stared out at the coppery sheen of the telegraph wires, which caught the winter sunlight, just outside the sitting-room window.

Monica had just finished speaking. For some minutes the low pleading of her voice had reached him across the room. She was as far from him as the limits of the room would permit. Such was her repulsion at the lies she had to tell him that she felt the distance between them could not be too wide.

Her story was told. She had branded herself with her sister's shame.

The curious twist of her mind held her to her promise, even to this extent. Now she waited with bowed head for the judgment of this youth of eighteen who had been taught to call her "mother." And as she sat there waiting she felt that her whole life, her whole being was made up of degraded falsehood.

The story was as complete as she could make it. The work was done. Her sister's name, and ill-fame, had been kept from her son.

As the moments pa.s.sed and no word came in answer, Monica's apprehension grew, and she urged him. She could face his utmost scorn better than this suspense.

"That is all, Frank," she said, with a dignity she was wholly unaware of.

The man stirred. He stretched out his great limbs upon the couch and drew them up again. Then he turned his eyes upon the waiting woman.

They were unsmiling, but they had no condemnation in them. He had fought out his little battle with himself.

"So I am a--b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he said, slowly and distinctly. "Frank; oh, Frank! Not that word."

The boy laughed, but without any mirth.

"Why not? Why be afraid of the truth? Besides, I have always known--at least suspected it."

Monica suddenly buried her face in her hands. He had known. He had suspected. And all these years she had endeavored to keep the secret from him. The thought of it all hurt her as much as if the shame of it were really hers.

Presently he left his seat and came to her side. "Don't worry, mother, dear," he said, with one hand tenderly laid upon her shoulder. "You see, we never talked much of my father. You were never easy when you spoke of him. I guessed there was something wrong; and being young, and perhaps imaginative, I found the truth without much guessing. Still I didn't ask questions. It was not up to me to hurt you. What was the use. I knew I should hear some day, and quite made up my mind how to act." He smiled. "You see, if you told me I knew I could bear it almost--easily. I should have far less to bear than you who told it, and--and that showed me how small a thing it was for me--by comparison.

If it came through other sources I should have acted differently, particularly if the telling of it came from--a man."

He paused, and Monica looked up at him with wondering admiration.

"I want to tell you, mother," he hurried on, blushing painfully with self-consciousness, "that only a great and brave woman could have told her son--what you have told me. And--and I honor you for it. I want to tell you it's not going to make any difference between us, unless it is to increase my--my love. As for me--I don't see that it's going to give me sleepless nights, so--so just let's forget it."

Frank's manner became hurried and ashamed as he finished up. It seemed absurd to him that he should be saying such things to his mother. Yet he wanted to say them. He intended to say them. So he blundered as quickly and shamefacedly through them as he could.

To his enormous relief Monica sighed as though the worst were over. But her sigh was at the wonderful magnanimity of this huge boy. He started to return to the lounge. Half way across the room he came to a sudden stop, and a look of perplexity drew his brows together. In his anxiety for his mother he had forgotten. Now he remembered. Suddenly he turned back.

"You didn't send for me so urgently to tell me this?" he demanded.

"This would have kept."

Monica shook her head decidedly. She caught a sharp breath.

"It would not have kept. It--it had to be told--now."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I am going to be--married."

"Mother!"

There was no doubt about the man's dismay. He stood there hardly daring to believe his senses. His mother was going to be married after--after----

"But, mother, you don't mean that? You're not serious," he cried, his ingenious face flushed, his whole look incredulous.

Something of the woman's resentment against the unworthy part that had been forced upon her suddenly found expression.

"Yes, I mean it," she cried sharply. "Of course I mean it. I am in no mood to trifle. Why else should I have sent for you now to tell you the miserable story you have just listened to, unless it were that my coming marriage made it imperative?"

The flush deepened upon the man's face.

"But you can't," he cried, with sudden vehemence. "You daren't! Oh, mother, you must be mad to think of marriage now--I mean with--with my existence to be accounted for."

"That's just why I have sent for you."

Monica sprang from her seat and ran to him. She reached up, and placed both hands upon his shoulders and gazed pleadingly into his face.

"Don't fail me, Frank. Don't fail me," she cried, all her woman's heart stirred to a dreadful fear lest, after all, she should lose the happiness she was striving for, had lied for, was ready to do almost anything for. "You don't know what it means to me. How can you? You are only a boy. It means everything. Yes, it means my life. Oh, Frank, think of all the years I have gone through without a home, without any of those things which a woman has a right to, except what I have earned for myself with my own two hands. Think of the loveless life I have been forced to live for all these years. Frank, Frank, I have given up everything in the world for you, and now--now I love this man--I love him with my whole soul."

Her head was bowed, and the agitated boy led her back to her seat. He was beginning to understand things. His honest eyes were beginning to look life in the face, and to see there phases quite undreamed of in his youthful mind.

"I think I am beginning to understand, mother," he said simply. "Tell me more. Tell me what you want of me. I--you see, all this is a bit of a shock. I don't seem to know where I am. Who is the man?"

"Alexander Hendrie."

"Hendrie? The man you work for? The man who owns all those miles of wheat up our way? The millionaire?"

Frank's eyes shone with a sudden enthusiasm as he detailed the achievements of the wheat king. For the moment he had forgotten the reason of the mention of his name.

"Yes, yes." Something of his enthusiasm found an echo in Monica. "Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it wonderful? Can you wonder that I love him? Such a king among men. All my life I have longed for achievement in the commercial world. To me it is all that is worth while. This man has it.

He is it. I have been his chief secretary for two years. I have had a most intimate knowledge of all his affairs, of the man. I have helped in my little way toward his success. I love this man, and he loves me.

He will not hear of my refusing him. I intended to because of you, but--but he is too strong for me. He has bent my will to his, and I--I have yielded. Nor was it all unwillingly. Oh, no. I was ready enough to yield in spite of----"

"Does--he know of my existence?" Frank demanded. His eyes were bright with alertness.

Monica's eyes widened.