And this comradeship, safe and assured, was the one
luxury he permitted himself in a world where he was looked upon as a
hard, an almost cruel, man.
"I do not want you to tell anything in order to explain your actions
now, or ever. I am confident that under all circumstances you would act
wisely. You are the most normal woman I ever knew."
"Thank you. But I still must speak--more for Dick than for you. I need
your help for him."
Outside, the fiddle was repeating again and again a nocturne that Helen
particularly loved.
"Dick is not--my son!" she said quickly and softly from out the shadows.
She was rarely abrupt, and her words startled Ledyard into alertness. He
got up and drew his chair close to hers.
"What did you say?" he whispered, keeping his eyes upon her lowered face.
"I said--Dick is not my son."
"And--whose is he--may I ask?"
There was a tenseness in the question. Now that he saw the gravity of the
confession Ledyard wished beyond all else to cut quick and deep and then
bind up the wound.
"He is the child of--my husband, and--another woman."
In the hush that followed, Dick's fiddle, running now through a delicious
strain of melody, seemed like a current bearing them on.
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