’I am not so sure of that, Henry.  Let me be quite frank with you.  I do not wish to entrap you into making an engagement you cannot keep.  You have corroborated to-night what I half suspected when I saw you talking to the girl in the churchyard; there is a very vigorous flirtation going on between you and this wretched man’s daughter.’

’Flirtation?  ’I said, and the incongruity of the word as applied to such a passion as mine did not vex or wound me; it made me smile.

‘Well, for her sake, I hope it is nothing more,’ said my mother.  ’In view of the impassable gulf between her and you, I do for her sake sincerely hope that it is nothing more than a flirtation.’

‘Pardon me, mother,’ I said, ’it was the word “flirtation” that made me smile.’

’We will not haggle about words, Henry; give it what name may please you, it is all the same to me.  But flirtations of this kind will sometimes grow serious, as the case of Percy Aylwin and the Gypsy girl shows.  Now, Henry, I do not accuse you of entertaining the mad idea of really marrying this girl, though such things, as you know, have been in our family.  But you are my only son, and I do love you, Henry, whatever may be your opinion on that point; and, because I love you, I would rather, far rather, be a lonely, childless woman in the world, I would far rather see you dead on this floor, than see you marry Winifred Wynne.’

’Ah! mother, the cruelty of this family pride has always been the curse of the Aylwins.’

’It seems cruel to you now, because you are a boy, a generous boy.  You think it the romantic, poetic thing to elevate a low girl to your own station—­perhaps even to show your superiority to conventions by marrying the daughter of the miscreant who has desecrated your own father’s tomb.  But, Henry, I know the race to which you and I belong.  In five years’ time—­in three years, or perhaps in two—­you will thank me for this; you will say:  “My mother’s love was not cruel, but wise."’

‘Oh, mother!’ I said, ‘any condition but that.’

’I see that you know what my condition is before I utter it.  If you will give me your word—­and the word of an Aylwin is an oath—­if you will give me your word that you will never marry Winifred Wynne, I will do as you desire.  I will myself go upon the sands in the morning, and if the body has been exposed by the tide I will secure the evidence of her father’s guilt, in order to save the girl from the suffering which the knowledge of that guilt would cause her, as you suppose.’

‘As I suppose!’

‘Again I say, Henry, we will not quarrel about words.’

I turned sick with despair.

‘And on no other terms, mother?’

‘On no other terms,’ said she.

’Oh, mercy, mother! mercy! you know not what you do.  I could not live without her; I should die without her.’

‘Better die then!’ exclaimed my mother, with an expression of ineffable scorn, and losing for the first time her self-possession; ‘better die than marry like that.’