He breathed quickly and painfully.  Mary sat without a movement.

’I thought I had done a great thing in marrying a wife that was born above me.  Her father had been a country gentleman; horse-racing and such things had brought him down, and from her twelfth year his daughter lived—­I never quite knew how, but on charity of some kind.  She grew up without trying to earn her own living; she thought herself too good for that, thought she had a claim to be supported, because as a child she was waited upon by servants.  When I asked her once if she couldn’t have done something, she stared at me and laughed in my face.  For all that she was glad enough to marry a man of my sort—­rough and uneducated as I was.  She always reminded me of it, though—­that I had no education; I believe she thought that she had a perfect right to throw over such a husband, whenever she chose.  Afterwards, I saw very well that her education didn’t amount to much.  How could it, when she learnt nothing after she was twelve?  She was living with very poor people who came from my part of the country—­that’s how I met her.  The father led some sort of blackguard life in London, but had no money for her, nor yet for his other girl, who went into service, I was told, and perhaps made herself a useful, honest woman.  He died in a hospital, and he was buried at my expense—­not three months before his daughter went off and left me.’

‘You will never tell your children,’ said Mary, when there had been a long pause.

’I’ve often thought it would only be right if I told them.  I’ve often thought, the last year or two, that Nancy ought to know.  It might make her think, and do her good.’

‘No, no,’ returned the other hurriedly.  ’Never let her know of it—­ never.  It might do her much harm.’

’You know now, Mary, why I look at the girl so anxiously.  She’s not like her mother; not much like her in face, and I can’t think she’s like her in heart.  But you know what her faults are as well as I do.  Whether I’ve been right or wrong in giving her a good education, I shall never know.  Wrong, I fear—­but I’ve told you all about that.’

‘You don’t know whether she’s alive or not?’ asked Mary, when once more it was left to her to break silence.

‘What do I care?  How should I know?’

‘Don’t be tempted to tell them—­either of them!’ said the other earnestly.

’My friend Barmby knows.  Whether he’s told his son, I can’t say; it’s twenty years since we spoke about it.  If he did ever mention it to Samuel, then it might somehow get known to Horace or the girl, when I’m gone.—­I won’t give up the hope that young Barmby may be her husband.  She’ll have time to think about it.  But if ever she should come to you and ask questions—­I mean, if she’s been told what happened—­you’ll set me right in her eyes?  You’ll tell her what I’ve told you?’

‘I hope it may never—­’

‘So do I,’ Stephen interrupted, his voice husky with fatigue.  ’But I count on you to make my girl think rightly of me, if ever there’s occasion.  I count on you.  When I’m dead, I won’t have her think that I was to blame for her mother’s ill-doing.  That’s why I’ve told you.  You believe me, don’t you?’