i f6c06dd9cf3fe221 by Unknown (the false prince .TXT) 📕

"Who was my father?"

"He was an artist, lass."

"An artist!" Kate's face lit up.

"Yes, hinny.... He painted pictures of slums and docks and people like the blind beggar who used to sit under the arches, never anything pretty. He came to the back door there one stifling night in July and said someone had told him we'd a room to spare.... Would we let him have it? Just for a few weeks? I asked him in; Tim was eating his tea, and I felt he was going to say no. But then he looked him up and down, and I could see he didn't think much of him; for he was rather short and slim and his hair was going grey at the temples, although he wasn't forty. And when he offered to pay thirty shillings a week, that settled the matter, for thirty shillings a week was a fortune. "

"How long did he stay? ... And did he know about me?" asked Kate, eagerly.

"He stayed three months.... No, he didn't know about you ... but he wanted me to go away with him."

"Oh, why didn't you, ma?"

"I had married Tim, hinny, for better or worse.... Anyway, I hadn't the courage then. Had it been a few years later. God knows what I might have done. But then it was too late.... It was too late eighteen months after."

"Why? Did you hear from him?"

"I never heard from him after he left, but I had an address to go to if ever I wanted him. But he died.... I saw it one morning in the paper, half a page was taken up with his paintings, and his picture was there too ... but I daren't even keep that."

"Oh, ma." Kate stroked her mother's hand.

"Why didn't you tell him about me?"

"Because he would have come back, and there'd 'av been murder; Tim and him had grown to hate each other in a very short time."

"Did he love you, ma?"

"He said he did."

Kate looked at her mother's grey hair, the weary eyes with the wrinkled bags beneath, the tremulous mouth, the nervous, twitching tongue; how old she looked! It was hard to imagine her young and attractive, with an artist in love with her. But she must have been pretty once. And anyway, there was her disposition; he would have been attracted by that alone, thought Kate, for she was so sweet, so gentle, asking nothing, and giving all.

"I love you, too," said Kate suddenly, bending above her, her eyes large and dark with tenderness.

Sarah blinked rapidly and shook her head, evidently embarrassed. Kate came out with the oddest things, putting into words thoughts that she would never dream

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of voicing, even if she felt them deeply. She supposed it was living with the Tolmaches that had made Kate like that, and yet it was good to hear her say what she had. How many years was it since she had heard someone say they loved her? Nearly twenty-six!

They both started as the back door was shaken with considerable violence. Their eyes flashed the same message. It can't be him, he isn't finished till five o'clock.

When Kate withdrew the bolt and saw Pat standing there, she sighed with relief. But the laughing comment she was about to make died on her lips as she noticed the expression on his face.

"Why, Pat, what's happened? Don't stand there like that, come in."

But from the first sight of her his eagerness to get into the house was gone. He stared at her as if storing up for all time all his eyes could take in.

"Have you had an accident?... Do please come in, and don't stand there!" she repeated.

"What on earth is the matter, anyway?"

He passed her and took a few steps backwards into the kitchen, never letting hia gaze drop from her face.

Kate dosed the door, thinking. Something, Something dreadful's happened. Oh, and I was so happy. Why must it always be like this?

"Sit down," she said quietly, 'till I light the gas. I thought you were working right through when you didn't call in at dinnertime. "

The gas lit, she pulled down the blind and turned to him. His eyes held a stricken look. She put her hand out in compassion and touched his arm, and found herself pulled into his embrace so fiercely and crushed so hard against him that her breath caught in a gasp and there was a surging in her ears. His arms, like steel bands, moved about her, pressing her, crushing her into him, and when his hand came behind her head and his mouth covered hers, in such a way as she had never experienced before, she thought dimly. Don't struggle, he's ill.

Sarah, her legs dangling over the edge of the saddle, looked on in dumb amazement. She was well acquainted with trouble, and she knew it was once more in the kitchen, but the form it was taking was unusual.

He's in a way, poor lad, he's in a way, she kept repeating to herself.

And oh, if he would only stop carrying on like that!

When Kate, after what seemed an eternity, felt Pat release her lips and the tenderness she was used to creep back into his touch, she gently pressed him away and sank down into a chair. She was breathless and a little afraid.

As he still did not speak, but stood looking so strangely at Kate, Sarah said quietly, "What is it, lad? Tell us what's happened."

After a silence that was painful in its length, he turned slowly to Sarah. He looked suddenly childish and forlorn.

"It's Connie Fawcett, ma! She's done this."

"Connie!" Kate and Sarah exclaimed together. Then, "What's Connie got to do with us. Pat?" Kate asked; while