"Take him with you to his father then."

Richard Devine gently loosed the arms that again clung around his neck,
kissed the pale face, and turned his own--scarcely less pale--towards
the old man.

"I owe you no duty," he said. "You have always hated and reviled me.
When by your violence you drove me from your house, you set spies
to watch me in the life I had chosen. I have nothing in common with you.
I have long felt it. Now when I learn for the first time whose son
I really am, I rejoice to think that I have less to thank you for than
I once believed. I accept the terms you offer. I will go. Nay, mother,
think of your good name."

Sir Richard Devine laughed again. "I am glad to see you are so well disposed.
Listen now. To-night I send for Quaid to alter my will. My sister's son,
Maurice Frere, shall be my heir in your stead. I give you nothing.
You leave this house in an hour. You change your name; you never by word
or deed make claim on me or mine. No matter what strait or poverty
you plead--if even your life should hang upon the issue--the instant I hear
that there exists on earth one who calls himself Richard Devine,
that instant shall your mother's shame become a public scandal.
You know me. I keep my word. I return in an hour, madam; let me
find him gone."

He passed them, upright, as if upborne by passion, strode down the garden
with the vigour that anger lends, and took the road to London.

"Richard!" cried the poor mother. "Forgive me, my son! I have ruined you."