'Go on,' said the mother sternly. 'I will hear every word in that letter. I can bear it. God in heaven knows that I have borne much already.'
'Then be prepared for what follows, though it may not be to your liking. You must remember that it is the lady who writes, who has neither seen nor known you.'
Jane nodded. She was choking. But she said hoarsely, 'Go on!' and pointed with her knitting-pin.
Mrs. Jose read, '"Mr. Holwood is resolved that the connection between his daughter and that woman shall cease entirely."'
'Shall cease entirely――that connection,' muttered Jane. Then she looked up and laughed bitterly. 'Can any man make that connection cease entirely――that――the connection between mother and child? She is my daughter; she is more mine than she is his. She has drunk her young life at my bosom. She has lived all that life with me. She has been, she is still, in my heart of hearts. He may tear my limbs away. But he cannot separate Winefred from me. Go on.'
Mrs. Jose, conscious of the pain that she was giving, aware that every word was as the iron tooth of a harrow drawn over the mother's heart, wiped her eyes that were full. Then she continued, '"He is prepared to give Marley an annuity, a liberal allowance, but――――"'
'"But Winefred and she must never meet again."'
'It shall not be!' cried Jane, as she beat the table with clenched hand and snapped the steel needle. 'He has ruined my happiness, wrecked my life――nothing, nothing whatever has been left me, nothing, nothing, save only my child, and her he will tear from me. He shall not do it.'
'Pray do not be excited and angry, Jane,' said the farmer's wife. 'You must remember that you yourself desired to have Winefred brought up as a lady.'
'And as a lady she must of necessity be much severed from you.'
'No, perhaps that need not have been; but the father thinks differently. If he takes her to live with him, what can you do? Can you go to him, uninvited? Will he recognise you as his wife? The situation will be most untoward for yourself, for him, for Winefred. You must weigh this well.'
'I do weigh it. I will not be parted from her for ever. If she is made a lady, let me look on her. Let me see her from afar off. But see her I must, or it will kill me. She is my child.' Jane looked half fiercely, half imploringly into her visitor's face. 'You do not understand what it is to be a mother――and a mother of one child. She lives for one thing only――her child. She has but one pride――her child; one hope――her child. She cannot do without her. Look you. There is a woman at Seaton, a widow. She lost her son, her only son. He clambered after gulls' eggs, fell over the cliffs, and was dashed to pieces. Thenceforth she is no more a woman, she is a moving image. She has no soul, no heart, no life more, nothing in the world to hope for, nothing in the world to love, nothing even to fear. All her life died out in her when she lost her son. I have a daughter. She lives. I may not be with her always. I am content for her sake that it shall be so. But not to see her, never to hear her speak, not again to feel her arms round me, and to rock her head on my bosom!――I could not bear it. Promise me but this, twenty years hence I shall kiss her, and I will live in that single hope――but never――never――――' She cast herself at full length on the ground and burst into a rage of tears.