Hogarth went moodily down the hillside to the Waveney, across thebridge, and home, his sleeve stained with blood.
In the dining-room, he threw himself into an easy-chair in a gloom litonly by the fireglow, in the room above mourning a little harmoniumwhich Margaret was playing, mixed with the sound of Loveday's voice.
The old man said: "Richard, my boy..."
Hogarth did not answer.
"Richard, I have somewhat to say to you--are ye hearkening?"
Richard, losing blood, moaned a drowsy "Yes".
And the old Hogarth, all deaf and bedimmed, said: "I had to say it toyou, and this night let it be: Richard, you are no son of mine".
At this point Hogarth's head dropped forward: but many a time, duringlong years, he remembered a dream in which he had heard those words:"Richard, you are no son of mine..."
The old Hogarth continued to ears that did not hear:
"I have kept it from you--for I'm under a bargain with a firm ofsolicitors in London; but, Dick, it doesn't strike me as I am long forthis world: a queer feeling I've had in this left side the last hour ortwo; and there's that Circular--I never heard of such a thing in all myborn days. But what can we do? You'll have to wear the cap--or be turnedout. Always I've said to myself, from a young man: 'Get hold of a bit ofland someways as your own God's own': but I never did; the days went byand by, and it all seems no longer than an after-dinner nap in a barn ona hot harvest-day. But a bit of land--the man who has that can make allthe rest work to keep him. And if they turn me out, I couldn't live,lad: the old house has got into my bones, somehow. Anyhow, I think thetime is come to tell you in my own way how the thing was. No son are youof mine, Richard. Your mother, Rachel, who was a Londoner, served me anill turn while we were sweethearting, hankering after another man--a Jewmillionaire he was, she being a governess in his house; but, Richard, Icouldn't give her up: I married her three months before you were born;and not a living creature knows, except, perhaps, one--perhaps one: apriest he was, called O'Hara. But that's how it was. Your father wasa Jew, and your mother was a Jew, and you are a Jew, and in theunder-bottom of the old grey trunk you will find a roll of papers. Areyou hearkening? And don't you be ashamed of being a Jew, boy--_they_ arethe people who've got the money; and money buys land, Richard. Nor yourfather did not do so badly by you, either: his name was Spinoza--SirSolomon Spinoza--"
At that point Margaret, bearing a lamp, entered, followed by Loveday,and at the sight of Richard uttered a cry.