Imprudence Part 34

She twisted her hand round and clasped his warmly.

"Perhaps it was rather a good thing that I came away," she said, after a moment's pause. "I was growing nervy. A woman with nerves is difficult to live with. I have been thinking, and finding out things. It is astonis.h.i.+ng what a lot I've learned about myself just lately. I want to do better."

"It's been my fault," he insisted. "I never made sufficient allowance for your youth, dear. We'll try again--make a fresh start. We'll talk things out together and not bottle up grievances. We have never talked freely enough to one another."

"No," she said.

"I'm rather glad," he said presently, "that things came to a head. It has opened up the way to a better understanding. You are the sort of woman a man learns to rely upon. You're honest. When I recall the things I said to you that night I am ashamed of myself."

"Never mind that now," she said quickly. "I don't want to think of that. We agreed not to talk of that."

She got up suddenly and stood in front of him, looking down at him with softened, smiling eyes.

"I want to ask a favour," she said, "and I feel that that isn't quite honest just at the moment. It's like taking advantage of our talk.

That's so like a woman, isn't it?"

He sprang up from his seat and took her by the shoulders and kissed her.

"It's the most generous response you could make," he said--"to ask a favour. It's a proof of your trust anyhow."

"It's something very big," she said, with her earnest eyes lifted to his face. "If you are altogether against it I'll not insist."

"Tell me what it is," he said, manifestly surprised by the seriousness of her manner, and entirely unsuspecting the nature of the request.

A faint increase of colour stole into her cheeks, but she kept her gaze lifted to his.

"I have discovered a little child," she explained softly, "whom n.o.body wants; and I want to mother him. I want to take him home with me."

"You've always wanted that," he said, and waited for further enlightenment.

Briefly she confided to his scandalised ears the story of William's illegitimate son, observing him closely while she unfolded the sordid tale in simple direct language, making no appeal to sentiment, merely relating the bald facts and leaving these to work their own effect. She was not in the least surprised that he was too shocked on hearing the story to feel any sympathy for the child in his deserted condition.

That side of the picture left him unmoved.

"You couldn't bring that child home," he said, with more than a touch of firmness. "A child like that! ... In our home! My dear, how could you wish such a thing in view of his parentage?"

"It is on account of his parentage I wish it," Prudence answered quietly. "He is a Graynor, Edward. I want to give him a chance--a chance to grow up honest and decent living, a chance to become a better man than his father."

"You talk as though the child were your responsibility," he complained.

"It's nothing to do with us."

"Not directly, no," she said.

"Nor indirectly," he insisted. "There isn't the faintest reason why you should a.s.sume responsibility."

"There is every reason," she urged. "He is a child launched evilly into a world which shows little sympathy for these children. His life will be a hard one with no good nor kindly influences surrounding it. There are numberless cases like this--little children brought into the world shamefully, and left to drift. It is not surprising that they grow up to become bad citizens; it would be surprising if they didn't. I want to give one of these small citizens his chance. The knowledge that he is closely akin to me makes me more earnest in this wish. We are childless people, Edward; we could do this without injuring any one.

Are you very set against it?"

She paused, and gazed inquiringly into his grave face, while he looked back at her for a long minute in silence, looked into the blue eyes, raised to his with a frank trustfulness he had never beheld in them before; and he knew that he could not refuse her her wish, however distasteful the idea of introducing this child into his home might be.

Still gazing steadily into her quiet eyes, he said:

"You wish to give this child his chance? I don't like the idea, but I have no doubt it is none the less right because it is objectionable to me. I withdraw my opposition. Give him his chance, Prudence. And in return let me ask a favour of you."

"What is that?" she said.

He did not take his eyes from hers. He remained standing before her, observing her with such a yearning wistfulness in his face that her heart went out to him in pity because she had no love to offer in return for the love he still bore for her.

"What is the favour, dear?" she asked. "Give me also a chance," he said hoa.r.s.ely, and held out his hands to her, and waited.

Prudence put her hands into his, and the tears were in her eyes.