Этель Лилиан Войнич: Jack Raymond

He shook his head with a hopeless gesture.

"You don't understand. It wasn't of you I was thinking. You can't be quite forsaken while I live; and at the worst you're a grown woman and can defend yourself, as far as any creature can, in a world like this. But if you and I had happened to die, — there are so many chances in life; and the child had lived, and fallen into uncle's hands... I wonder, did he never think of that?"

She drew his head down against her cheek.

"Dear, that is morbid and unjust; it's not like you, you are always so just. There was never much danger for Johnny; surely either you or I could always have managed to save him from that, if only with a little chloroform. And anyway the fates have been merciful; whatever they may do to us, they have at least spared the child. Jack, you have no right to be bitter against him, the child has suffered no wrong. He has hurt no one but me, and I have not complained."

"Don't be afraid," he answered, sighing. "It will make no difference; nothing will ever make any difference. He's her son and he has a right to me. I must just bear it."

A knock at the street-door roused him.

"That sounds like a telegram. From Edinburgh, perhaps; I was to have shown some sections to-night. For me, Susan? No, there's no answer."

There was a little hush after he shut the door.

"Is it from Edinburgh?" Molly asked, looking round. Jack was standing by the table, the telegram still in his hand. As he turned his head to answer, the look on his face cut her to the heart. Something faint and bitter, scarcely a smile, flickered for an instant round the bearded mouth.

"No," he said. "Something wrong with one of the duchesses, I suppose."

He handed her the telegram. It was dated from Paris.

"A dreadful misfortune has happened. Come to me. — Theo."

She laid the paper down in silence and went back to her place by the dead child.

Jack passed a hand across his eyes. A dim reflection of his childish misery flitted before him, and vanished; a half-forgotten image of a bird flying away from an open cage. He went back to the cot.

"Molly, how much money have we in the house?"

"Three sovereigns and a little silver."

He looked at his watch.

"I'd better take the gold and write you a cheque to go on with. Where's the carbolic, dear? Ask Susan to call a hansom while I get disinfected; I've only just time to catch the boat-train; it starts at nine from Charing Cross."

He stood a moment silent, looking down; then stooped, and drew the sheet over Johnny's head.

THE END