AND A MOTHER
It was not often that Mrs. Donald Dawlish made a call at any hour of
the day. The appearance in Berkeley Square of her big car at eleven
o’clock at night was something of an event.
“Mrs. Dawlish?” said Jane in wonder, when the footman came to her with
the news. She had not seen the woman for two years. Indeed, Mrs.
Dawlish’s attitude of late had been frankly antagonistic. “Ask her to
come up, please.”
The woman strode into the room, patting her mop of untidy white hair
into place. She wore the black which suited her better than any more
vivid shade, and on her bosom blazed a diamond star which was just a
little too large to be altogether ornamental.
“I suppose you’re surprised at my coming at this hour?” She dropped
her shawl on the settee, and, walking to the fire, held out her hands
to the blaze.
“I am a little,” said Jane, wondering what was coming next. Nothing
short of a catastrophe could have brought Peter’s mother in such
circumstances.
“I’ve been a good friend of yours, Jane, in the past,” she began, and
her look asked for confirmation; but Jane was silent. “There’s
trouble, bad trouble, over that will of the old man’s,” she went on.
“I’ve had a letter from his lawyer to-night, asking me to give them
all sorts of information that I am not prepared to give. The will was
proved six weeks ago. They can do nothing now, but they nag and nag
and I’m getting tired of it all. They may be acting for Peter, but I
doubt it. But Peter can stop this persecution.”
It was the first news that Jane Raytham had had of any trouble in
connection with the will, but the request was one which she could not
pass unchallenged.
“I know nothing about the matter,” she said. “Peter of course must do
as he wishes. I have no influence there.”
“You have a big influence,” said Mrs. Dawlish emphatically. “Peter has
found out about the child: I suppose you know that?”
Jane nodded.
“The man is crazy to find it, and he----”
She met the gray eyes and stopped.
“I am crazy to find it, too,” said Jane Raytham in a low voice.
“Are you?” Mrs. Dawlish was honestly surprised. “I didn’t think you
were that kind--to worry about--things. Well, that’s all the better
from my point of view. I can give you the child. You can tell Peter
that I’ll give you the child and make him a handsome allowance if he
will stop his lawyers from worrying me.”
“You can give me the child? You know where he is?” Jane’s voice shook.
“Well--yes, I do. It wasn’t a boy, Jane.”
Jane Raytham shrank back as if she had been struck.
“Not a boy? A girl? And you promised me----”
“There’s no sense in talking about promises, or what happened eight
years ago,” said Margaret Dawlish coldly, “I’m talking about the
present. Yes, it was a girl. Druze took her to an old servant of
mine--Martha’s servant!”
Jane could only stare at her, speechless with amazement.
“You--you’re Martha?”
Mrs. Dawlish nodded.
“Martha Druze?”
“Martha Dawlish. I am entitled to that name; not even Peter can take
it from me. I married old Dawlish a fortnight after his wife died in
childbirth. Anita bullied him into it, if you want to know the truth.
She would have married him herself, but Bellini was alive. I was her
favourite sister and she always wanted me to make a good marriage. I
don’t know what she had been to my husband and I don’t very much care,
but she was an attractive woman in those days, before she let herself
go; at any rate she had enough influence to make him marry me.”
Jane passed her hands before her eyes, as though she were trying to
sweep away the mist which still obscured a clear view.
“You’re Martha?” she said again. “Of course, I knew you were a nurse.
Then Peter----”
“No, Peter isn’t my son, if that is what you’re going to say. I
insisted that he shouldn’t be told. I felt it would weaken my position
and authority. Mr. Dawlish was rather an easy-going man and he agreed.
If Peter had had the brains of a gnat he wouldn’t have needed telling.
He had only to see the registration of his birth and compare it with
my marriage certificate to know as much as you know now. Jane, will
you help me with him? I don’t care how large the allowance I make him
is----”
Jane shook her head helplessly.
“I don’t know what I can do. I can’t think very clearly, only--I want
the child--my girl.”
The hard face of Mrs. Dawlish creased in a rare smile.
“Is there nobody else who wants her?” she asked significantly. “Has
Peter no rights? You haven’t thought of that, I suppose?”
“I have thought of it,” said Jane in a low voice. “But I know Peter.
And whether I or he have her, she will be free to us both. We’re going
very swiftly down the slope, and the slope is getting steeper and
Heaven knows where we shall land at the bottom. I’ve been just as
wicked as a woman can be. I’m a bigamist--don’t interrupt me,
please--I’m a bigamist and my husband must know. I don’t think it will
worry him as much as it worries me, and in a way he’ll be rather glad
to get rid of me. But I can face all that if I have my baby! I’ll do
what I can,” she went on quickly, recovering the lost balance, “if it
doesn’t hurt Peter. I’ve hurt him enough. He is too good a man to be
wounded any further. I cannot see him to-night; I will write to him
and ask if I may see him to-morrow, and then----”
The door was opening slowly and a man came in whose head was bandaged.
At first she did not recognize him, and then:
“Why--why, Peter!” she faltered.
He was leading by the hand a little girl in a worn, stained ulster.
The golden head was hatless. Jane Raytham looked down into that
beautiful child face, saw the clear eyes looking at her wonderingly,
solemnly, and put up her hand to her throat, hardly daring to speak.
She opened her lips; no sound came. She made yet another effort.
“Who is this, Peter?”
It was not like her own voice.
“This is Elizabeth,” said Peter gently. “Elizabeth”--he stooped and
looked into the child’s face--“Elizabeth, this is your mother!”