"No; Tom takes after me. He's a Walker. Chippie's--"
"A darling," she broke in. "But he's not strong. Ever since he had the
scarlet fever--"
"Yes, I know. But it might have been worse. We might have lost him. Do
you remember the night--?"
She put her hand to her eyes as if to shut out the vision of it. "Oh,
that awful night! And you were more afraid than I was. Mothers are
braver than fathers at times like that."
"It was watching the fight he put up. Gad, he was plucky, the poor
little chap! And he was only three, wasn't he?"
"Three and five months."
"And he'll be eleven his next birthday. How the years fly! By the way,
won't it soon be time for Tom to be going to boarding-school?"
They were being pushed and jostled by guards and passengers. Between
sentences it was necessary to make room for some one going or coming.
She was obliged to step back into her compartment. Having taken the seat
in the corner by the window, she motioned with her hand toward that in
the opposite corner by the door. In this way they were separated by the
length and width of the compartment, the distance marking the other
gulf between them.
She continued to talk of the children, looking at first into the
cavernous obscurity of Crewe station, through which they were dashing,
and then at the open country. The children, with their needs, their
ailments, their future careers, could not but be the natural theme
between them. It lasted while they passed Nuneaton, Rugby, and Stafford,
and were well on their way to London. Suddenly he risked a question:
"Do they--understand?"
She was plainly agitated that he should disturb the ashes that buried
their past. Her eyes shot him one piteous, appealing glance, after which
they returned to the passing landscape. "Tom understands," she said, at
last. "Chippie takes it for granted."
"Takes it for granted--how?"
"Just as they both did--till Tom began to get a little more experience.
It seemed to them quite the ordinary thing to have"--she hesitated and
colored--"to have two fathers."
He winced, but risked another question:
"What makes you think that Tom's discovered it to be unusual?"
"Because he's said so."
"In what way? Do you mind telling me?"
"I'd rather _not_ tell you."
"But if I insist?"
"You'll insist at the risk of having your feelings hurt."
"Oh, that!" A shrug of his shoulders and a wry smile expressed his
indifference to such a result. "Did he ask you anything?"
She nodded, without turning from the window.
"Won't you tell me what it was? It would help me in my future dealing
with the boy."
She continued to gaze out at the park-like fields, from which the mists
had risen. "He asked me if you had done anything bad."
"And you told him--?"
"I told him that I didn't understand--that perhaps I'd never
understood."
"Thank you for putting it like that. But you did understand, you
know--perfectly. You mustn't have it on your conscience that--"
"Oh, we can't help the things we've got on our consciences. There's no
way of shuffling away from them."