“I never said it was,” she retorted with spirit, “I never thought for
a moment that it was.” She added, a trifle too late in the story,
“Besides, I don't know what you are talking of.”
I think I must have smiled here, for she turned from me quickly, and
became quite little in the chair again.
“David,” said I mercilessly, “did you ever see your mother blush?”
“What is blush?”
“She goes a beautiful pink colour.”
David, who had by this time broken my connection with the head office,
crossed to his mother expectantly.
“I don't, David,” she cried.
“I think,” said I, “she will do it now,” and with the instinct of a
gentleman I looked away. Thus I cannot tell what happened, but presently
David exclaimed admiringly, “Oh, mother, do it again!”
As she would not, he stood on the fender to see in the mantel-glass
whether he could do it himself, and then Mary turned a most candid face
on me, in which was maternity rather than reproach. Perhaps no look
given by woman to man affects him quite so much. “You see,” she said
radiantly and with a gesture that disclosed herself to me, “I can
forgive even that. You long ago earned the right to hurt me if you want
to.”
It weaned me of all further desire to rail at Mary, and I felt an
uncommon drawing to her.
“And if I did think that for a little while--,” she went on, with an
unsteady smile.
“Think what?” I asked, but without the necessary snap.
“What we were talking of,” she replied wincing, but forgiving me again.
“If I once thought that, it was pretty to me while it lasted and it
lasted but a little time. I have long been sure that your kindness to me
was due to some other reason.”
“Ma'am,” said I very honestly, “I know not what was the reason. My
concern for you was in the beginning a very fragile and even a selfish
thing, yet not altogether selfish, for I think that what first stirred
it was the joyous sway of the little nursery governess as she walked
down Pall Mall to meet her lover. It seemed such a mighty fine thing to
you to be loved that I thought you had better continue to be loved for a
little longer. And perhaps having helped you once by dropping a letter
I was charmed by the ease with which you could be helped, for you must
know that I am one who has chosen the easy way for more than twenty
years.”
She shook her head and smiled. “On my soul,” I assured her, “I can think
of no other reason.”
“A kind heart,” said she.
“More likely a whim,” said I.
“Or another woman,” said she.