A bomb falling in their midst could scarcely have caused a greater
sensation than was produced by Prudence's request. The effect of her
speech and of her action was electrical. Only the child remained
unmoved; and he, reassured doubtless by the quiet composure of her
bearing amid the general tension, which he realised without
understanding it, and the sweet gentleness of her voice, ceased his
plaintive whimpering and stared at her with round eyes filled with
wonderment, and forgot his fear.
Bessie Clapp stared also, a solemn light in her dark eyes, and with a
face grown tender and womanly, with all the hardness gone from its look.
But William Graynor, flushed with anger, strode forward to intervene;
and the old man, looking with disfavour upon the grouping, uttered: "No,
no!" in tones of sharp protest, and put out a hand and touched
Prudence's sleeve.
"The child will be all right," he said. "Leave this to me."
She turned to him with a wistful smile.
"He's nobody's bairn," she said. "Nobody wants him--except me."
"Your husband wouldn't like it," he remonstrated. "You have to consider
him. Take the child away," he added, addressing Bessie Clapp. "I will
communicate with you later."
Prudence gave the boy into his mother's charge and walked with them to
the door.
"If I can arrange it, are you willing to give him up to me entirely?"
she asked.
"Yes, miss," Bessie answered in awed tones; and added, almost in a
whisper: "It 'ud be a fine thing for 'im, any'ow."
"'E's good," she said, with the door open and her hand upon it. "'E
ban't like 'is father; 'e ban't mean."
Prudence returned to confront her father and brother, both of them
disturbed, though in different degrees, by her unlooked for
interference. Mr Graynor regretted having allowed her to be present at
the interview, while William resented deeply the fact that his double
life should have been revealed to the young sister whom he had
systematically snubbed and preached to all the years she had lived in
the home. The knowledge that she wished to adopt his bastard son was
insupportable.
"Let me beg, sir," he said, crimson and spluttering for words, "that you
won't permit this. It's indecent. It's--unthinkable. I can't agree to
it."
"It has nothing," Prudence answered quietly, "to do with you."
Mr Graynor fixed his dim angry eyes on his son's face, the passion
which he had kept under until now blazing up like a conflagration fanned
by a sudden draught. He had never felt so humiliated and ashamed in all
the years of his long life. For generations they had lived in
Wortheton, honourable men and women, with an unsullied record which it
remained for the present generation to smirch. It hurt him in his most
vulnerable spot, his pride, that this base and sordid sin should be laid
to his son's charge.
"You despicable hypocrite!" he shouted. "How dare you question the
right of any one to undertake a responsibility you are not man enough to
shoulder? Had I known before of this low intrigue I would have
compelled you to marry the mother of your child. Fortunately for her,
she has found a better fate. As for the child--" He broke off abruptly,
and turned in his seat and sat looking into the fire. "Prudence and I
will settle that matter," he added more quietly. "Leave it to us."
Without uttering another word, William went heavily out of the room.
Prudence approached the old man, who sat, a shrunken dejected figure,
before the hearth, and kneeling on the carpet beside him, put her arms
about him lovingly, and remained so in silence, while he looked steadily
into the fire, thinking back--hearing again in imagination her indignant
young voice speaking out of the past: "I will pray hard night and
morning that God will befriend Bessie Clapp." He put a hand upon her
hair and smoothed it caressingly.
"This is a blow, Prue," he said. "It hits me hard."
He roused himself after a while and sat straighter in his chair and
looked at her inquiringly.
"What makes you think you would like to have the child?" he asked.
"Because I have no little one of my own," she answered. "And this
little child's life promises to be a sad one. He has a claim on our
consideration; the same blood runs in his veins."
"That is what makes your proposition impossible, as I see it," he said.
"Edward would not wish it. Think of the disgrace, my dear. One likes
to hide these things."
"That's where I don't see with you," she replied gently. "In my opinion
it is in refusing to accept our responsibilities that we merit disgrace.
I've learned that quite lately. Let me try to explain."
She clung closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder and was silent
for a space, plunged in thought. The old man continued his occupation
of stroking the bright hair, and was silent too, wondering what it was
that needed explanation.
"You never asked me," Prudence said presently, "what it was that brought
me home so unexpectedly."
"I was so glad," he replied, "to see you. It never occurred to me to
ask the reason of your coming. It's sufficient for me that you are
here."
"Dear!" she said, and pressed his hand fondly. "I'm always glad to
come. I'm sorry that ever I went away. I came home because of a
quarrel with Edward. I left him in anger. I had thoughts of leaving
him altogether. You see, dear, I too have behaved badly. I meant to
shirk my responsibilities because they had grown irksome. Don't grieve,
daddy; that's all past. I've come to see that life can't be twisted to
suit each person's needs. We should make a hopeless tangle of it if we
followed that principle. There's one simple course for the straight and
decent liver--to accept life as it is and make the best of it. I mean
to write to Edward to-day and ask him to come down and fetch me. Then I
will tell him about the child. If he consents to my adopting him, I
shall take him back with me."
"You will make Edward's consent a condition to your reconciliation?"
Mr Graynor asked.
"Oh, no!" Prudence looked swiftly into his face. "I am hoping that he
will give it as a concession."
She twined her arms about the old man's neck and drew his cheek to hers
and pressed hers against it.
"I'm just hungry for a little child," she said. "I long to hear little
footsteps about the house, to know the clinging feel of little hands.
I'm just a sackful of motherhood tied down and repressed. I feel that I
can't go on like this much longer."
"I wish you had a dozen babies of your own," he said wistfully.
"My dear!" She was laughing now, though the tears shone behind the
laughter. "Half that number would serve."
"I still don't like the idea of you adopting this child," Mr Graynor
said after a pause. "He comes of bad stock, Prue."
"Not bad stock," she contradicted. "I've known his mother all my life.
She made a mistake. That was largely due to environment: many girls in
her position would have done the same. And William... we won't judge
William. We don't know--everything, do we? I am a great believer in
training. I know the faults I have to watch for. I shall teach my
child to be honest and generous and self-controlled."
He smiled at her a little sadly. Youth is so hopeful and so sanguine.
But experience had proved to him that there is something which strikes
deeper than training, something which no training can overcome--the
nature which lies at the root of every human being.