He had, of course, in ruining his own; yet even at that moment of
wreckage she was able to remember, if not to feel, that life could mend
from terrible wounds, could marvelously grow from compromises and
defeats. 'No, dearest, no,' she said. 'While I have you, nothing is
ruined. We shall see what can be done. Go on. Tell me the rest.'
He put out his hand to hers again and sat now a little turned away from
her, speaking on in his deadened, bitter voice.
'There wasn't any glamour after that first time. I only saw her once or
twice again. I was awfully sorry and ashamed over the whole thing. Her
company left London, on tour, and then the war came, and I simply forgot
all about her. And the other day, over there, I had a letter from her.
She was in terrible trouble. She was ill and had no money, and no work.
And she was going to have a child--my child; and she begged me to send
her a little money to help her through, or she didn't know what would
become of her.'
The fog, the horrible confusion, even the despair, had passed now. The
sense of ruin, of wreckage almost irreparable, was there; yet with it,
too, was the strangest sense of gladness. He was her own Jack,
completely hers, for she saw now why he had done it; she could be glad
that he had done it; she could be glad that he had done it. 'Go on,
dear,' she said. 'I understand; I understand perfectly.'
'O mother, bless you!' He put her hand to his lips, bowing his head upon
it for a moment. 'I was afraid you couldn't. I was afraid you couldn't
forgive me. But I had to do it. I thought it all over--out there.
Everything had become so different after what one had been through. One
saw everything differently. Some things didn't matter at all, and other
things mattered tremendously. This was one of them. I knew I couldn't
just send her money. I knew I couldn't bear to have the poor child born
without a name and with only that foolish little mother to take care of
it. And when I found I could get this leave, I knew I must marry her.
That was why I didn't wire. I thought I might not have time to come to
you at all.'
'Where is she, Jack?' Her voice, her eyes, her smile at him, showed him
that, indeed, she understood perfectly.
'In lodgings that I found for her; nice and quiet, with a kind landlady.
She was in such an awful place in Ealing. She is so changed, poor little
thing. I should hardly have known her. Mother, darling, I wonder, could
you just go and see her once or twice? She's frightfully lonely; and so
very young.--If you could--if you would just help things along a little
till the baby comes, I should be so grateful. And, then, if I don't come
back, will you, for my sake, see that they are safe?'
'But, Jack,' she said, smiling at him, 'she is coming here, of course. I
shall go and get her to-morrow.'