“Then came the strange part,” he said—“a sort of subconsciousness of
an impediment she could not define. It was her dishonour, Verender—my
God! Verender, _her_ dishonour!—that found some subtle expression in
the little life introduced into her home. She always feared and
distrusted the child; and I tell you I lived in horror that some day
her witlessness would arm her gentle hand to do it a hurt. For she
wanted to come to me, Verender, she wanted to come, and it was as if
she couldn’t, and nobody would tell her why.
“_You_ told her, you old rascal! And with what result, do you think?
When I followed her, I found her gone—she had taken the baby from its
cot, and hurried out. The old harpy was there, raving and gobbling
beyond reason. I had her down on her knees to confess. She admitted
that the girl had come in, in a fever to proclaim her knowledge of the
bar which separated us. Nanny had rounded upon her, it appeared, and
accused her, Aunt Mim, of wantonly causing the scandal which had
brought this shadow into her life. And then—perhaps it wasn’t to be
wondered at—Auntie exploded, and gave up all.”
“The truth?”
“All of it but what the old hag herself didn’t know—the name of the
villain. That, circumstances had kept from her, you see. She let
loose, did Auntie—we’ll allow her a grain of justification; to have
her forbearance turned upon herself like that, you know!—and screamed
to the girl to pack, and dispose of her rubbish somewhere else. And
Nanny understood at last, and went.”
“Where?”
“Ah, where? That was the question. I’d only one clue—Skene and the
river; but I seized upon it, and my inspiration proved right. She’d
gone instinctively to the only place where, it seemed, her trouble
could be resolved. You see, she hadn’t yet come to identify _me_ with
it. But I followed, and I caught her in time.”
He hung his head, and spoke very low.
“I took the next train possible to Skene. Verender, I’m not going to
talk. It was one of those fainting, indescribable experiences, like
the voice in the burning bush. Cold dawn it was, with a white bubbling
river and the ghost of an old moon. She had intended to commit _it_ to
the water—the fog wasn’t yet out of her brain—and then, all in an
instant, the mother came upon her, and the memory of me; and she ran
to cast herself in instead, and saw me coming.”
There followed a long interval of silence.
“And Aunt Mim?” I asked drily, chiefly to keep up my character.
He laughed.
“O! we’ve added an honourable moiety to a dishonourable pension, and
settled her,” he said.
Another silence followed.
“Well, I apologize,” I said grumpily.