George’s hand was again stroking tenderly the dark head.
“Yes—if possible,” he said. “But there are cases—if she is entirely unprincipled, entirely bent on eluding her duty, she may do so yet.”
“And you would encourage other mothers in the same wickedness by doing her duty for her,” Dulcibel said with sharpness.
“‘When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up,’” George murmured. “Joan may have to learn those words early. Dulcie there are two sides to the affair. One is the mother’s wrong-doing—folly—cruelty—call it by what terms you will. If she has forsaken the child, no words of condemnation can be too strong. Still there remains the other side of the matter. Little Joan is not to blame,—and if she should be one of the Master’s foundlings, I suppose he will wish some of his servants to give her food and shelter.”
“I knew you wanted to adopt her,” said Dulcibel resentfully. “I have known it from the first. I think philanthropy is a craze with some people. It is just encouraging wickedness. I believe you have been hoping all along that the mother wouldn’t turn up! And if you adopt this one, how do you know that half-a-dozen more stray infants won’t be thrown upon your tender mercies? Any weak, silly woman, who finds a difficulty in getting along, may toss her child over into your keeping. I believe there are plenty in the world quite capable of it. And I suppose you would accept any number, and be grateful. It’s perfectly ridiculous.”
George was silent. Dulcibel suddenly took a seat by his side, looking up with repentant eyes from under wet, fair lashes.
“How horrid I am! I can’t think how you can care for me! Georgie dear, I don’t mean to be cross—I don’t really. Only—don’t you think—”
“I think there is a great deal of truth in what you say,” George answered. “If I were advising somebody else, I should probably feel constrained to advise non-adoption—as a matter of policy and common-sense. The woman has acted—if it be as appears—in a manner simply contemptible. She deserves no better than the workhouse for her child. That would be strict justice. But—the workhouse, Dulcie, and those little clinging arms—”
George could not continue.
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Dulcibel.