He covered his face with his hands. “Mother, I’ve ruined your life.”
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 marvellously 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. “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.”
He stared at her and his colour rose. “Get her? Bring her here, to stay?”