Mr. De Jarnette—had said—that—the bill would not give her Philip. She must think it out before she got there—what to do—now.
At the station her carriage was waiting for her.
"To Judge Kirtley's office."
On the way, looking absently from the carriage window, she saw a lady with a little boy about Philip's age holding to her hand and skipping by her side. It was strange, but all the children seemed to be about Philip's age. The boy was telling something eagerly and she could catch his childish treble and see the mother smile. A pang shot through her to see the sweet comradeship between the two. Did the woman know how blest she was?
On the street in full view of the Capitol they passed the entrance to one of the blind alleys that still disgrace Washington. A drunken man piloted by a woman with a baby in her arms and another clinging to her skirts was making toward the alley. The man, insecure of footing, lurched forward almost under the horses' feet. The coachman reined them in suddenly and the woman jerked the man back. With an oath he turned and struck her, kicking the child when it cried with fright.
Margaret drew a quick breath. Here—here under the very shadow of the Dome, a drunken, brutish man who could neither protect his children nor take care of himself, was given rights to those children that the mother could not share—could not share and could not shake off! Unless—unless the bill should pass! She leaned back in the carriage and closed her eyes.
In the office she lost no time in circumlocution.
"Judge Kirtley," she asked, cutting short his protestations of surprise at seeing her, "is it true that if this joint guardianship bill passes it will not give me Philip?"
"Give you Philip? Why, child—my dear child, you haven't supposed—God bless my soul," he broke off abruptly. The idea that her ignorance of the law should have misled her into supposing that the bill would help her personally, except so far as it might influence the decision of the court when her case came up, had never occurred to him. She had thrown herself headlong into this movement without asking advice from anybody, but he had supposed that it was from her rather natural sympathy for womankind, and he had welcomed it as a diversion to her in the trying time of awaiting action by the court. In fact, he had encouraged her efforts. He was wondering now blankly if that encouragement had not been ill-judged.
"It would not help me in any way?" she persisted, reading the answer in his disturbed face. He answered her plainly then, though with a lawyer's caution.