A sound! Someone was holding him—someone who, coming on the same errand, had discovered him. “Peterkins! Peterkins, don’t cry.”
His arms went about her neck. “Little mother, it’s long since you called me that. I’m so tired—tired of pretending to be brave and trying to be a man.”
They sent for Jehane next day and the next; at last they had to go and fetch her. Her heart was hard because of the disgrace of what had happened. She spoke with bitterness of her children. Glory’s joining her stepfather at The Winged Thrush she construed as an act of treachery. “A daughter of mine,” she said, “serving in a public-house!” She had given up all hope that Eustace would ever ask her to come to Canada. His infrequent letters had given her to understand tacitly that she was not wanted. Only Moggs was left—a subdued child, a little like Glory. Against disappointment from that quarter Jehane forearmed herself by taking disappointment for granted. Her sense of injustice centered in the paradox that Ocky was happy, despite his mismanagement, while she, after all her painstaking rectitude, was sad.
Throughout the journey to Topbury she insisted vigorously that she would never take Riska back. As she entered the hall of his house, Barrington heard the last repetition of her assertion. “We don’t want you to,” he said; “she and her child are going to live with us.” Then Jehane saw Riska, and recognized the change; promptly she turned her accusals against herself. She had been unwise. She had spoilt her life both as wife and mother. Her calamities were her own doing. She needed Riska—wanted her. “You’ll come with your mother, won’t you?”
Riska shook her head gently—so gently that for a minute she looked like Glory. “Mother dear, I can’t. I would if it were only myself; I’ve baby to consider. You’d do for him just what you’ve done——. You couldn’t help it. I’m going to stay here with Aunt Nan and learn—learn to be like her—like Kay.”
Jehane covered her face with her hands. “I’m a bitter woman—yes, and jealous. But that my own child should tell me—and should be able to say it truly!”
She looked up. “If I were to try to be different, if I could prove to you that I was different——.”
Riska put her arms about her mother’s neck, “That’s all in the future. But, oh, I’m so sorry, so sorry. I know you’ve done your best.”
“My best!” Her voice was full of self-despisings. “Oh, well——!”
She had lost her last illusion—her faith in her own righteousness. Barrington, watching the disillusioned woman, tried to trace in her features the eager face, tell-tale of dreamings, that had beckoned to him from a window on a summer’s afternoon in Oxford. He found no resemblance.