Rutherford saw with amazement and then with the dreadful beginnings of understanding and remembrance, that there was a new crease in her forehead and her lips were white and thin.
"Clara—Clara," he began.
But she said: "Hush! Don't talk. Just let me hold your hand."
It was strange and terribly revealing to hear her ask for help, and he was more than sobered by the time the nurse returned from bawling over the banisters, "Potts, are you all right?" and getting answer, "Ay, I'm that," in a tone of menace.
"Now, out you go!" she said, and locked the door upon him.
He went, staggering, to the bar, and stared at Potts, who was wiping down the counter. He put a hand to his forehead, for thought was growing dim again.
"I'm not sure," he said, "what happened. Did I—did I——"
"Yes, you did," said Potts, "and if it wasn't for the mistress I'd give you another. You're not fit to live."
"That's true," said Rutherford; "that's perfectly true. I'll go out and think about it."
When he returned, after long wanderings in the dark, he was told he had a son, but he would not look at what he considered the cause of that night's work, and later, when reason had more force with him, he still refused to concern himself with the child, for, at the sight of his small, solemn face and thick, black hair there always arose a mist through which there moved pictures of Potts lying on the floor amidst the broken glass and Clara with that changed, white face. He suffered from an unspeakable shame which was the greater that Clara never reproached him; but, as time wore on, and, following her wishes as well as his, they left the place for this little house among the lonelier hills, his shame became absorbed into a sense of grievance against the child.