“Why—why, you miserable woman!” he suddenly burst out. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You dare to hint anything against one of the finest creatures God ever made, and the best friend your son ever had—and I’ll—I’ll shake you! I will! If that wretched object inside—Jim—whom I used to know when he was younger, had shaken you long ago it would have done you and him a world of good! You don’t know any news of Boy, don’t you? Well, I do. I know this much, that if Miss Letty had been a woman like you, that unfortunate young fellow you have brought into the world would be serving his time in prison for—— Well, never mind for what! But with all his faults and follies he is better than his mother. If I had my way, his mother should hear a thing or two! Yes, ma’am, you may stare at me as much as ever you like—I’ve often wanted to speak my mind to you, and now I’ve done it. You were never fit to have a son. You never knew what to do with him when you got him. Your carelessness, your selfishness, your slovenliness, your downright d—— d idleness, are at the bottom of a good deal of the mischief he’s tumbled into. There, ma’am! I’ve said what I think, and I feel better for it. Good morning!”
And before Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir could say another word he abruptly left her, and she heard the street door shut after him with a loud bang. Her husband yelled to her from the adjoining room.
“What’s that?”
She went to him, her heavy tread shaking the flooring as she moved.
“It’s that horrible old Major Desmond just gone,” she said viciously. “He’s been most insulting! He actually says I am to blame for Boy’s turning out so badly!”
The Honourable Jim began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, and the nature of his illness did not conduce to agreeable facial expression. But what latent sense of humour remained in him was decidedly awakened by his wife’s indignation.
“You’re to blame, eh! He said that? Well, he’s right—so you are! So you are!”
“Jim!”
And over her fat cheeks her little eyes peered at him with a look of amazement and wrath.
“I mean it,” he persisted thickly, trying to twist his poor paralysed tongue to distinct utterance. “You haven’t been fair to me or Boy,” and he began to whimper feebly. “The house has always been at sixes and sevens—never knew when one was going to have one’s bit or drop—no one in their senses would ever have called it a home—and you never tried to do me any good. If you had I might not be lying here now. Desmond’s right enough—old Dick Desmond was always a good sort of thoroughgoing chap. He knows what’s what. He’s right—it is your fault. God knows it is!”