I touched her hand. I saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Her fingers clutched mine. “Ma pauvre enfant, ayez pitié de moi,” she quavered.
“There dear, don’t think of it any more.”
“Wait, at least, until I am dead,” she whispered. I knelt beside her, just touching her hand. I was weeping, too, now, silently as she was, gently, mute tears.
“I will never do it,” I said. It seemed to me wonderful to give her my freedom, gently, like that, in a whisper, kneeling close to her, not frightening her, asking nothing, putting things right, easily, at the cost of all my life.
IV
I did not go to America until the following year, and then I went alone, leaving Jinny with your mother. You remember about that, how after all they made me leave my child behind as a hostage. We won’t dwell on it now. It was only significant in so far as it showed me that my new intimacy with your mother was not quite what I had believed it to be.
As for St. Mary’s Plains, it gave me a different welcome from the one I had expected. It disapproved of me and showed it. My people went for me. They greeted me with the proprietary affection that claims the right to outspoken criticism. On the whole, I liked that. It was a relief. Although at first I was bewildered, amused and occasionally annoyed by their vigorous upbraiding, I was glad that they felt entitled to treat me as they did: their scolding gave me a feeling of their solidarity with me. And it was refreshing to find myself among a group of people who had no respect for my fortune but blamed me honestly for being so disgustingly rich and doing so little good with my money.