“The worst side of the world, madam,” said the captain, indignantly.
“It’s good enough for me,” she retorted.
“That may be; you are a woman of the world, and can choose for yourself. This child is helpless; his fresh young mind can take in everything he sees about him. You stand at the present moment as everything to him—his benefactress, almost his goddess. What you do must be right, simply because you do it. You told me just now that you were training this boy to be a gentleman; I tell you, madam, you are training him to be a blackguard, and probably worse, if there is anything worse.”
Miss Carlaw had stopped, and was listening intently. Her brows were drawn down, but she nodded sternly as the captain finished speaking. “Go on, sir,” she said.
“I’ve known this boy, madam, since he was a baby—he’s little more than a baby now—and I’ve never found a sweeter, cleaner, purer soul on this muddy old earth of ours yet. He turns naturally to sweet things, to everything that has the sunlight and free air upon it; he’s as clear as crystal. Think of his age, madam! Is it an age when he should be mixing with men and women—forgive the discourtesy, I beg of you—with men and women not too choice in their conversation or their manners? Is it an age when he should be gambling and tossing gold about at an hour when he should be in bed? Believe me, I do not stand before you as a prig, or as one who would have a word to say against anything in its proper place or its proper season; you choose your own guests, and your choice is doubtless a right one, for every man and every woman chooses in this world according to his or her need. But with this boy—this baby—it’s different. His soul is in your hands, to do what you will with it. And I say, frankly, madam, that you are doing with it badly.”
She did not speak; she turned about, and went to her chair and sat down in the same attitude as before, except that she rested her forehead on her hands instead of her chin. After a pause the captain spoke again.
“I trust—I beg that you will forgive me if anything I have said appears harsh. I am not used to women’s ways, and have been but little in their society, but I have spoken out of the depths of my heart. It hurt me when the child left me, but I was glad, for his sake, and I readily recognise the unstinted generosity you appear to display toward him. But, madam, I entreat you to remember not only the child, but the man who is growing up under your hands.”
She sat for a long time in the same attitude, and when, presently, she raised her head and spoke, he saw with contrition that her lips were quivering; she even stretched one hand toward him for a moment, as though to ask his pardon.
“You’re a good man,” she said, in a curiously altered voice. “And I am—well, I’m a wicked old fool. I’ve been treating this child like a toy, holding him before all my friends, that they might see what a beautiful thing I had managed to secure. Friends, indeed!” she cried, fiercely, getting up and beginning to pace about, “there isn’t one of them I care a brass farthing for; there isn’t one of them I wouldn’t show the door to-morrow. Oh, you’re right; you’re very right, and I’m a monster. I’ve been given this glorious thing from God, and I don’t even know how to take care of it. Captain, I’m sorry to think, from what I know of the world, that there are very few men who would have been brave enough to say what you have said to-night. But there’s a Providence in your coming—a Providence that set the boy longing to see you. I—I am more glad than I can say that you came here. I’ve been blind—blind in two senses—but I’ll end it. By the Lord! I’ll make this boy what you say he should be; he sha’n’t minister to my whims any longer.” She began to laugh, and shook her head at him whimsically. “Oh, I like you; it’s refreshing to meet a man like you occasionally—you’re precious rare. By George! you did more for the boy than I did, and knew more about him—upon my word you did. Oh, I’ll be good to him, I’ll be proud of him. I want—I want to think about all this; and then I’ll talk to you about what’s best to be done for him. Give me your hand. Will you promise to stay here a week at least—now, I’ll take no denial—a week at least? It’ll make the boy happy, and it’ll do him good, and it’ll take him away from me, which’ll do him good too.”