Baltazar rose too.
“I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about. I don’t suppose I’m the only Baltazar left in England. He can be no son of mine. It’s idiotic. You ought to know.”
“I do know,” said Sheepshanks.
Baltazar’s eyes flashed in amazement and he made a stride towards him. “What do you know? What are you suggesting?”
“A child was born here in Cambridge, three months after you left us.”
Something almost physical seemed to hit Baltazar between the eyes, partially stunning him. He felt his way to the nearest chair and sat down.
“My God!” said he. “Oh, my God!”
He remained for some time, his head on his hands, overwhelmed by the significance of the revelation. At last he sprang suddenly to his feet.
“No wonder you haven’t forgiven me,” he cried, with characteristic directness. “To run away from a woman in such circumstances would be the unforgivable sin. But I swear to God I never knew. She gave no hint, and I saw her only a few days before I left. Such a possibility never entered my mind. Has never entered it. I may be any kind of a sinner, but not such a scoundrel as that. I left her because we were miserable together.—I did my best—now and then a brief reconciliation.—I suppose she tried too, in her way.—After the last, things were worse than ever. And then there was the life of someone else I couldn’t sacrifice—a flower of a thing. I felt my wife would be glad to see the last of me. So I fled like Christian from the Burning City. If I had known that—well, that I was leaving this responsibility behind me, I should have faced things out. My God! man, you must believe me,” he ended passionately.
Sheepshanks through his thick gold spectacles met Baltazar’s fierce gaze for a few moments. Then he held out his hand: “I believe you, J. B., and doing so takes a great load off my mind.”