“I’m not complaining of what’s past,” the girl interposed. “If you ’adn’t stopped the payments I shouldn’t be ’ere now. I can’t afford to keep the child. ’E’s as much yours as mine.”
“There,” Prudence broke in to the general astonishment, for she had remained so quiet until now that they had almost forgotten her presence, “you are mistaken. The law protects the man in these cases.”
“Then the law’s rotten bad,” said Bessie Clapp bitterly.
Whether the sudden recollection of his daughter’s presence decided Mr Graynor to bring the interview to a close, or if he felt unequal to further discussion is uncertain, but at this point he waved the girl to silence, and unlocking a drawer in the table, took out his cheque book and wrote a cheque and tore it out and passed it across the table to her.
“I will see that my son makes suitable provision for the child,” he said quaveringly.
Bessie Clapp took the cheque and stood with it in her hand, looking at him out of her dark, sombre eyes.
“I’m sorry I come,” she said falteringly. “I’m going right away from ’ere. You won’t see me no more.”
Then suddenly Prudence rose. She left her place by the fire, and crossing to where the other girl stood beside the table, she bent over the child and took the little fellow by the hand and drew him to her.
“I am a childless woman,” she said, in a sweet voice full of sympathy, “and I love children. Give him to me.”