Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“Well, Brackenbury told me—and Arthur told Brackenbury—,” he began.
“Arthur and Brackenbury know nothing about it,” I said. “For some time I have not been well, and it seemed worth the unavoidable risk of an operation if I might hope for greater strength and comfort. But I could not go under the anæsthetic with an easy mind if I felt that I had in any way omitted to put my house in order. Between us,” I said, “bygones will be bygones. Will you not give me the satisfaction of knowing that, if we do not meet again, I am safe in leaving Arthur and my boy to your care? You are the head of the family. Can my boy’s future not be permanently assured—here and now?”
I was not bargaining or haggling; it was a direct appeal to his generosity. . . Spenworth hummed and hawed for a while; then he said:
“I don’t feel very much disposed to do anything more for that young man.”
“More?,” I echoed.
“Well, I paid up once,” he said. “Arthur never told you, I suppose? Well, it was hardly a woman’s province. I was acting then as head of the family . . . about the time when you thought fit to criticize me very frankly. . .”
I had no more idea what he was talking about than the man in the moon!
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