FullReads

After all, Pemberton reflected, it was only a difference of theory and the theory didn’t matter much. They had hitherto gone on that of remunerated, as now they would go on that of gratuitous, service; but why should they have so many words about it? Mrs. Moreen at all events continued to be convincing; sitting there with her fifty francs she talked and reiterated, as women reiterate, and bored and irritated him, while he leaned against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his wrapper, drawing it together round his legs and looking over the head of his visitor at the grey negations of his window. She wound up with saying: “You see I bring you a definite proposal.”

“A definite proposal?”

“To make our relations regular, as it were–to put them on a comfortable footing.”

“I see–it’s a system,” said Pemberton. “A kind of organised blackmail.”

Mrs. Moreen bounded up, which was exactly what he wanted. “What do you mean by that?”

“You practise on one’s fears–one’s fears about the child if one should go away.”

“And pray what would happen to him in that event?” she demanded, with majesty.

“Why he’d be alone with you.”

“And pray with whom should a child be but with those whom he loves most?”

“If you think that, why don’t you dismiss me?”

“Do you pretend he loves you more than he loves us?” cried Mrs. Moreen.

“I think he ought to. I make sacrifices for him. Though I’ve heard of those you make I don’t see them.”

Mrs. Moreen stared a moment; then with emotion she grasped her inmate’s hand. “Will you make it–the sacrifice?”

He burst out laughing. “I’ll see. I’ll do what I can. I’ll stay a little longer. Your calculation’s just–I do hate intensely to give him up; I’m fond of him and he thoroughly interests me, in spite of the inconvenience I suffer. You know my situation perfectly. I haven’t a penny in the world and, occupied as you see me with Morgan, am unable to earn money.”

Mrs. Moreen tapped her undressed arm with her folded bank-note. “Can’t you write articles? Can’t you translate as I do?”

“I don’t know about translating; it’s wretchedly paid.”

“I’m glad to earn what I can,” said Mrs. Moreen with prodigious virtue.

“You ought to tell me who you do it for.” Pemberton paused a moment, and she said nothing; so he added: “I’ve tried to turn off some little sketches, but the magazines won’t have them–they’re declined with thanks.”

“You see then you’re not such a phoenix,” his visitor pointedly smiled–“to pretend to abilities you’re sacrificing for our sake.”

“I haven’t time to do things properly,” he ruefully went on. Then as it came over him that he was almost abjectly good-natured to give these explanations he added: “If I stay on longer it must be on one condition–that Morgan shall know distinctly on what footing I am.”

Mrs. Moreen demurred. “Surely you don’t want to show off to a child?”

“To show you off, do you mean?”

Again she cast about, but this time it was to produce a still finer flower. “And you talk of blackmail!”

“You can easily prevent it,” said Pemberton.

“And you talk of practising on fears,” she bravely pushed on.

“Yes, there’s no doubt I’m a great scoundrel.”

His patroness met his eyes–it was clear she was in straits. Then she thrust out her money at him. “Mr. Moreen desired me to give you this on account.”

“I’m much obliged to Mr. Moreen, but we have no account.”

“You won’t take it?”

“That leaves me more free,” said Pemberton.

“To poison my darling’s mind?” groaned Mrs. Moreen.

“Oh your darling’s mind–!” the young man laughed.

She fixed him a moment, and he thought she was going to break out tormentedly, pleadingly: “For God’s sake, tell me what is in it!” But she checked this impulse–another was stronger. She pocketed the money–the crudity of the alternative was comical–and swept out of the room with the desperate concession: “You may tell him any horror you like!”