"I am far enough from being a saint," William King said with an
awkward effort to laugh; "but--"
"But I am a sinner?" she interrupted.
"Oh, Mrs. Richie, don't let us talk this way! I have nothing but pity,
and--and friendship. The last thing I mean to do, is to set myself as
a judge of your actions; God knows I have no right to judge anybody!
But this matter of David, that's what I wanted to speak to you about.
My responsibility," he stopped, and drew in his breath. "Don't you
see, my responsibility--"
Helena did not speak; she was marshalling all her forces to fight for
her child. How should she begin? But he did not wait for her to begin.
"I would rather lose my right hand than pain you. I've gone all over
it, a hundred times. I've tried to see some way out. But I can't. The
only way is for you to give him up. It isn't right for you to have
him! Mrs. Richie, I say this, and it is hard and cruel, and yet I
never felt more"--William King stopped short--"friendly," he ended
brokenly.
He was walking at a pace she found hard to follow. "I can't go quite
so fast," she said faintly, and instantly he came to a dead stop.
"Dr. King, I want to explain to you--"
She lifted her face, all white and quivering in the moonlight, but
instead of explanations, she broke out: "Oh, if you take him away from
me, I shall die! I don't care very much about living anyhow. But I
can't live without David. Please, Dr. King; oh, please; I will be
good! I will be good," she repeated like a child, and stood there
crying, and clinging to his arm. All her reasons and excuses and
pleadings had dropped out of her mind. "Don't take him away from me; I
will be good!" she said.
William King, with those trembling hands on his arm, looked down at
her and trembled too. Then roughly, he pushed her hands away. "Come
on. We mustn't stand here. Don't you suppose I feel this as much as
you do? I love children, and I know what it means to you to let David
go. But more than that, I--have a regard for you, and it pains me
inexpressibly to do anything that pains you. You can't understand how
terrible this is to me, and I can't tell you. I mustn't tell you. But
never mind, it's true. It isn't right, no, it isn't right! that a
woman who--you know what I mean. And even if, after all, you should
marry him, what sort of a man is he to have charge of a little boy
like David? He has deceived us, and lied to us; he is a loose liver,
a--"