How Mrs. Minturn came to be standing beside her husband,
she never afterward knew; only that she was, pulling
down his arm to stare at the white cast. Then
she looked up at him and said simply: “But
Lucette didn’t murder her; it was I. I was her
mother. I knew she was beaten. I knew she
was abused! I didn’t stop my pleasure to
interfere, lest I should lose a minute by having to
see to her myself! A woman did come to me, and
a boy! I knew they were telling the truth!
I didn’t know it was so bad, but I knew it must
have been dreadful, to bring them. I had my chance
to save her. I went to her as the woman told
me to, and because she was quiet, I didn’t even
turn her over. I didn’t run a finger across
her little head. I didn’t call a surgeon.
I preferred an hour of pleasure to taking the risk
of being disturbed. I am quite as guilty as Lucette!
Have them take me with her.”
James Minturn stepped back, gazing at his wife.
Then he motioned the men toward the door, so with
the woman they left the room.
“Lucette just had her sentence,” he said,
“now for yours! Words are useless!
I am leaving your house with my sons. They are
my sons, and with the proof I hold, you will not claim
them. If you do, you will not get them.
I am taking them to the kind of a house I deem suitable
for them, and to such care as I can provide.
I shall keep them in my presence constantly as possible
until I see just what harm has been done, and how
to remedy what can be changed. I shall provide
such teachers as I see fit for them, and devote the
remainder of my life to them. All I ask of you
is to spare them the disgrace of forcing me to prove
my right to them, or ever having them realize just
what happened to their sister, and your
part in it.”
She held the flowers toward him.
“I brought these——”
she began, then paused. “You wouldn’t
believe me, if I should tell you. You are right!
Perfectly justified! Of course I shall not bring
this before the public. Go!”
At the door he looked back. She had dropped into
a chair beside the table, holding the cast in one
hand, the fringed orchids in the other.
CHAPTER VII
Peaches’ Preference in Blessings
“God ain’t made a sweeter girl
’An Lily, at keeps my heart a-whirl.
If I was to tell an awful whopper,
I’d get took by the cross old copper.”
Thus chanted Mickey at his door, his hands behind
him. Peaches stretched both hers toward him as
usual; but he stood still, swinging in front of him
a beautiful doll, for a little sick girl. A baby
doll in a long snowy dress and a lace cap; it held
outstretched arms, but was not heavy enough to tire
small wavering hands. Peaches lunged forward until
only Mickey’s agility saved her from falling.
He tossed the doll on the bed, and caught the child,
the lump in his throat so big his voice was strained
as he cried: “Why you silly thing!”
