"And I'm so glad," Van said, "that we've really decided to adopt Toby."
"But why? I mean, why specially at this moment?"
"Because you say "thank you" so sweetly. No one ever' says it as you do, Gwyn. And—I know—you've been
sitting there wondering what you could give me that would please me as much as this has pleased you, weren't you?"
"I—suppose so." She smiled.
"Well, I want Toby as much as you do, darling, but I hope—just as you do—that one day there will be another baby, too. One thing is certain—there shall never be the slightest scrap of difference made between them. We owe that to Toby for his having given us so much happiness."
She didn't answer that with anything beyond a smile, but it was so tremulously happy that it was more eloquent than words. She sat very still beside him after that, her eyes brilliant and tender. For Van had said, in so many words, that her child should be regarded as his child.
There followed an amazingly happy week or two for Gwyneth. She could really allow herself to revel in the happiness of having her child in her home, and she and Van taught him, with very little trouble, to regard them and speak of them as his parents. ,
"I never had a mummy and daddy before," he informed them. "We didn't have any at Greystones." But he gave them to understand, in no uncertain way, that he was very well satisfied with the two who had fallen to his lot now.
When it came to writing home to tell her parents of what they had done, Gwyneth wondered how she was going to put it to them. Her mother, of course, could scarcely be kept from guessing the real truth, but Gwyneth decided it was best not to commit any real information to paper.
In the end, she addressed the letter to both her parents, and carefully made it the kind of letter which any daughter might have addressed to her parents when she had qmite unexpectedly decided to adopt a child who had no connection with her at all.
Almost by return of post, they replied to her—separately. And each reply was quite characteristic.
Her father wrote four pages in his beautiful, flowing handwriting, expatiating upon the happiness and responsibility of having a little child in one's home. He said he was slightly surprised that, at such an early date, they had decided to take a homeless waif (disregarding the excellent conditions at Greystones) into their home, rather than wait for the gift of a child of their own. But, in an agree-
able finale, he came to the conclusion that his daughter's heart was 'large enough to shelter this little unfortunate' as well as any children that might come to them. "And I have," he added, "the greatest confidence in Van's considered judgment in this, as in most other matters."
Then Gwyneth turned to her mother's letter.
Following Gwyneth's own admirable caution, Mrs. Vil-ner gave not the slightest hint of having read anything into her daughter's letter which had not been expressly set down there, and every word of her own short reply could be read with equal safety by either Gv/yneth or Van.
I am sure you both know your own minds best (she wrote), and so it would be quite absurd of other people to generalize about adopted children versus one's own, and that soit of thing. I suppose Toby is the child to whom you gave the jug, and so I take it the liking for him was not just a momentary impulse.
He sounds a very nice child, and as soon as possible I shall take the opportunity of spending a day or two in London in order to make his acquaintance myself. I don't know that anything will persuade your father to come, too—I doubt it, for you know how hard it is to drag him away from his beloved books—but perhaps, later on, you might like the idea of spending Christmas or New Year down here, and he and Toby can meet each other then.
Gwyneth smiled slightly as she read the letter. It was a model of what a tactful, affectionate parent should write, and the kindly, half rueful reference to her studious father was perfectly in character. No one could have visualized from that letter the woman Dr. Kellaby had described as 'very charming but somehow unlikeable'. Mother really did these things splendidly.
However, although she might give no sign of having read between the lines, there was no doubt in Gwyneth's mind that she had done so. And when, a very little while later, Mrs. Vilner wrote to say she was coming to London for a day or two, Gwyneth steeled herself for rather disagreeable explanations. and, perhaps, a certain amount of disapproval.
She scarcely minded. Her extreme happiness with Toby nowadays made her more confident, and less inclined to dread the future.
The bond between Van and the child was a very real one by now. It was not that Van just tolerated him because she wanted him and he was a good child anyway. He would often take a great deal of time and trouble to satisfy Toby's many inquiries, and if he were so late home that Toby had gone to bed—as sometimes happened—he always inquired after the child the first thing, and smiled rather indulgently over whatever she had to tell of the day's happenings.
Of Paula she had not seen very much during the last few weeks. Gwyneth tried very earnestly to keep in touch with her, and once or twice there had been quite long telephone conversations, but it was almost impossible, of course, for relations not to be slightly strained.
She gathered that Terry visited the house at Norbury now, and apparently he had made a good impression on the parents.
It looked as though Terry meant to follow a conventional and respectable path so far as Paula was concerned. And, in that case—odd though it seemed—^possibly Paula would be happier with him than with anyone else.
"One can't be wise for other people," Gwyneth thought. "It's difficult enough to be wise for oneself. And I suppose interference is more often harmful than helpful."
And so, for the moment, she left it at that.
When her mother arrived it was early afternoon. Van, of course, was not at home, and Toby was out with Betty. So there was an excellent opportunity, as her mother said, for a really long talk.
Mrs. Vilner settled herself comfortably on the settee and looked at her daughter penetratingly.
"Well, no doubt it's an unnecessary question," she began, "but I suppose this child is your own?"
Gwyneth pressed her lips together.
"Yes. Of course."
"Gwyneth, for a timid girl, you really do the most wildly rash things."
"Do I?"
"You know you do. I take it that Van hasn't the slightest idea of the truth?"
"Of course not. Not the slightest."
"Well, my dear, don't you ever think what sort of danger you're running? I don't know anybody else on earth who would venture to adopt her own child under the nose of her unsuspecting husband."
"The idea was Van's, as a matter of fact," Gwyneth said coldly, and there was a gleam of amused admiration in her mother's eyes at that.
"Really, Gwyneth, I begin to think I underestimate your cleverness," she exclaimed. "How did you manage that?"
"It wasn't "managing", exactly." Gwyneth frowned. "Van saw how terribly I wanted Toby and—and he really loves giving me anything that will give me pleasure, you know. Almost at once, too, he began to find Toby very attractive, himself, and now he loves him dearly."
"And he didn't suspect a thing at any point? How dense men can be!"
"But, Mother, why on earth should he suspect, when you come to think of it coolly? Who would think of anything quite so fantastic—especially in connection with his own wife? It's hard enough to believe such things happen to other people. It's almost impossible to think of them in one's own life. Sometimes I can hardly believe it myself," she added sadly.
"No? Well, in Van's position I should certainly have looked for some sort of explanation when a young woman, only just married, conceived an inexplicable desire to adopt some child she had seen only twice." , "It wasn't quite like that." Gwyneth spoke in a low voice. "And then I think he thought I was very deeply affected by the scene when Toby was nearly burnt. It was after that that he seemed to take it almost as a foregone conclusion that we should have him. I was at the orp
hanage, ill, for some time, you remember, and, of course, I saw a lot of Toby. So did Van. We—^we both grew fond of him. It followed fairly naturally. First we had him home on a visit, and then—then we couldn't part with him."
"You mean you couldn't."
"No, I think Van felt that way too. Anyway, it was he who actually suggested the adoption." She was faintly sur-
prised to realize that both times the suggestion had come from Van.
"And so now everything is satisfactorily settled?"
"Well, yes, I think it is." Gwyneth wished her mother wouldn't smile in that slightly scornful way, which seemed to suggest that she could scarcely believe her daughter was so ingenuous as to suppose everything was all right.
"And you're not afraid of Van finding out?"
"Why should I be—now?" Gwyneth's voice was slightly defiant.
"I don't know, my dear. You know best how well you have covered your tracks. But, in your place, I should far rather have left the child where he was than risk the absolute holocaust there would be if Van ever did find out."
Gwyneth was silent.
"Perhaps the risk is small—I hope it is—^but, though I am not a nervous woman, I must admit I should be haunted by the thought that it could happen, and that there would be remarkably httle left in life if it ever did happen."
Gwyneth shivered slightly. It was very true, of course.
"I don't think Van would choke you exactly, because he's a little too self-contained for murder, but I can't imagine he would stop very far short of it."
"And I don't think you know Van particularly well if you can talk like that! Are you trying to frighten me—
"No. But by the very insanity of the risk you have taken, you show that you have practically no appreciation of danger. I'm trying to warn you to be doubly, trebly careful."
"You need not bother." Gwyneth spoke very curtly. "I know the risks well enough. I know I'm living on the edge of a volcano. But I can't help it. I couldn't—I wouldn't— give up Toby. If I can have him only by risking all this— well then, I'm risking it. Do you suppose I don't hate it? Do you suppose I don't wonder every morning if I shall reach the end of the day without ruin overtaking me? But it's no good. It's that or losing Toby. I can't do without him now "
"You did without him very well for five years," her mother reminded her dryly.
"I know. But then I thought he was dead. That's a very different matter. When I saw him and knew him for the
dear, odd, loving little personality that he is, I couldn*t go on, knowing always that he was "an institution child", that he had no home, that he thought me a dear, pretty visitor who only came once every few months, but whom he wanted to follow about everywhere. I loved him, Mother. I couldn't leave him then."
"Well, my dear, it's your own life you're playing with, of course, so the whole thing is really your own business. It might not seem so dangerous with another type of man. But with Van " She broke off and shrugged.
"Van can be much gentler than you imagine," Gwyneth said in a low voice.
"Very likely. But I don't think you would find his gentleness much in evidence if he ever found out about your escapade."
Again Gwyneth was silent. If only Mother wouldn't keep on putting her own fears into words!
"Gwyneth." Mrs. Vilner spoke again in a rather different tone.
"Yes?"
Gwyneth glanced up to find her mother frowning thoughtfully.
"Is it your intention—^yours and Van's—^to put through a legal adoption, by and by? Not just let him stay on indefinitely, I mean, without putting things on an official basis."
"I'm sure it's Van's intention to have a formal adoption, though, to tell the truth, we haven't gone into everything very closely yet. We went down to the orphanage, of course, and explained to the Kellabys what we wanted to do. They were extremely kind and helpful, but they said—Dr. Kellaby said there was very little known about Toby. He only mentioned two things "
"And they were?" Mrs. Vilner spoke really sharply that time.
"That he understood the mother was a girl of good family. And I'm afraid, Mother, that he didn't like you."
"Oh—" Mrs. Vilner laughed shortly, "I suppose that was the Superintendent I interviewed. I had forgotten the name. I remember now—I didn't like him either. He had some absurd theory about it being best to leave the child with " She broke off. "Well, anyway, it doesn't matter
now. It's years ago." But Gwyneth saw that whenever Dr. Kellaby had said rankled still.
"Anyway, I'm glad," Gwyneth said slowly, "that Dr. Kellaby was human enough to think that—^that Toby's mother should have been allowed to keep him. For I suppose that was what you were going to say."
Mrs. Vilner didn't answer, and Gwyneth rather thought she could imagine the scene—Mother's 'surface charm' breaking down under the absurd suggestion that one should behave with something like real heart.
After a moment her mother spoke again.
"What happened when they looked up the child's registration, or whatever it is?"
"Nothing. Or rather, it never happened. Van was absolutely determined that we should make no investigations into Toby's very meagre little past. He felt very strongly that the less he knew about the—the real parents, the more he would feel Toby was his own."
"Good heavens!" Mrs. Vilner laughed incredulously. "You certainly have the most incredible luck, my dear. Either that or But no. That isn't possible, of course."
"What?" Gwyneth asked.
But Mrs. Vilner only shook her head. She still had a last word of warning for her daughter, however.
"Be very careful when you come to the actual legal adoption, my dear, because I believe some attempt is always made to obtain the consent of one at least of the real parents."
Gwyneth paled.
"Are you sure?'*
"No, not absolutely. They may dispense with that in the case of a child taken from an orphanage. I suppose they would have to, in some cases, where really nothing at all was known. But I wish you had thought of some of these pitfalls before you insisted on this crazy plan of having the child."
"If I had thought about them, I should never have had him," Gwyneth retorted harshly. "I couldn't afford to count the cost and lose my nerve before I had even begun. As it is, I must face each risk as it comes along."
Mrs. Vilner shrugged.
"That is the counsel of almost insane rashness. It means you're not even prepared for an emergency, Gwyn."
"Against what emergency can I prepare?"
Mrs. Vilner raised her eyebrows.
"Are you never afraid, for instance, that the child's own father might turn up?"
Gwyneth looked at her mother with a certain cold defiance.
"He has turned up," she said, at least as dryly as her mother had spoken.
Mrs. Vilner sprang to her feet, her astonishment and dismay galvanizing her into action.
"He has —and you sit there doing nothingi Are you quite crazy, Gwyneth? Have you no sense of danger at all?"
Gwyneth smiled—a little as her mother might have smiled in other circumstances.
"Do sit down again. Mother. How very odd—I seem to remember Aunt Eleanor once saying very much the same thing to you—about having no sense of danger. I must have inherited it from you, I think."
"You certainly did not." Her mother dropped back into her seat agaia, a little annoyed at having betrayed quite so much agitation. "I'm not a coward, but at least I don't invite danger and then sit back waiting for disaster to happen."
"Well, I didn't invite danger, if by danger you mean Terry. He simply came back into my life, whether I liked it or not—paying some doubtful sort of court to a young cousin of Van's."
"Good heavens, Gwyn, how unspeakably unfortunate!"
Knowing her mother, Gwyneth didn't suppose that she was the slightest bit exercised on behalf of the young cousin. She merely thought it dreadfully unfortunate that Gwyneth's own past should rear up beside her, threatening he
r preseiit wonderful security.
"What did you do?"
"I went, first of all, to see Terry. I tried to make him see that he must leave Paula alone—Paula was the girl, of course."
Mrs. Vilner gave a slight exclamation of despair that Gwyneth should have allowed herself to be so hopelessly sidetracked.
"He wouldn't hear of it—said he really held all the trump cards himself "
"Which was true, of course," interrupted Mrs. Vilner sharply.
Gwyneth shrugged.
"In a way, yes. He could ruin me. But then I could also ruin him, possibly put him within measurable distance of prison."
"Nonsense. That sort of man knows how to get away every time. I hope you weren't such a fool as to threaten."
"I suppose I did. I felt I must do anything to save Paula from what had happened to me."
"Good heavens, child, couldn't you leave the girl to look after herself?"
"Why?" Gwyneth's voice was extremely cold. "What sort of beast should I have been if—knowing what I did— I made no attempt to rescue her?"
"But if you scared him away, he was almost bound to take his revenge by exposing you."
Gwyneth was silent. She supposed that was all too true.
"Well, anyway, he refused to go," she said slowly at last. "Apparently his—^his real wife had died some time during the last few years. He likes Paula—^he isn't capable of loving, of course, but I think he genuinely likes her—and she will inherit a great deal of money. Actually, he would probably never do anything better for himself ihan marry her."
"Then"—Mrs. Vilner's expression became one of cool satisfaction—"then you mean that silence is just as important to him as to you?"
"Exactly."
"Oh, Gwyneth! And you had the sense to come to some arrangement about it—to keep quiet, too?"
"I came to no arrangement at aU," Gwyneth retorted sharply. "I couldn't let Paula go into that with her eyes entirely closed. I tried to make her understand something of what he was really like—explained that he had already treated me foully. I—I didn't tell her everything—about Toby, for instance. I made out that it was a case of— seduction." She closed her lips tightly on the hateful word.
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