Uncle-Father and Aunt-Mother

“Thus,” Jane Tuke concluded, “you became son of our hearts, though not our bodies.”

Richard had listened thoughtfully to his mother’s tale, unaware of the full extent of what her revelation meant. Most immediately, it meant that she was free of shame, and in that he rejoiced.

“At last I begin to understand!” he said. “Much of what sir Wilton said to me now makes sense. He said he had caused my mother no disgrace, but I could not see how to believe that alongside what Mrs. Manson said.”

“Mrs. Manson was a vile woman!”

“Sir Wilton said the same.”

“You said I must now respect him,” said Richard. “But how can I?”

“As I said, he was not to blame for what I did. And I would never have taken you away at all if that woman hadn’t sent me away for no reason but to gain her control over you. How could I leave my sister’s child in the power of such a woman? Day and night, Richard, I was haunted with the sight of her cold face hanging over you. I was certain the devil might have his way with her when he chose—there was no love in her to prevent him. In my dreams I saw her giving you poison, or with a penknife in her hand and her eyes shining like ice. I could not bear it! I knew I was committing a crime in the eyes of the law, but I felt a stronger law compelling me, and I said to myself, ‘I will be hanged for my child, rather than that my child should be murdered! I will not leave him with that woman!’ So I took you, Richard!”

“Thank you a thousand times, mother! I am sure it was the right and best thing for me! How much I owe to you and my uncle! I must call you mother still, but I am afraid I shall have to call my father uncle.”

“It won’t hurt him, Richard. He has been a good uncle to you, but I don’t think he would have taught you the things he did if you had been his very own child.”

“He has done me no harm, mother—nothing but good,” said Richard. “And so you are my mother’s sister?”

“Yes, and a good mother she would have been to you! You must not think of her as a grim old woman like me! She was but twenty-six when you were born and she died. She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw, Richard!—Never another woman’s hand has touched your body but hers and mine.”

He took her hand and kissed it. Jane Tuke had never had her hand kissed before, and would have drawn it away. The lady within was ashamed of her rough hands, not knowing they had won her her ladyhood, for there are no ladies but true women. What lovely ladies will walk into the next world out of the rough cocoon of their hard-wrought bodies—not because they have been working women, but because they have been true women. Among working women as among countesses, there are last that shall be first, and first that shall be last.