"Eve, my child," said Mrs Glaire, "what is it? Tell me what this
means."
"Oh, aunt, aunt," the poor girl sobbed. "Richard--Richard."
"Yes, yes," said Mrs Glaire, drawing her to her breast, and laying her
cool soft hands upon the burning brow; "tell me, darling. You have no
secrets from me."
"I will--directly--aunt," sobbed Eve; and then, in a burst of passionate
grief, "He has been begging me to be his wife."
"And is that so very dreadful, my child?" said Mrs Glaire.
"And when I told him it could not be perhaps for years--not till I could
freely forgive him--he accused me, so dreadfully."
"Indeed, child! what did he say?"
"Oh, I could not, cannot tell you," sobbed Eve.
"Yes, yes, my poor little frightened bird," said Mrs Glaire, caressing
her, "you can tell me all."
"I will, aunt," said the girl, starting up, looking flushed and eager,
as she hastily dried her eyes, and speaking now indignantly; "he accused
me, aunt, of encouraging Mr Selwood."
"And have you, Eve?"
"Oh, aunt dear, never, never." This with a wondering, almost angry,
look.
"And has Mr Selwood ever made any advances to you, my dear?" said Mrs
Glaire, watching curiously the bright blushing face before her.
"Never, aunt dear, never. He has always been so kind and gentlemanly.
Never by word or by look, aunt."
"No, child, he would not," said Mrs Glaire, slowly; "he is a gentleman
whom we can trust and love."
"Love, aunt?"
"Yes, child, as a very dear friend. But about Richard, Eve. He was
very hot and passionate?"
"Yes, aunt. Most cruel to me."
"And you told him you could not forgive him for his cruel neglect and
trifling with--with that poor girl?"
"Yes, aunt," said Eve, struggling hard to keep up her firmness; "but not
quite all you say. I did not tell him I would not forgive him."
"What then, my child?"
"That I could not forgive him yet, not till I saw that he was truly
sorry for the past."
"You told him this, Eve?"
"Yes, aunt dear. Was it wrong?"
"Wrong, my child," said Mrs Glaire, embracing her, as the tears started
to her eyes.
"No; it was most maidenly and true. But, Eve, my child, some day you
may be a mother--some day you may have a son, over whose welfare your
heart will yearn, and for whom you would be ready to do anything--even
to committing a crime to save him from a downward course."
"Aunt!" cried the girl, looking up at her wonderingly, for she was
speaking now in eager excited tones.
"Yes, child; ready to screen him, forgive him, bear the penalty of his
sins, anything to save him from pain, suffering, or the retribution he
has been calling down upon his head."
"Oh, aunt," cried the girl, in awe-stricken tones, "is it like this to
be a mother?"
"No, no, my child: all sons are not like this. But it is a mother's
agony to feel that if her boy turns from the straightforward course, she
may herself be perhaps to blame; that by indulgent weakness, by giving
up the reins of government too soon, she may have caused him to go
astray; and--Eve--Eve--my darling, this is my fate, and it is you alone
who can save my boy."
"Aunt!"
"Yes, child. He is my boy, my very own, and I have been weak, and let
the weeds grow up in him, to the choking of the good qualities he
possesses. I have been too proud of him, too glad to see my son taking
his position as a gentleman, and a man of the world. It was my proud
desire to see him the leading man here at the works--the great man of
the town; and my pride has brought its punishment--has ruined my boy, so
that he needs all I can do to save him."
"Aunt--dear aunt--pray--pray don't kneel to me," cried Eve, excitedly,
as she saw her aunt's next act.
"Yes, yes, child, I must--I must; for it is to you I look alone for
help, as God's minister, to save my boy. I--I have sinned for him more
deeply than I can tell--more than a life of repentance can wash out,
bringing, as I have, misery upon others, and fresh ill-treatment of my
boy; but you--you--Eve, can save him. We must forgive--you must
forgive; for it is I who am to blame."
"No, no, aunt."
"Yes, my child," cried Mrs Glaire, clinging to her passionately.
"Nothing but the earnest love of a pure, true woman, can save him--the
woman who will be his faithful wife, and bless him with her love. Eve,
my child, on my knees I ask you to forgive him, now--at once, even as
you nightly pray our Father to forgive us our trespasses. Say you will
forgive him, that you will blot out all the past, and be his wife; for
it will be the turning-point of his life."
"Aunt, dear aunt," sobbed the poor girl, bewildered by the strange
outburst of passion from one generally so calm and placid in her ways.
"What can I say? Oh, this is terrible!"
"Terrible, Eve? No, no, child, not terrible to save him we love, for
you do love him, Eve?"
"I--I--hope so, aunt."
"Yes, yes, you do. You must, for he is true and good at heart. You
will forgive him--for my sake, Eve. Eve, I am on my knees to you. If
you have one spark of gratitude for the past, listen to my prayer."
"Aunt, dearest aunt, my more than mother," sobbed Eve, completely
carried away by the agony of one who had been everything to her for
years and years of her life; "I will do all you wish. I am your child.
Tell me what to do, and I will do it; for I love you, dearest aunt, as
if you were my own mother."
"I knew it, I knew it, my darling, my own darling," cried Mrs Glaire,
throwing her hands upwards. "Saved, saved! Oh, God! oh, God! Thou
hast heard my prayer."
Eve shrank from her for an instant, frightened at her wild appeal, but
only for the moment; the next she had thrown herself on her knees beside
her, and the two women were sobbing and caressing each other tenderly,
till the calm came after their storm of weeping, and Eve prevailed upon
the trembling mother to lie down upon her bed, where exhausted nature at
last prevailed, and she sank to sleep. But only to mutter strangely of
"Daisy Banks--poor Daisy Banks," and utter at times the most piteous
sighs; while, as Eve watched her, the memory of that which she had
promised came upon her with all its force, and a feeling of depression
and of utter misery stole over her, so great that she could hardly bear
to sit alone.
She had promised to be Richard's wife--promised again, and that it
should be soon; promised to save him, when that strange and wondrous
joy, that glorious light of love that was springing up in her breast,
frightening her by its intensity, was ever expanding, but must now be
crushed out--for ever.
What was she to do? To save Richard--to be his wife. Not so hard a
task a few months since, but now! Oh, it was dreadful. And yet that
was a traitorous feeling that she must crush; and at last, sobbing
bitterly, Eve Pelly knelt by her sleeping aunt, and prayed earnestly, as
woman ever prayed before, that Murray Selwood might never care for her,
and that she might be a good and tender wife to the man who sat at the
bottom of the garden smoking a cigar, and uttering a few oaths from time
to time against the woman on her knees. What time he also defiled the
flowers around the rustic seat, and cut them with his stick, till he
started to his feet in an agony of dread, for a shadow fell across him
as some one approached noiselessly over the velvet lawn, and looking up,
there stood the foreman, gazing full in his face, as he exclaimed--
"Richard Glaire, I've come to have a few words wi' you."
Volume 3, Chapter IV.