THE GREAT TEMPTATION
"Love not, love not! Oh, warning vainly said,
In present years, as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head
Faultless, immortal--till they change or die."
It was a warm, sunny day in August, and the slim and graceful Adalaide,
Lady of Cramer, was waiting and watching for Dr. Macrae. She had a new
purpose in her heart, and it was evident not only in her eyes, which
were full of a soft blue fire--languid yet masterful--but also in her
dress, from which every trace of black had been eliminated. In a soft
flowing gown of white lawn and lace, with belt and bows of white satin,
she looked fresh and lovely as a flower on the day of its birth.
"Take my book and work-basket to the Ladies' Rest, Flora," she said to
her maid, "and if there are callers, they may come to me. Tell Brodie to
attend them."
The Ladies' Rest was a circle of wonderful turf in the very center of
which stood a gigantic oak, whose far-stretching branches kept the
circle in a dreamy, shadowy peace. Near the heart of the circle there
were seats, and a small table, and my Lady, standing in white on its
green turf, with the green and golden lights of the garden all around
her, was as fair a creature as mortal eyes could desire to see.
When left alone her elfin prettiness became particularly noticeable, for
she was practicing her bewildering ways to her own thoughts, her manner
being at one moment arch and coquettish, and at the next pensive and
affectionate; practicing all her small facial arts with the
predeterminate aim and intention of capturing the hitherto impregnable,
insensible heart of the handsome Minister.
He was quite unconscious of the danger into which he was walking, and
his thoughts were on the eternities, and the tremendous destinies that
are connected with them. The gravity induced by such thoughts was
becomingly dignified, and Lady Cramer thought him handsomer than even
her imagination had painted him. Certainly he was worth captivating, and
she was resolved to effect this purpose. Indeed she wondered at herself
for not having accomplished such a delightful triumph before.
But, if she had honestly examined her dilatory movement in this
direction, she would have known that it was caused by facts brought
vividly to her notice during the past few weeks, when Cramer Hall had
been filled with company of a pleasantly mixed character--young nobles
and soldiers, and many types of beautiful and eligible young ladies.
Every one, then, had regarded her as a kind of matron, and she found all
her pretenses to be yet of the younger set quietly put aside. She was
admired and treated with the greatest respect, but no one made love to
her; and she was piqued and humbled by this neglect.
"Because I am thirty-two," she said to herself, "because I am
thirty-two, I was treated like an old lady. The insolence of youth is
intolerable!" Then she heard steps upon the flagged walk and, turning,
saw the stately, rather somber figure of the man whose conquest she was
meditating approaching her. She met him with charming smiles, and little
fluttering attentions and, in words soft and hesitating, tried to hide,
and yet to express her great joy in his presence. "It is so long--so
long--since I saw you! I have felt desolate and, oh, so lonely!"
"Lonely! You have had so much pleasant company."
"But _you_ never came--not even when I wrote and asked you--did you know
how cruel you were? My company was young and thoughtless--no one cared
for me--I longed to see your face you never came--I have been very
lonely--but _now_! Oh, you cannot tell what a pleasure it is to have
someone to talk to who does not regard tennis and golf as the chief end
and duty of man," and she smiled and laid her jeweled white hand
confidingly on his.
[Illustration: "She smiled and laid her jeweled white hand confidingly
on his"]
He was much astonished, but also greatly touched, by her frankness and
evident joy in his presence; and, as any other man would have done, he
accepted her gracious kindness without doubt or consideration. Her
pretty face, full of sympathetic revelations, and her flattering words
went like wine to his head and heart, his eyes dilated with pleasure,
and he clasped the hand she had laid upon his own. Its soft warmth, its
slight pressure, the tender smile on her lips, the love light in her
eyes, were to his starving soul irresistible temptations. But he never
thought of these things as temptations; if he had done so, there was in
him a Will gigantic enough to have put them behind him. As a man dying
of thirst would have seized a glass of cold water, so his soul,
famishing for love, took hastily, greedily, the astonishing blessing
offered him. Scarcely could he believe in his happiness; yet fast, oh,
so fast, he forgot everything before this hour! And when he left Cramer
it was with his heart like a spring brimming over with love.
Under the sweet strength of the stars he walked home. He felt that he
could not meet Mrs. Caird until he had communed with himself in the
silence and solitude of the night. His whole life, without his
expectation or conscious desire, had been changed. Something wonderful
had taken place. He thought he had loved before, but this startling,
unforeseen, and unmistakable passion filled him with rapture and a kind
of sacred fear. He had in no way sought it. By some Power far above him
it had been sent. Yet his beating heart, his strange joy, his firm step,
active brain, and glad outlook on life taught him that all the long
years of his ascetic rejection of love must have been a mistake.
When he reached home he had not decided whether it would be prudent to
tell his sister-in-law of the new joy that had come into his life. His
nature was reticent, and he felt a keen personal pleasure in the secrecy
of his love. He did not dream of her suspecting or discovering it. He
found her sitting on the little porch absolutely idle. He was astonished
at the circumstance, and more so at her face and manner, which were both
sad and weary.
"Are you sick, Jessy," he asked, "or have I stayed too long at the
Hall?"
"You are sooner home than I expected. How are all there?"
"No one is there at present but Lady Cramer. We had dinner together, and
I came away as soon as I could well leave. She is very lonely."
"So am I, for that matter."
"Marion is with you."
"In a way, not much. Her heart is at Oban or thereabout."
"Lady Cramer told me that Lord Cramer and Donald had gone on a tramp
together. They are walking through the western highlands. It did not
please me."
"And why not?"
"Because it is strengthening Donald's love of adventure and change. I
wanted him to rest quietly here until we returned to Glasgow. Then I
hoped he would be willing and glad to enter St. Andrews, and to settle
down to the life I intended for him."
"If he had stayed here, I think he would have regarded St. Andrews with
delight. The company of hundreds of young men, the pleasant city, and
the fine golf ground would make St. Andrews--after a month of this
place--a very Elysium of satisfaction."
"I thought this place was like the Garden of Eden to you."
"I don't blame Eve, if it is. All right for a settled woman like me, and
yet I, myself, am missing my afternoon callers and the library. And the
two lasses are growing surly for want of company. Aileen was saying an
hour ago that, 'If there was only a constable, and a hand-organ passing
now and then,' she could bear the loneliness better."
"As for me, I like it more and more. I am thinking of asking the Church
to get a supply for a month. I feel a little rest to be necessary."
"I feel as if I had had enough of the country."
"What does Marion say?"
"She is as happy here as anywhere. All places are wearisome to those who
live for a person who is not in the place."
"And Lady Cramer tells me that her stepson is miserable if he is not
with Donald. She says they are inseparable and very unhappy if apart."
"Like to like, the wide world over."
"But they are not alike."
"You do not know your son. I do. But if you take a month's rest here,
you might get through that weary, useless reading of silly books and
sillier manuscripts."
"I hope it is not useless reading, Jessy. Every book that discredits
scientific theology adds to the evidences of Christianity."
Then Jessy lost control of herself, for she answered angrily, "Do you
think, Ian, that I have not read 'Evidences'? Let me tell you how I felt
after reading Paley's. I just thought it _probable_ that Christianity
_might_ be true. That was only an opinion, but let a man or woman _do_
God's will, until He speaks within them like a living voice, and then
they will _know_ there is a God."
"But, Jessy,----"
"Don't interrupt me. I must tell you the truth. Upon my word, I believe
you are training yourself to the habit of doubting much and believing
little. You have dropped words lately I did not like, and I do not like
your selfishness about your children. I have always noticed, as
religious faith dies, selfishness takes the place of self-sacrifice.
There were the Dalrys! Their children were lost to everything good,
because they were forced to marry where they did not love. What have you
got to do with Marion's love? I wonder sometimes if you ever loved my
little sister! I am doubting it."
"Jessy,----"
"Yes, I am doubting it. You thought it no sin to urge her to leave
father and mother, and go away with yourself, though the Bible lays it
down as the _man's duty_ to leave father and mother for his wife's sake.
Marion wants to do nothing worse than you begged Agnes to do. There is a
change--a change for the worse--in you, Ian. I cannot just put my finger
on it, but I feel it. Yes, I feel it."
"That may be so, Jessy. We all change, and no wrong done by it. We must
in some way carry about with us the aura of any book that takes
possession of our thoughts or feelings. The doubtful books I have been
reading so steadily have their own influence--perhaps not a good one."
"A very bad one."
"In a way, you are right, Jessy. It makes me unhappy and uncertain, and
with a strong insistence leads me from one skeptical writer to another.
I wish to destroy them all!"
"Ian, you are not the man appointed to destroy the devil. Keep yourself
out of his power, and leave the devil and all his books to God
Almighty."
"Many of these skeptical books show a reverent spirit, Jessy."
"I will not believe that. As far as I can judge, they are altogether
destructive. They have no business in this room, though in the libraries
of hell they ought to be given high place and honor."
"The libraries of hell! What an idea!"
"A very reasonable one. There are books that have slain more souls than
any man could slay--but----"
"O Jessy, Jessy! Doubts will come, even if you fight them on your
knees--will come to thoughtful men and women; and doubt can only be
cured by investigation."
"As far as I can see, the doubt of all Doubters is just the same, and
the Book of Job contains as much philosophy of that kind as the world is
ever likely to come to. But I notice that, as soon as doubting gets
hold of a man, he will believe anything, so long as it is _not_ in the
Bible."
"The 'Evidences of Christianity'----"
"Ian, I have no patience with you. If there is anything plain and clear
in the religious teachings of the Bible, it is that religion proves
itself. Spiritual things are spiritually discerned, not intellectually.
If a man has had a good dinner, he knows it; there is no need to argue
about the matter. If a soul thirsts after righteousness and drinks of
the Waters of Life, it knows it, and is happy and satisfied; it does not
want evidences that it is so."
"You are right, Jessy, but what is the matter with you to-night? You are
very queer--I may say 'cross.'"
"I am neither queer nor cross. This afternoon, for a few moments, I lost
my bodily senses, and found _myself_--and I saw a black cloud coming
straight to our house--coming as if it knew just where to go--as if it
had been sent. And it entered the house, and I came to myself in a dream
and sweat of terror; and I am feared for my children, for they are heart
of my heart. And your selfish way with them both is enough to call some
tragedy, a deal worse than a marriage that does not suit you, or the
taking of his own way by a good, brave lad who is sure not to take a
wrong way, though it may not be the one you prefer."
"Marion has no knowledge of the world, and it is my duty to stand
between her and the world."
"Marion loves Richard Cramer, and if she is willing to thole his temper
and all the rest of his shortcomings, it is likely her appointed way
toward perfection--it seems to be God's commonest way of training women.
You do not require to bear with Cramer in any way. He will not trouble
you, for there is no doubt he thinks you as selfish and disagreeable as
you think him."
"I dislike Lord Cramer for his immoralities."
"God puts up with what you call his 'immoralities,' and I think you need
not be so strict to mark iniquity--if there is any. In my opinion,
Cramer is as good as the rest of men--fond of women's company, of
course, and, like Donald, daft about music and fine singing, but what
good man is not?"
"As for Donald, I only ask him to walk in my own footsteps."
"They are over-narrow for him."
"Nevertheless, he shall tread in them or make his own way. I have money
to send him to St. Andrews and give him every advantage. He can go there
next month--or he can go to the ends of the earth."
"Then he will go to the ends of the earth. But take heed to my words,
Ian Macrae, you will not escape the sorrow of it. However you may try
to comfort yourself, you will not be able to forget the loving,
handsome lad who stands at your side to-day like a vision of your own
youth."
"I had a very happy afternoon, and you have completely spoiled it,
Jessy."
"You can have a happy afternoon to-morrow, and every day, if you wish
it, but if you ruin your children's lives you can never, never undo that
wrong. Have some pity on yourself, if you have none on them."
"I will not be bullied into doing what I know to be unwise, Jessy. I am
considering the whole life of my children, not a few weeks or months of
youth's illusory dreams and temptations. Donald, as a man, will have the
privilege of making a choice; as for Marion, I shall insist on her
accepting a marriage which will shelter her as far as possible from all
the ills of life."
"Do you mean that you will make her marry that lying, sneaking,
tale-telling cub, Allan Reid?"
"Certainly. His faults grew out of his jealousy of Donald's beauty and
cleverness. He confessed his fault to me and I forgave him. All stands
as it stood before that disagreeable evening. He said Donald was very
scornful and provoking. I can believe it."
"I hope he was." Then she laughed, and added, with an air of
satisfaction: "Donald has a way of his own. He can be very civil, and
very unbearable. I have seen him----," and she laughed again at the
memory.
"I am going to my room, Jessy. I have said all I have to say on these
subjects."
"Will you have some bread and milk first?"
"No. I had an excellent dinner. It was late also. You have made me
wretched, Jessy."
"I am sorry, Ian. But, as it concerns the children, we are pulling at
opposite ends of the rope."
"They are _my_ children. You will kindly remember that fact, Mrs.
Caird." He spoke with a haughty determination and left her without even
his usual perfunctory "good night." She was troubled by his somewhat
unusual show of temper, and the noble repose of the night had no note of
comfort for her. The silence of the far-receding mountains, the murmur
of the streams, the air of lonely pastoral melancholy, with a light like
dreamland lying over all, did not help her wounded feelings. The Scot
does not ask Nature for comfort in any heart sorrow; there is the Book,
and the God of his Fathers. But Jessy Caird had not yet arrived at the
point where she felt her exigencies beyond her own direction.
In a few minutes she saw Dr. Macrae light his room, and through its open
window there came the odor of a fine cigar. "After the manner of men,"
she muttered. "They don't permit a woman to smoke--if she is worried or
ill-tempered--it is not ladylike. And I'm wondering what improves its
manners so as to make it gentleman-like. Men are selfish creatures, all
of them, not one good, no, not one!"
Then she rose and rather noisily locked the door; she hoped that Dr.
Macrae would hear her, and so come and attend to what he considered his
duty when at home. But Dr. Macrae was lying on the sofa smoking and
dreaming of Lady Cramer's beauty, and that night he did not care who
locked the door. The huge key turned, the bolts slipped into their
places, and she went upstairs, full of indignation at her
brother-in-law. She could not understand his mood; for she remembered
that in spite of the gravity of the subjects on which they had disagreed
there was an air of yawning and boredom about him. It was evident to her
that they were intruding on some subject much more interesting.
At that hour she was trying to find out what really filled her with
forebodings. Little wondering, wandering thoughts about some change in
her brother-in-law had flitted for two weeks in and out of her
consciousness. But all his slight deviations from the natural and usual
were as nothing in comparison with the change she perceived this night.
Then, in the midst of her trifling suppositions, there was suddenly
flashed across her mind a few words she never doubted: "_He is in love
with Lady Cramer! He intends to marry her!_"
The clue had been given and she followed it out. She thought she now saw
clearly why Macrae was so determined to marry Marion to Allan Reid. He
was going to marry into the Cramer family himself, and it would be most
disturbing and confusing if Marion did the same. It would be too much.
Though there was no legal barrier, there was a positive social one, so
vigilantly deterrent, indeed, that she was sure no such case had ever
been brought to the Minister's notice; and then she speculated a while
as to what would have been his action under the circumstances.
As she slowly undressed she continued her relentless examination of the
supposed condition. "Why," she said to herself, "the silly jokes that
would be made about the relationships following the double marriage
would be just awful. Even his elders and deacons would hardly refrain
themselves. They would give him some sly specimens of their wit--and
serve him right, too; and I know well there are families in the Church
of the Disciples who would not feel sure in their particular consciences
whether such close marriages were quite right in the sight of God. They
will think, anyway, that the Minister ought to have been more careful
to avoid the appearance of evil, and they will be 'so sorry' and ask for
explanations, and say it is 'really so confusing.' Yes, I can see and
hear the great congregation of the Church of the Disciples all agog
about the Minister's queer marriage. As for myself, I shall tell any
unmarried man or woman who says what I don't like 'to look after their
own marriages'; and, if they are married, I will tell them to 'mind
their own business'; but this, or that, the clash and clatter will drive
a proud man like Ian to distraction. True, he is proud enough to strike
them dumb with a look. I'll never forget seeing him walk up to the
pulpit that Sabbath after he was made a D.D., and I mind well how he was
so dignified that pretty Martha Dean called him '_a procession of One_.'
The Church was down at his feet that day--and if he should marry my
Lady! I'll go into no surmises--things will be as ordered."
Thus she followed her thoughts backward and forward until the night grew
chilly; then she began again her preparations for sleep, saying softly
to herself as she did so: "I am a wiser woman to-night than I was in the
morn. I know now why my poor little Marion is to be made to marry Allan
Reid, and, moreover, why her selfish father wants the marriage
immediately. It is to prevent the joking about his own marriage, for if
she got into the Cramer family first it would take a deal of courage to
marry his daughter's mother-in-law. My goodness! What a lot of quiet fun
and pawky jokes there would be passing round. I must talk it out with
Marion in the morning. I am going to sleep now--sleeping must go on,
whether marrying does--or not."
In some respects Mrs. Caird's theory was wrong. It was likely that Dr.
Macrae had some nascent, unacknowledged admiration for Lady Cramer, but
never until that day had he hoped to marry her. Marriage had been so
long and so resolutely barred from his thoughts and feelings that it
took the encouragement of Lady Cramer to bring it to recognition in his
hopes and desires--so the selfishness Mrs. Caird presupposed had not
been in any way as yet conscious to him. The situation was sure to
present itself, but it had not yet done so. It was probable, also, that
it would affect him precisely as it affected Mrs. Caird, but how he
would meet or baffle it no one could say. A man in love cannot be
measured by those perfectly sane and cool; besides, love has secret keys
with which to meet difficulties.
Mrs. Caird had determined to sleep well, but she was restless and had
disturbing dreams, for,
"No tight-shut doors, or close-drawn curtains keep
The swarming dreams out, when we sleep."
And the calm freshness and beauty of the morning almost irritated her.
What did Nature care that she was unhappy, that she had painful puzzles
to solve, and the very unpleasant inheritance from yesterday to dispose
of? Still she was disposed to be reasonable, if others were. But Dr.
Macrae was neither ready nor wishful to bring questions so important to
a hurried and already inharmonious discussion. At that hour the affair
between Lady Cramer and himself was more hopeful than settled, her
affection being of a tentative rather than of an actual character. She
was as yet experimenting with her own heart, and the Minister's heart
was a necessary part of the trial, while his sublime confidence in her
little coquetries amused her.
Breakfast was usually a very pleasant meal, but this morning all were
reserved and silent. Dr. Macrae knew the value of a cool indifference,
and he took refuge in that mood. Nothing interested him, he was lost in
thought, he answered questions in monosyllables, and placed himself
beyond conciliation in any form. Even Marion's remarks passed unheeded,
though his heart failed him when she laid her small hand on his and
asked softly,
"Are you sick, dear Father?"
"No," he answered, "I am in trouble."
"Can I help you, Father? What is it? Tell me, dear."
"I have brought up children, and they have rebelled against me." His
voice was sad and low with the pathetic reproach, and he rose with the
words and went to his study. Marion, with a troubled face, turned to her
aunt.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"Come with me to my room, dear, and I will tell you what he means."
"I think I know what he means," she replied as soon as they were alone.
"He is cross because I will not marry Allan Reid."
"Can you not manage it, Marion? He has set his heart on that marriage."
"I would rather die. You said you would stand by me."
"So I will."
"Why is Father so cruel to me?"
"Because he wants, I think, to marry Lady Cramer."
"Would you go away from Father in that case?"
"Would I not?"
"I should go with you, of course."
"That stands to reason."
"How do you know, Aunt? I mean, about Lady Cramer?"
"I had a sure word. I do not doubt it."
"Did my father tell you?"
"No. It is a new thing yet; only a mustard seed now, but it will grow
to a great tree. It might have happened yesterday."
"Longer ago than that, Aunt, at least on Lady Cramer's side. When I was
staying at the Hall she was cross because he did not come, and she
wanted to send for him, but Richard would not let her."
"Why then?"
"Because he said the company they had would be an offense to the
Minister, and the Minister would be unwelcome to the other guests. I
must write and tell Richard your suspicion. It may affect his
prospects."
"No doubt it will, but, if he could marry you at once, it might prevent
the other marriage."
"I see not how nor why."
Then Mrs. Caird went pitilessly over the sensation the double marriage
would make not only socially, but in the Church of the Disciples. She
put into the mouths of its elders, deacons and members the foolish jibes
and jokes they would be sure to make. The riddling and laughter and
comedy sure to flow from the situation were vividly present to her own
imagination, and she spared Marion none of the scorn and indignation
they would evoke.
"Just think, Marion," she continued, "of your father having to thole all
this vulgar tomfoolery--he, that never sees a flash of humor, however
broad and plain it may be. Some men would just laugh, and let the jokes
go by, but not so your father. They would be words in earnest to him,
and every word would be a whip lash. He would fret and fume and worry
himself into a brain fever, or he would fall into one of his miraculous
passions with some laughing fool, and there would be tragedy and ruin to
follow."
Marion did not speak, but she was white as the white dress she wore.
Mrs. Caird looked at her and was not quite pleased with her attitude.
She had expected tears or anger, and Marion gave way to neither, but her
silence and pallor and a certain proud erectness of her figure spoke for
her. At this hour she was startlingly like her father. She had put
herself completely in his place, and was moved just as he would have
been by her aunt's scornful picture of the Church of the Disciples in a
jocular insurrection. So she looked like him. Quick as thought and
feeling, the soul had photographed on the plastic body the very
presentment of Ian Macrae. Her erect figure, her haughty manner, her
scornful and indignant expression, and her large dark eyes, full of
reproach, but quite tearless, were exactly the symptoms which he would
have manifested if subjected to a like recital. For it is the expression
of the human face, rather than its features, which makes its identity.
The face enshrined in our hearts, which comes to us in dreams, when it
has long moldered in the grave, is not the mechanical countenance of the
loved one--it is its abstract idealization, its essence and life--it is
the spirit of the face.
Mrs. Caird was astonished. It was a Marion she did not expect, but after
a few moments' silence she said, "You can see your father's position,
child?"
"Yes, I can see it and feel it, too. He would be distracted with the
gossip and the disgrace of it."
"Well, then?"
"I must prevent it."
"Would you marry Allan Reid?"
"No."
"What will you do?"
"Stand by my father whatever befall, if he will let me."
"And Lord Cramer?"
"We can wait."
"But if you married at once, the onus of such a condition as I have
pointed out would be on your father, and he would not face it for any
living woman. That stands to reason."
"It is nineteen years since my mother died. He has given all those years
to Donald and myself. He gave us _you_ for a mother, but he never gave
us a stepmother. He was good to us in that respect, and, though we may
not have known it, he may have had many temptations to alter his life
and he denied himself a wife for our sakes. I must stand by my father.
If he wishes to marry Lady Cramer, I will only express satisfaction in
his choice."
"But if he insists on your marrying Allan Reid first?"
"That I will not do. His hopes and desires are sacred to me. I shall
expect him to give to mine the same regard. I am sure he will do so. Why
do you not point out to him the results you have just made so plain to
me?"
"Not I! I shall wash my hands of the whole affair. I wonder what kind of
mortals you Macraes are! I was trying to prepare some plain road for you
and your lover, and the thought of your father steps in between you and
you make him a curtsey, and say, 'Your will be it, Father.'"
"Aunt, for a thousand years the father and the chief in my family have
been _one_. He has had the affection and the loyalty due to both
relations. My father is still to me _the_ Macrae, and I owe him and give
him the first and best homage of my heart."
"Goodness! Gracious! I am very sorry, Miss Macrae, I have presumed to
meddle in your affairs. I am only a poor Lowland Scot, ignorant of your
famous clansmen. I have seen some of them, of course, in the Glasgow and
Edinburgh barracks, but we called them 'kilties,' just plain kilties!
Good soldiers, I believe, but----"
"Dear Aunt, you are making yourself angry for nothing at all. If you
think over what I have said, you will allow I am right."
"I have something else to think over now, and I'll meddle no more with
other people's love affairs. There now--go away and let me alone--I want
no kissing and fleeching. You have cast me clean off--after nineteen
years----" and the rest of her complaint was lost in passionate sobs and
tears.
Then Marion was on her knees, crying with her, and the upcome and
outcome was kisses and fond words and forgiveness. But do we forgive? We
agree to put aside the fault and forget it; the real thing is, we agree
to forget.
After this common family rite Mrs. Caird washed her face and went down
to look after dinner, and as she did so she felt a little hardly toward
Marion, and her thoughts were grieving and reminiscent. "Oh, the
sleepless nights and anxious days I have spent for that dear lassie!"
she sighed; "and, now she is a woman, her lover and her father fill her
heart. I am just a nobody. Well, thank the Father of all, I gave my love
freely. I did not sell it, I gave it, and the gift is my reward. It is
more blessed to give than to receive."
Marion, at her sewing, had thoughts not much more satisfactory. "Aunt
makes so much of things," she said to herself. "She is so romantic and
simple-minded, and she goes over the score on both sides; everything is
the very worst or the very best. I wish she would not talk so much about
Richard, and be always planning this and that for us. Oh, I ought to be
ashamed of such thoughts, and I am ashamed! Aunt Jessy has been my
mother, God bless her!" She had a few moments of repentant reflection
and resolutions, and then she continued them in a different way, saying
almost audibly: "My father! Oh, Aunt knows my father is different. His
blood flows through my heart. I am his child from head to feet. Aunt has
often told me so. She ought, then, to know I would stand by my father,
whomever he married."
They had forgiven each other--but had they forgotten?