Part 12 (1/2)

”Of course he did not; and I try to be just. He was angry, hurt, alarmed; he was hurt that I should treat him as I did--I treated him horribly--and he was alarmed about you. I have never thanked you for what you did that day, Sara--the day he came to warn us; I could not.

For I knew how you loathed it--the expedient you took. You only took it because there was no other.”

”You are very hard to me, mamma.”

”About your feeling I am; how can I help it? But not about the deed: that was n.o.ble. In order to help me you let Mr. Owen suppose that you were engaged to a man he--he utterly despised. Well, you helped me. But you hurt him; you hurt Frederick Owen that morning about as deeply as you could.” She moved to Sara's side in the darkness, took her hand with a quick grasp and held it in both her own. ”And you are so proud,” she whispered softly, ”that you will never acknowledge that you hurt yourself too; that the sacrifice you then made in lowering yourself by your own act in his eyes was as great a one as a woman can make; for he loves you devotedly, jealously, and you--_you_ know how much you care for him.”

Without leaving time for reply, she moved back to her former place, and went on with what she had been saying, as though that sudden soft interpolated whisper had not existed. ”Yes--this strange double feeling that I have about Frederick Owen makes me even feel sorry for him at times, sorry to have him suffer as I know he must be suffering, sorry to have him think what I know he must be thinking of you; and also of me.

For he thinks that you had a liking for a man whom he considered unworthy to speak your name (oh, detestable arrogance!); he thinks that it was clandestine, that you dared not tell your father; and that I was protecting you in it as well as I could; all this, of course, he must believe. Death has put an end to it, and now it will never be known; this also he is thinking. But, meanwhile, _he_ knows it. And he cannot forget it. He thinks you have in your heart the same feeling still. But I remembered--I did what I could for you by telling him that it was but a fancy of the moment, that it would pa.s.s.”

”Oh!” murmured Sara, with a quick, involuntary gesture of repulsion; then she stopped.

”I was trying to pave a way out of it for you. You do not like the way, because it includes--includes the supposition that you--But one can never please you, Sara Carroll!”

She rose and began to walk swiftly to and fro across the room, her footsteps making no sound on the thick, faded, old-fas.h.i.+oned carpet--a relic from the days of the Sea Island Carrolls.

”What do you want me to do?” she said, abruptly, as she pa.s.sed Sara for the fourth time.

”If you are alluding to Mr. Owen, I don't want you to do anything,”

answered Miss Carroll.

”Oh, you are proud! For the present nothing can be done. But let me tell you one thing--do not be _too_ repellent. 'Tis good in me to warn you, to take his part, when I hate him so--hate him for what he said. Do you suppose I would have had him reading prayers over my poor dead boy after what had pa.s.sed? Never in the world. No one who despised him should come near him. So I had the Baptist minister. I was a Baptist myself when I was a girl--if I ever was a girl! All this hurts _you_, of course; but I cannot help it. Be patient. Some day I shall forgive him. Perhaps soon.”

She had paused in front of Sara as she said this, for they had both been guardedly careful to speak in the lowest tones.

The girl left her place on the sofa; she rose and walked beside her stepmother as she resumed her quick, restless journey to and fro across the floor. They came and went in silence for many minutes. Then Sara put her arm round Madam Carroll, and drew her towards the sofa again.

”Rest awhile, mamma,” she said, placing the cus.h.i.+ons so that she could lie easily; ”you do not know how very tired you are.” And Madam Carroll for a half-hour yielded.

”We must bear with each other, Sara,” she said, as she lay with her eyes closed. ”For amid all our other feelings, there is one which we have in common, our love for your father. That is and always must be a tie between you and me.”

”Always,” answered Sara.

A little after daylight the Major woke. There had been no return of the fever; he had slept in peace while they kept the vigil near him; his illness was over. As he opened his eyes, his wife came to the bedside; she had just risen--or so it seemed, for she wore a rose-colored wrapper, and on her head a little lace cap adorned with rose-colored ribbon. The Major had not seen the cap before; he thought it very pretty.

”Trying to be old, are you, Madam Carroll?” he said; ”old and matronly?”

Sara came in not long afterwards; she, too, was freshly dressed in a white wrapper.

”I have brought you your breakfast, papa,” she said.

”Isn't it earlier than usual?” asked the Major, turning his dim eyes towards the window. But he could not see the light of the sunrise on the peaks.

”I am afraid, Major, that you are growing indolent,” said Madam Carroll, with pretended severity, as she poured out his tea.

”Indolent?” said the Major--”indolent? Indolence is nothing to vanity.

And you and Sara, in your pink and white gowns, are living images of vanity this morning, Madam Carroll.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”I AM AFRAID, MAJOR, THAT YOU ARE GROWING INDOLENT.”]