Part 40 (2/2)

When I named Tom, she at first pretended not to know him, although she has seen him a dozen times in her visits here, and once condescended to say that for a countryman he was really almost handsome.

”I know it's the same name as that baby's father's,” she ended, her voice getting icier and icier, ”but of course no respectable woman would think of marrying him.”

”Then I'm not a respectable woman,” I retorted, feeling the blood rise into my face, ”for I'm thinking of it.”

We looked for a moment into each other's eyes, and I felt, however I appeared, as if I were defying anything she could say.

”So he has taken advantage of your mothering his baby, has he?” she brought out at last.

I responded that he did not even suspect I meant to marry him. She stared, and demanded how he was to find out. I answered that I could think of no way except for me to tell him. She threw up her hands in pretended horror.

”I dare say,” she burst out, ”he only got you to take the baby so that you'd feel bound to him. I should think when he'd disgraced himself you might have self-respect enough to let him alone. Oh, what would Cousin Horace say!”

Then she saw she was really hurting me, and her eyes softened somewhat.

”I shan't congratulate you, Ruth, if that's what you expect; but since you will be a fool in your own obstinate way, I hope it'll make you happy.”

I took both her hands in mine.

”Cousin Mehitable,” I pleaded, ”don't be hard on me. I know he's done wrong, and it hurts me more than I can tell you. I am so sorry for him and I really, really love him. I'm all alone now except for baby, and I am sure if Father were alive he would see how I feel, and approve of what I mean to do.”

The tears came into her eyes as I had never seen them. She drew her hands away, but first she pressed mine.

”Ruth,” she said, ”never mind my tongue. If you've only baby, I've n.o.body but you, and you won't come near me. Besides, you are going to have him. I can't pretend I like it, Ruth; but I do like you, and I do dearly hope you'll be happy. You deserve to be, my dear; and I'm a selfish, worldly old woman, with a train to catch. Now don't say another word about it, or I'll disinherit you in my will.”

So we kissed each other, and she went away with my secret.

November 25. Kathie has come home for her Thanksgiving vacation, and I never saw a creature so transformed. She is so interested in her school, her studies, her companions, that she seems to have forgotten that anybody ever frightened her about her soul; and she is just a merry, happy girl, bright-eyed and rather high-strung, but not in the least morbid. She hugged me, and kissed Tomine, and the nonsense of her jealousy, as of her having committed the unpardonable sin, was forgotten entirely. It is an unspeakable comfort to me that the experiment of sending her away has turned out so well.

Miss Charlotte came in while Kathie was here, and watched her with shrewd, keen eyes as she rattled on about the things she is studying, the games she plays, and the friends she has made. When she had gone, Miss Charlotte looked at me with one of her friendly regards.

”She's made over, like the boy's jackknife that had a new blade and a new handle,” was her comment. ”I think, my dear, you've saved her soul alive.”

I was delighted that she thought Kathie so much improved, though of course I realized I had not done it.

November 26. I have invited George to Thanksgiving dinner. I do hope Gertrude will be able to come downstairs; if she is not I shall have to get through as best I can without her. Miss Charlotte will come, and that will prevent the awkwardness of our being by ourselves.

George comes every day to see his wife, and I think his real feelings, his better side, have been called out by her illness. She is the mother of his son, and she is so extremely pretty and pathetic as she lies there, that I should not think any man could resist her. She is so softened by what she has gone through, and so grateful for kindness, she seems a different person from the over-dressed woman we have known without liking very much.

She told me yesterday a good deal about her former life. She has been an orphan from her early girlhood, largely dependent upon an aunt who wanted to be rid of her. It was partly by the contrivance of her aunt, and partly because she longed to escape from a position of dependence, that she married her first husband. She did not stop, I think, to consider what she was doing, and she found her case a pretty hard one.

Her husband abused her, and before they had been married a year he ran away to escape a charge of embezzlement. Word was sent to her soon after that he was drowned. She took again her maiden name, and came East to escape all shadow of the disgrace of her married life. She earned her living as a typewriter, until she saw George at Franklin, where she was employed in the bank. She confessed that she came here to secure him, and she wept in begging my pardon for taking him away from me.

If she can keep to her resolutions and if George will only be still fond of her, things may yet go well with them. Aunt Naomi dryly observed yesterday that what has happened will be likely to prevent Mrs. Weston for a long time to come from trying to make a display, and so it may be the best thing that could have befallen her. So much depends upon George, though!

November 30. The dinner went off much better than I could have hoped.

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