“You must not speak so of your father, Carry,” said Lady Lindores; “his ways of thinking may not be yours—or even mine: but if you are going to scorn and defy him, it must not be to me.”
Carry put her mother down in her chair again with soft caressing hands, kissing her in an accès of mournful tenderness. “You have it all to bear, mother dear—both my indignation and his—what shall I call it?—his over-anxiety for me; but listen, mother, it is all different now. Everything changes. I don’t know how to say it to you, for I am always your child, whatever happens; but, mamma, don’t you think there is a time when obedience—is reasonable no more?”
“It appears that Edith thinks so too,” Lady Lindores said gravely. “But, Carry, surely your father may advise—and I may advise. There will be remarks made—there will be gossip, and even scandal. It is so soon, not more than a month. Carry, dear, I think I am not hard; but you must not—indeed you must not—”
“What, mother?” said Carry, standing before her proudly with her head aloft. Lady Lindores gazed at her, all inspired and glowing, trembling with nervous energy and life. She could not put her fears, her suspicions, into words. She did not know what to say. What was it she wanted to say? to warn her against—what? There are times in which it is essential for us to be taken, as the French say, at the half word, not to be compelled to put our terrors or our hopes into speech. Lady Lindores could not name the ultimate object of her alarm. It would have been brutal. Her lips would not have framed the words.
“You know what I mean, Carry; you know what I mean,” was all that she could say.
“It is hard,” Carry said, “that I should have to divine the reproach and then reply to it. I think that is too much, mother. I am doing nothing which I have any reason to blush for;” but as she said this, she did blush, and put her hands up to her cheeks to cover the flame. Perhaps this sign of consciousness convinced the mind which Lady Lindores only excited, for she said suddenly, with a tremulous tone: “I will not pretend to misunderstand you, mamma. You think Edward should go away. From your point of view it is a danger to me. But we do not see it in that light. We have suffered a great deal, both he and I. Why should he forsake me when he can be a comfort to me now?”
“Carry, Carry!” cried her mother in horror—“a comfort to you! when it is only a month, scarcely a month, since—”
“Don’t speak of that,” Carry cried, putting up her hands. “What if it had only been a day? What is it to me what people think? Their thinking never did me any good while I had to suffer—why should I pay any attention to it now?”
“But we must, so long as we live in the world at all, pay attention to it,” cried Lady Lindores, more and more distressed; “for your own sake, my dearest, for your children’s sake.”
“My children!—what do they know? they are babies; for my own sake? Whether is it better, do you think, to be happy or to be miserable, mother? I have tried the other so long. I want to be happy now. I mean,” said Carry, clasping her hands, “to be happy now. Is it good to be miserable? Why should I? Even self-sacrifice must have an object. Why should I, why should I? Give me a reason for it, and I will think; but you give me no reason!” she cried, and broke off abruptly, her agitated countenance shining in a sort of rosy cloud.
There was a pause, and they sat and gazed at each other, or, at least, the mother gazed at Carry with all the dismay of a woman who had never offended against the proprieties in her life, and yet could not but feel the most painful sympathy with the offender. And not only was she anxious about the indecorum of the moment, but full of disturbed curiosity to know if any determination about the future had been already come to. On this subject, however, she did not venture to put any question, or even suggest anything that might precipitate matters. Oh, if John Erskine would but obey her—if he would close his doors upon the intruder; oh, if he himself (poor Edward! her heart bled for him too, though she tried to thwart him) would but see what was right, and go away!
“Dear,” said Lady Lindores, faltering, “I did not say you might not meet—whoever you pleased—in a little while. Of course, nobody expects you at your age to bury yourself. But in the circumstances—at such a moment—indeed, indeed, Carry, I think he would act better, more like what we had a right to expect of him, if he were to consider you before himself, and go away.”
“What we had a right to expect! What had you a right to expect? What have you ever done for him but betray him?” cried Carry, in her agitation. She stopped to get breath, to subdue herself, but it was not easy. “Mother, I am
