“What I went through after, I couldn’t tell you, nor any one. It wasn’t as if God had taken my child from me. I had given her up myself; and when I found I was getting better instead of dying, and knew what I had done, the thoughts I had pretty near drove me mad. It was ever so long before I knew what had become of her. She might have been living or dead, or brought up as a pauper, for all I could learn. And when I did hear, in a roundabout way, it was only to know that she was more lost to me than ever I had pictured. It’s been bitter, bitter work, Jervis—hard, as the way of transgressors is said to be.”
“And you are better in health now, Polly?” her brother asked, half grave, half pitying in manner. Much as he loved the returned sister, he could not put aside the recollection of a mother’s forsaken child. It seemed to him too terrible, almost beyond belief.
“Yes, I’m better.” she answered listlessly. “The doctors say I may live a good while yet—perhaps as long as most people. I went into a hospital seven years ago, and was put to a deal of pain, and I’ve been better ever since. And now I hope I’m willing to live or not to live, as God chooses. I’m glad I didn’t die then. I’ve learnt a deal lately: and if my sins look blacker than ever, and my shame and sorrow are greater, I know there may be pardon for the worst, through the dying of the Son of God—and hope has come to me at length, though I know I can never undo the past, and must bear to the end what he appoints.”
Ease of expression had always been a characteristic of Marian, even in her girlish days; and she could speak without effort about such feelings as another in her place would have been scarcely able to allude to. The frankness was not new; but a certain religious element in her talk took them all by surprise. Perhaps Jervis marvelled the most, as he listened. He was of a reserved temperament, having its deep under-flow of thought and faith, but with tardy and limited powers of utterance.
“What was your child named? Who was it you gave the child to?” asked Cairns.
A red spot rose to Marian’s cheek. “I think I’d best answer no questions about her,” she said. “I don’t seem to feel myself free. I promised Hubert to keep her away from you all; and in a sort of way I promised never to come forward and claim her. I mustn’t count that she is mine still—and that’s the bitter thought of all to me. If she was unhappy—but she isn’t, and it would be no pleasure to her to know she had a mother living. I’ll manage to see her some day, for I must—I can’t stand the craving much longer, if I don’t. But that’ll be my own concern.”
Marian removed her bonnet and cloak slowly. No one would have guessed from her looks that she was older than Hannah.
“It’s so natural to be at home again,” she said. “I shall begin to think I’ve been asleep, and just woke up. Only mother isn’t here. But mother has forgiven me—I’m sure of that. There’s no unforgiveness or thinking hard thoughts of people in heaven. Can I have my old bedroom, Hannah? I should like that best.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” said Hannah coldly. “Nobody’s sleeping there now, and you may as well have that as any other.”
“Then I will.” She stood looking at her sister. “Hannah, can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me yet? I think you might. I think you would, if you knew half I’ve gone through. It’s an awful thought for a child to have helped to shorten a mother’s life; and it’s an awful thought for a mother to have given up her own child. Can’t you pity me yet?”