“Loves me? I never had a doubt of it till now—nay, I do not yet doubt it. He may be reckless, wicked, utterly unprincipled, but I know he loves me; and oh! shame, shame, shame, I love him.”
“You love him, knowing all this,” said Catharine, standing up.
“It is my shame, and will be my misery forever and ever,” answered the widow, covering her face with both hands, while the hot crimson swept over her neck and forehead, like a fiery brand.
“And would you marry him?” The voice, in which this was uttered, fell so cutting upon her ear, that the widow dropped her hands, looking suddenly up.
“Marry him? no! To act is within my own control—to feel is, alas! what I cannot help.”
That moment, the little boy came across the room, his bright eyes full of tears. Holding up both hands, he strove to throw them around Mrs. Oakley’s neck. She drew back with a repulsive motion of her hand. His arms dropped, the rosy lips quivered, and sitting down upon the floor, he began to sob as if his heart were breaking.
Both the women stood looking at him in pale silence. Suddenly their eyes filled, a simultaneous sob broke from their bosoms, and they sunk to the floor together, wreathing their arms around him and covering his face and brow with kisses.
“He isn’t to blame, you know,” pleaded the widow. But Catharine had dropped her face upon her knees, and only answered with a keen shiver, as if she were in pain. Thus she remained some minutes, evidently struck with a pang of great suffering.
“Are you ill?” inquired Mrs. Oakley, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, I believe I am ill,” answered Catharine, standing up. “I will go home now.”