“Oh, I’ve wanted a mother so terribly! Twelve years in the orphanage—Oh, why did you put me there?” she cried brokenly. “It’s awful—not having anyone of your own—no family—and now, when I have David to be my family, and I don’t need you—so much—you come—Why didn’t you come before? Why? Why did you put me there?”
Her words were incoherent, and at the bitter reproach in them Enid tried to hold her more closely, but Sally, scarcely knowing what she did, struck the small, clinging arms from her shoulders and whirled upon David, her mouth twisting, tears running down her cheeks. “I don’t want anyone but you now, David. Don’t let them separate us, David. We’re half married already! Make the preacher come back and finish marrying us, David—”
Enid Barr, looked wonderingly upon her arms, as if expecting to see upon them the marks of her daughter’s blows. A gust of anger swept over her, leaving her beautiful face quite white and darkening her eyes until they were almost as deep a blue as Sally’s.
“You cannot marry the boy, Sally! I’m sorry that almost my first words to you should be a reminder of my authority over you as your mother. Come here, Sally!” But almost in the moment of its returning the arrogance for which she was noted dropped from her, and humility and grief took its place. “Please forgive me, Sally. It’s just that I’m jealous of your love for this boy and grieved that you want to leave me for him. But—oh, why should you love me? God knows I’ve done nothing yet to make you love me! I can’t blame you for hating and reproaching me—”
“Oh!” Sally turned from the shelter of David’s arms and took an uncertain step toward her mother, pity fighting with rebellion and bitterness in her overcharged heart. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barr—Mother—”
“I think you’d better tell her your story as you told it to me, Mrs. Barr.” Mrs. Stone could keep silent no longer. “Now, Sally, I want you to listen to every word your mother says and bear in mind that she is your mother and that she has been hunting for you for weeks, her heart full of love for you because you were her child.”
For twelve years Sally had obeyed every command uttered in that harsh, emphatic voice and she obeyed now, allowing herself to be led by Mrs. Stone to the sofa. Enid Barr took her seat on one side of the girl and David without asking permission of either of the two older women who watched him with hostile, jealous eyes, took his place on the other side, his hand closing tightly over Sally’s.
Jealously, Enid Barr reached for the girl’s other hand and held it against her cheek for a moment before she began her story, her contralto voice low and controlled at first. Mrs. Stone sat rigidly erect in an old-fashioned morris chair, her lips folded with an expression of grim patience, as if she regretted the necessity of once more hearing a story which affronted her Puritanical principles.
“I was just your age, Sally,” Enid began quietly, “just sixteen, when I met the man who became your father. I was Enid Halsted then. He was fifteen years older than I. I thought I—loved him—very much. He was—very handsome.”
Her eyes flickered toward the soft tendrils of black hair that showed under the brim of Sally’s little blue felt hat. “My father, a proud man as well as a very rich one, forbade me to see the man, discharged him, but—it was too late.”