“Yes, sir. His child ought to be a burden to none—nor I either. I once wished to die, but then who would love my little one? Now I wish to live.”
“But what mode of livelihood would you prefer? Would you go into a family, in some capacity?—not that of a servant—you are too delicate for that.”
“Oh, no—no!”
“But, again, why?” asked the banker, soothingly, yet surprised.
“Because,” said Alice, almost solemnly, “there are some hours when I feel I must be alone. I sometimes think I am not all right here,” and she touched her forehead. “They called me an idiot before I knew him!—No, I could not live with others, for I can only cry when nobody but my child is with me.”
This was said with such unconscious, and therefore with such pathetic, simplicity, that the banker was sensibly affected. He rose, stirred the fire, resettled himself, and, after a pause, said emphatically: “Alice, I will be your friend. Let me believe you will deserve it.”
Alice bent her graceful head, and seeing that he had sunk into an abstracted silence, she thought it time for her to withdraw.
“She is, indeed, beautiful,” said the banker, almost aloud, when he was alone; “and the old lady is right—she is as innocent as if she had not fallen. I wonder—” Here he stopped short, and walked to the glass over the mantelpiece, where he was still gazing on his own features, when Mrs. Leslie returned.
“Well, sir,” said she, a little surprised at this seeming vanity in so pious a man.
The banker started. “Madam, I honour your penetration as much as your charity; I think that there is so much to be feared in letting all the world know this young female’s past error, that, though I dare not advise, I cannot blame, your concealment of it.”