“I—I don’t doubt him, dear. Yes, he is my son; he has been a good son to me. But you are to be his wife; think.”
“I have thought,” said Una, quietly. “It will make him happy—he says so; and the rest does not matter to me. Yes, I have thought; I am tired with thinking”; and she put her hand to her brow with a sharp gesture, half wild, half weary. “I will make him happy, and I shall always be with you, whom I love. What does the rest matter?”
Mrs. Davenant uttered a little moan.
“And—and have you quite forgotten?”
Una looked at her calmly, but with a faint shadow in her eyes and a touch of pain on her lips.
“Forgotten! No, I shall not forget until I am dead; perhaps not then; who knows?” and the dreamy look came back. “But that cannot matter. He, Stephen, is content; I have told him all, and he is content. He is easily satisfied.” And for the first time a smile of bitterness crossed her lips. “Why should he love me so?” she said, curtly. “Why should he be so anxious to make me his wife? I cannot understand it. Is it because he thinks that I am beautiful? I looked in the glass just now, and it seemed a dead face.”
“Una!”
She turned and smiled.
“It is true. But I have made you cry. Don’t do that, dear. At least, we shall be together, shall we not?”
In answer, the poor woman took her in her arms, and cried over her; but Una shed not a single tear.