We leave them together, on this first meeting since their betrothal, to exchange those questions as to when each first began to love, and renew those protestations, which made the pair happy beyond words, as such things have made many another pair, but which would be insipid enough if printed.
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE ORPHAN CHILD
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart—
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth?
That can with studied, shy, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting truth?
Curse on his perjur’d arts! —Burns.
Naught so ill
As the betrayer’s sin! salvationless
Almost. —Bailey.
The intelligence of Aylesford’s death deeply affected both Kate and her aunt. The latter, who had lavished so much of her affection on him, was almost inconsolable. In charity to the dead, and from respect to Mrs. Warren’s feelings, Aylesford’s connection with Kate’s capture was concealed from her.
“Why tear open the wounds of the past?” said Major Gordon, when Uncle Lawrence, from what he thought justice to Kate, would have told the whole story. “He has gone to his account, bitterly repenting, before he died, this act at least. His aunt is childless, and had lavished the chief stock of her love upon him; and to destroy her idol now, will go near to breaking her heart. At least, wait until Miss Aylesford recovers, and can be consulted.”
These arguments prevailed. When Kate’s opinion was asked, she pronounced at once against informing her aunt. “It can do no good to the living, and can but harm the good name of the dead. I freely forgive him. Aunt would go pining all the rest of her days, if forced to believe the truth of my poor cousin.”
But this abnegation on the part of our heroine, cost her many a complaint from Mrs. Warren, who, ignorant of the true cause of Kate’s capture, continued to insist that her niece’s temerity, in riding out unattended, had led to all the perils which had followed. It is probable that the good dame, if she had known that Aylesford was in chase of the refugee boat, when shot, would have secretly laid his death at the door of her niece.
It was long before Mrs. Warren became reconciled to her nephew’s loss. She openly bewailed his death, as the extinction of the family name, “for,” said she, “when you marry, Kate, you know you’ll be an Aylesford no longer.” The cup out of which her “child,” as she now called him, had drunk at his last breakfast; the knife and fork which he had used; and a pair of gloves he had accidentally left on the hall table, were carefully preserved by the old lady, and were annually drawn from their receptacle, on the anniversary of his death, and regarded with tears. Let us not ridicule the fond illusion of the poor creature. She worshipped, in this sacred way, a visionary memory it is true; but the image was a reality in her eyes and therefore dear to her.
They were so careful of her feelings that they spared her even the knowledge of the parentage of the little girl, whom Kate had brought home and now publicly adopted as a sister. That the child had been instrumental in preserving our heroine’s life was the avowed reason of this adoption; and it satisfied Mrs. Warren, though she could not help saying, that “Kate was an odd girl, and often over, paid her debts.” But those, who knew the true history of the orphan, were aware that other considerations also had led to this solemn act.