Also another thing, which one of the bigger girls let out, with many titters, and never a blush,—they had brought a child with them.
Oh, Max, the horror of shame and repulsion, and then the perfect anguish of pity that came over me! These girls of our parish, Lydia was one of them; if they had been taught better; if I had tried to teach them, instead of all these years studying or dreaming, thinking wholly of myself and caring not a straw about my fellow-creatures. Oh, Max—would that my life had been more like yours!
It shall be henceforth. Going home through the village, with the sun shining on the cottages, of whose inmates I know no more than of the New Zealand savages,—on the group of ragged girls who were growing up at our very door, no one knows how, and no one cares—I made a vow to myself. I that have been so blessed—I that am so happy—yes, Max, happy! I will work with all my strength, while it is day. You will help me. And you will never love me the less for anything I feel—or do.
I was going that very afternoon, to walk direct to Mrs. Cartwright's, when I remembered your charge, that nothing should be attempted without my father's knowledge an consent.
I took the opportunity when he and I were sitting alone together—Penelope gone to bed. He was saying she looked better. He thought she might begin visiting in the district soon, if she were properly persuaded. At least she might take a stroll round the village. He should ask her to-morrow.
“Don't papa. Oh, pray don't!”—and then I was obliged to tell him the reason why. I had to put it very plainly before he understood—he forgets things now sometimes.
“Starving, did you say?—Mrs. Cartwright, Lydia, and the child?—What child?”
“Francis's.”
Then he comprehended,—and, oh, Max, had I been the girl I was a few months ago, I should have sunk to the earth with the shame he said I ought to feel at even alluding to such things. But I would not stop to consider this, or to defend myself; the matter concerned not me, but Lydia. I asked papa if he did not remember Lydia?
She came to us, Max, when she was only fourteen, though, being well-grown and hand some, she looked older;—a pleasant, willing, affectionate creature, only she had “no head,” or it was half-turned by the admiration her beauty gained, not merely among her own class, but all our visitors. I remember Francis saying once—oh, how angry Penelope was about it—that Lydia was so naturally elegant she could be made a lady of in no time, if a man liked to take her, educate and marry her. Would he had done it! spite of all broken vows to Penelope. I think my sister herself might have for given him, if he had only honestly fallen in love with poor Lydia, and married her.