“It seems to me,” the elder lady continued, “that there is only one point from which we ought to consider the question—and that is, its effect on Denis. But for that we ought to refuse to know anything about it. But it has made my boy so unhappy. The law-suit was a cruel ordeal to him—the dreadful notoriety, the revelation of poor Arthur’s infirmities. Denis is as sensitive as a woman; it is his unusual refinement of feeling that makes him so worthy of being loved by you. But such sensitiveness may be carried to excess. He ought not to let this unhappy incident prey on him: it shows a lack of trust in the divine ordering of things. That is what troubles me: his faith in life has been shaken. And—you must forgive me, dear child—you will forgive me, I know—but I can’t help blaming you a little—”
Mrs. Peyton’s accent converted the accusation into a caress, which prolonged itself in a tremulous pressure of Kate’s hand.
The girl gazed at her blankly. “You blame me—?”
“Don’t be offended, my child. I only fear that your excessive sympathy with Denis, your own delicacy of feeling, may have led you to encourage his morbid ideas. He tells me you were very much shocked—as you naturally would be—as any girl must be—I would not have you otherwise, dear Kate! It is beautiful that you should both feel so; most beautiful; but you know religion teaches us not to yield too much to our grief. Let the dead bury their dead; the living owe themselves to each other. And what had this wretched woman to do with either of you? It is a misfortune for Denis to have been connected in any way with a man of Arthur Peyton’s character; but after all, poor Arthur did all he could to atone for the disgrace he brought on us, by making Denis his heir—and I am sure I have no wish to question the decrees of Providence.” Mrs. Peyton paused again, and then softly absorbed both of Kate’s hands. “For my part,” she continued, “I see in it another instance of the beautiful ordering of events. Just after dear Denis’s inheritance has removed the last obstacle to your marriage, this sad incident comes to show how desperately he needs you, how cruel it would be to ask him to defer his happiness.”
She broke off, shaken out of her habitual placidity by the abrupt withdrawal of the girl’s hands. Kate sat inertly staring, but no answer rose to her lips.
At length Mrs. Peyton resumed, gathering her draperies about her with a tentative hint of leave-taking: “I may go home and tell him that you will not put off the wedding?”
Kate was still silent, and her visitor looked at her with the mild surprise of an advocate unaccustomed to plead in vain.
“If your silence means refusal, my dear, I think you ought to realize the responsibility you assume.” Mrs. Peyton’s voice had acquired an edge of righteous asperity. “If Denis has a fault it is that he is too gentle, too yielding, too readily influenced by those he cares for. Your influence is paramount with him now—but if you turn from him just when he needs your help, who can say what the result will be?”
The argument, though impressively delivered, was hardly of a nature to carry conviction to its hearer; but it was perhaps for that very reason that she suddenly and unexpectedly replied to it by sinking back into her seat with a burst of tears. To Mrs. Peyton, however, tears were the signal of surrender, and, at Kate’s side in an instant she hastened to temper her triumph with magnanimity.
“Don’t think I don’t feel with you; but we must both forget ourselves for our boy’s sake. I told him I should come back with your promise.”