“She forgave him?” asked the peddler, in a voice scarcely audible.
“She?—poor dear—she? All the world could not have made her believe ill of him. She? Why, sir, she would sit at the window for hours, watching the way he used to come. It crazed her, poor thing; and then she would come and go just as she was bid. Her father saw her fade, day by day, and cursed him;—he forgot business—every thing went wrong—one way and another our money went, and then Jacob died.”
“He forgave him—your daughter’s lover, before he died?” asked the peddler, tremulously.
“You have a kind heart, sir,” said Lucy. “Yes, Jacob’s heart softened at the last;—he said we all needed God’s mercy. His last words were ‘Peace.’”
“God be thanked,” murmured the peddler; then adding, quickly, “it must have made you so much happier; you say you loved the lad.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “even now. We all err, sir. He was only nineteen—young to marry; but Mary’s heart was bound up in him. He didn’t mean it, sir—I don’t know how it was. God help us all.
“Well, we buried Jacob; then we had none to look to—Mary and I. We were poor. I was feeble. Then Mary’s lover came—the rich Mr. Shaw. You are ill, sir?”
“No—no,” replied the peddler; “go on—your story interests me.”
“Well, he wanted to marry Mary, although he saw how it was. It was all one to her, you know, sir. She was crazed like—though so sweet and gentle. I did it for the best, sir,” said Lucy, mournfully. “I thought when I died Mary would have a home.”
“Go on,” said the peddler. “He treated her kindly?” he asked, with a dark frown.