“Mother!” was the anguished cry once more, as the girl sank back upon her pillow.
“Yes,” was the bitter reply. “You are a mother. God be thanked that your father, who idolised his child, was not spared to see this day.”
“Oh, mother, mother, have some pity—have some mercy upon me. Where am I to seek it, if not from you?”
“From Heaven: for the world will show you none. Why should I? Shame upon you that you should bring this curse upon my widowed life. The coward!—the villain! Was not our simple quiet home, far away from the busy world, to be held sacred, that he must seek us out and cast such a blight upon it!”
“Oh, hush, mother!” wailed the girl. “I love him—I love him.”
“Love him! Idiot! Baby! To be led away by the smooth words of the first soft-spoken villain you meet.”
“You shall not call him villain, mamma,” cried the girl passionately. “He loves me, and I am to be his wife.”
The girl flashed up for a moment with anger, but only to lie back the next instant faint and with half-closed eyes.
“His wife! Are you such a fool that you believe this?” cried the elder woman bitterly. “His wife! There, cast aside that shadow at once, for it is a delusion.”
“No, no, mother, dear mother, he has promised me that I shall be his wife, and I believe him.”