“No. I know you could not. Wait.” And with his head bowed upon his breast the captain took counsel with himself for many minutes. At last he looked at Betty, whose bright face now was pale with exhaustion, and said almost harshly,—
“I knew not that she cared overmuch for Mary Dingley; they were little enough alike.”
“No; but don’t you see, sir,” replied Betty with a sort of sweet impatience, “that it was not her own likings or her own pleasure she was thinking of, but of you and your happiness? Even if she had misliked Mary and knew she would be a good daughter to you, she would have said the same.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, girl, you’re right, and I’m but a poor, blind, selfish old man. She’d have me think of others more than of myself. The mother getting old and no daughter to help her, no little children to cheer her,—yes, I see, my maid, I see, and I’ll do your bidding—if I can.”
“Oh, no, sir, not my bidding”—
“I know, I know, lass, and for all thy high spirit thou wert ever maiden meek and mild to thine elders. But it was not to thee I spoke just then. Yet now I will have thee to advise with me, for, truth to tell, I am a little fogged and stunned with all these matters, and since my sweet maid left me I’ve grown old and doddering—no, never mind naysaying me, I know what I know. What I will have thee tell me, Betty, is this. Shall I—would Lora have me bid Josiah bring his wife home—and let her sit in—Oh, my God! I cannot, I cannot”—
He covered his face again, and for some moments Betty sat in respectful silence, then, moving nearer, laid a light touch upon the shoulder heaving under its mighty struggle for self-control.
“Not in Lora’s place, dear sir,” said she softly. “No one can take that e’en if she would, and Mary Dingley would not an she could. I know her well, and a milder, gentler, sweeter maid no longer lives on earth. She is one who will ever bear your grief in mind, yet never speak of it; one who will give you a daughter’s duty and tendance, yet never press for a daughter’s freedom; one who will love you as much as you will let her, yet never be nettled at thought you do not love her as you might. She is as fond of Josiah as woman can be of man, yet modest and meek and shamefast as a maid should ever be. Oh, sir, she is a girl among a thousand, I do assure you, and if you will open house and heart to her you shall never, never repent of it.”
“The maid must be worth something who can claim so leal a friend in you, Betty Alden.”