“To whom may you speak if not to me, Bettina?” he said. “Surely, whatever trouble is on your heart, you may count upon my sympathy.”
Bettina did not speak. With her face hid in her pocket-handkerchief she shook her head, as if in dissent from the idea of his sympathy.
Feeling rather helpless, he changed his tactics, in an honest endeavor to get at the real cause of her trouble.
“Naturally, my child,” he said, “the sight of me brings back the thought of your beloved mother. Such a sorrow—”
But again she interrupted him, this time by a silent gesture of the hand. Then she said:
“It is not that. I’ve got used to that ache, and although my heart would not be my heart without it, that is a silent and accepted sorrow now. Oh, Mr. Spotswood,” she said, impetuously, uncovering her tear-stained face and looking at him with the helplessness of a child, “you are a clergyman; you teach that God is love and compassion and forgiveness; you have a kind heart! I know you have. Perhaps if I could tell you all I have suffered, and how deeply I have repented, you would be sorry for me, and not blame me as much as I deserve to be blamed.”
She was looking at him tentatively, as if to see how far she could trust to the forbearance of which she felt she had now such need.
The rector’s heart was deeply touched. This show of humility in the high-spirited, self-willed girl that he remembered took him by surprise.
“It could never be my impulse to blame you, my dear child, and the less so when I see how bitterly you are blaming yourself for this unknown thing. If you will tell me about it, I will do all that may be in my power to help you. At all events, you may count upon my loving sympathy.”
“Ah, if I only could! It would be much to me now. But you are ignorant of what you are promising. In a certain way it concerns yourself, or at least a member of your family.”