Mildred blushed crimson at the thought of this story of shame. Poor Fay! poor, unhappy Fay! And yet her strong common sense told her that there were two sides to the question.
“It was not Fay’s fault, mother,” she said gently. “No one could blame Fay, or be angry with her. And if the—wicked woman was dead, and father had repented, and was sorry, was it very wrong for him to bring my sister home to us?”
“Don’t call her your sister!” exclaimed Mrs. Fausset, with a feeble scream of angry alarm; “she is not your sister—she is no relation—she is nothing to you. It was an insult to bring her across my threshold. You must be very stupid, or you must care very little for me, if you can’t understand that. His conduct proved that he had cared for that low, common woman—Fay’s mother—more than ever he cared for me; perhaps he thought her prettier than me,” said the invalid in hysterical parenthesis, “and I have never known a happy hour since.”
“O, mamma dear, not in all the years when you used to wear such lovely gowns, and go to so many parties?” protested the voice of common sense.
“I only craved for excitement because I was miserable at heart. I don’t think you can half understand a wife’s feelings, Mildred, or you wouldn’t say such foolish things. I wanted you to know this before my death. I want you to remember it always, and if you meet that odious girl avoid her as you would a pestilence. If your father should attempt to bring her here, or to Parchment Street, after I am gone——”
“He will not, mother. He will respect your wishes too much—he will be too sorry,” exclaimed Mildred, bending down to kiss the hot, dry hand, and moistening it with her tears.
The year of mourning that began soon after this conversation was a very quiet interval for father and daughter. They travelled a little, spent six months in Leipsic, where Mildred studied the piano under the most approved masters, a couple of months in Paris, where her father showed her all the lions in a tranquil, leisurely way that was very pleasant; and then they went down to The Hook, and lived there in happy idleness on the river and in the gardens all through a long and lovely summer.
Both were saddened at the sight of an empty chair—one sacred corner in all the prettiest rooms—where Maud Fausset had been wont to sit, a graceful languid figure, robed in white, or some pale delicate hue even more beautiful than white in contrast with the background of palms and flowers, Japanese screen or Indian curtain. How pretty she had looked sitting there, with books and scent-bottles, and dainty satin-lined basket full of some light frivolous work, which progressed by stages of half-a-dozen stitches a day! Her fans, her Tennyson, her palms, and perfumes—all had savoured of her own fragile bright-coloured loveliness. She was gone; and father and daughter were alone together—deeply attached to each other, yet with a secret between them, a secret which made a darkening shadow across the lives of both.
Whenever John Fausset wore a look of troubled thought Mildred fancied he was brooding upon the past, thinking of that erring woman who had borne him a child, the child he had tried to fuse into his own family, and to whom her own childish heart had yearned as to a sister.