“Goodness me!” whispered Leila to her sister. “It’s papa’s own girl, you see, and of course she can’t do anything wrong.”
“Hush!” answered Linnie. “I think he’s right this time, any way. See those awful black rings around her eyes!” and Linnie, obeying a kind, sisterly instinct, went to her sister and kissed her, saying, “I’m right glad to see you, sissy; but you do look so tired. Dinah shall make you a cup of tea, while I go and get you a warm bath ready.”
“There’s a good heart, Linnie,” said the doctor, caressing Linnie’s cheek. “The bath is just the thing. We’ll try to make your sister forget her troubles, won’t we?” Mrs. Forest sank into a chair and began to cry; then she got up and embraced Clara, saying, in a stricken voice, “It is dreadful! but God knows best why afflictions are sent upon me.” Leila came last, and pressed her hard little mouth to her sister’s cheek, thinking all the time what a dreadful fool Clara was, to leave such a splendid fellow as Dr. Delano, and so rich, too!
That night Clara was in a high fever, and seemed to want no one near her but her father; so at least he interpreted it, and sent all the rest away. He did not enjoin her to keep quiet, as so many people do under any similar circumstances. He knew there could be no greater harm done by talking of her griefs than by silently brooding over them; and as it would be folly to ask her to cease thinking of them, he allowed her to talk on until far into the night, when the quieting medicine he had given her commenced to act, and she sank into a heavy slumber, somewhat comforted by the ever-ready sympathy that she knew could never fail her. She was always as sure of it as that the day will follow the night. From her earliest years she had been in the habit of going to him, instead of her mother, with all her childish troubles. When these resulted from her own wrong-doing, his tenderness was even greater. He never scolded, never blamed her in these cases, but he did what was far wiser: he showed her his own grief that she had been guided by her lower, instead of her higher motives, and this, more than anything else could have done, inspired her to resist temptation. Another principle was continually impressed upon his children by the doctor: that yielding to base feelings made the face ugly, and that constantly being guided by kindness, love and charity, moulded all the features into beauty. Mrs. Forest always doubted the efficacy of such teaching, and did not wait longer than the next morning before telling him that Clara had never sufficiently cared for public opinion, and that this had been constantly fostered and strengthened by her father’s principles.
“When you remember,” said the doctor, “that I am seldom at home, that you have had ten hours to my one to instil your principles, you ought not to complain. Fannie, dear,” he said, after a pause, and suddenly changing his defiant mood, “let us do the best we can with life. Heaven knows it is anything but a blessing to most of us.” This is what he actually said, but there had been quite a different train of thought in his mind. It had just escaped utterance, through one of those mysteries of brain-action that control our motives. He had been about to say that it had been better for her, and him also, if they had separated twenty years ago; that nothing cramps the growth of all that is best in manhood and womanhood like the forced intimacy of the marriage tie, when no deep sympathy or mutual trust exists; that it is like preserving year after year a corpse in your drawing-room with spices and perfumes, pretending that it is only sleeping. He was glad he had not said it, for no power of his could make her enter, even for a moment, the world in which he lived; and it was useless, and worse than useless, to attempt it. He left soon after on his round of daily visits to his patients, taking with him a note from Clara to Susie, and a little later Mrs. Forest went to Clara’s room. This was an interview that Clara dreaded, for her mother would neither comprehend nor excuse her motives for the step she had taken. Clara commenced by saying she was sorry that she had been compelled to do anything that grieved her mother. As she said this she rose and begged her mother to take the arm-chair in which she had been sitting by the fire, wrapped in her mother’s “double gown.” Mrs. Forest refused kindly, and brought a shawl for Clara’s shoulders, as the morning was cold. Clara was touched by this kindness, which she expressed by kissing her mother’s hand. Mrs. Forest wanted the whole story. Clara commenced, but broke down after a few sentences. Mrs. Forest soothed her a little, and then sat down quietly and commenced to sew. One of her soothing remarks was that no doubt Albert would forgive her for leaving him, and write for her to return.
“That will only show how little he knows of my father’s girl.”
“Your father’s girl,” said Mrs. Forest, with some heat, “was always a Quixotic enthusiast, always holding notions and whims that no sober-minded person ever heard of.”
“I don’t know that my ambition is to be sober-minded. Heads are very good in their way, but as for me, I believe in hearts.”
“And no doubt you worried Albert to death with your romantic nonsense.”
“Did I?” said Clara, as if her thoughts were far away. “I wished him to love me, mother dear. If that is being romantic, I am certainly guilty.”