“Mrs. Kirkman,” said Will, “I don’t understand that sort of thing. I don’t know what bad use you can think I am going to make of it;—at all events it won’t be your fault. I shall not detain you five minutes if you will only tell me what I want to know.”
And she did tell him accordingly, not knowing how to resist, and warmed in the telling in spite of herself, and could not but let him know that she thought it was for Mary’s good, and to bring her to a sense of the vanity of all earthly things. She gave him scrupulously all the details. The story flowed out upon Will’s hungry ears with scarcely a pause. She told him all about the marriage, where it had happened, and who had performed it, and who had been present. Little Hugh had been present. She had no doubt he would remember, if it was recalled to his memory. Mrs. Kirkman recollected perfectly the look that Mary had thrown at her husband when she saw the child there. Poor Mary! she had thought so much of reputation and a good name. She had been so much thought of in the regiment. They all called her by that ridiculous name, Madonna Mary—and made so much of her, before——
“And did they not make much of her after?” said Will, quickly.
“It is a different thing,” said Mrs. Kirkman, softly shaking her long curls and returning to herself. “A poor sinner returning to the right way ought to be more warmly welcomed than even the best, if we can call any human creature good; but——”
“Is it my mother you call a poor sinner?” asked Will.
Then there was a pause. Mrs. Kirkman shook her head once more, and shook the long curls that hung over her cheeks; but it was difficult to answer. “We are all poor sinners,” she said. “Oh, my dear boy, if I could only persuade you how much more important it is to think of your own soul. If your poor dear mamma has done wrong, it is God who is her judge. I never judged her for my part, I never made any difference. I hope I know my own shortcomings too well for that.”
“I thought I heard you say something odd to her once,” said Will. “I should just like to see any one uncivil to my mother. But that’s not the question. I want that Mr. Churchill’s address, please.”
“I can truly say I never made any difference,” said Mrs. Kirkman; “some people might have blamed me—but I always thought of the Mary that loved much—— Oh, Will, what comforting words! I hope your dear mother has long, long ago repented of her error. Perhaps your father deceived her, as she was so young; perhaps it was all true the strange story he told about the register being burnt, and all that. We all thought it was best not to inquire into it. We know what we saw; but remember, you have pledged your word not to make any dispeace with what I have told you. You are not to make a disturbance in the family about it. It is all over and past, and everybody has agreed to forget it. You are not going to make any dispeace——”
“I never thought of making any dispeace,” said Will; but that was all he said. He was brief, as he always was, and uncommunicative, and inclined, now he had got all he wanted, to get up abruptly and go away.
“And now, my dear young friend, you must do something for me,” said Mrs. Kirkman, “in repayment for what I have done for you. You must read these, and you must not only read them, but think over them, and seek light where it is to be found. Oh, my dear boy, how anxious we are to search into any little mystery in connection with ourselves, and how little we think of the mysteries of eternity! You must promise to give a little attention to this great theme before this day has come to an end.”