Well, that was the way it went on. I told him "yes" one night. I do not believe he heard me, but he seemed to know I yielded, for he did what he had never done before—nor ever other man beside. And thus life's greatest, holiest moment was stained to me; and the sacred altar was lighted with far different fire than that for which God meant it. I had never been kissed before—at least not that way—and even then I felt how I was cheated of my birthright, and I marvelled at the sense of shame. But that can never be recalled, so I try not to dwell upon it. Nor can it be amended, and the loss is to eternity. I have known the rapture since then, the primal bliss—but the virgin joy was tempered with the cruel thought that it had all been rehearsed before. And the bitterest feature of it all is this, that it had never been, except for her who loved me with a mother's love. But her ambition mingled with her love—and these two are enemies.
If I had been a little more in love, I reckon mother would not have tried so hard to urge me on. But I was not—I was a little less. And mother kept kneeling beside the poor little flame on the mean altar of my heart, to quote the old hymn, and she kept the bellows going pretty steadily, if haply she might make the fire burn. Or if I had been a little less in love, perhaps she would have given over—for I was dear to her. But I was not; I admitted he was rich, and handsome, and superior—and these seemed quite enough reason to a girl's mother why there should be true affection. So I was neither a little more, nor yet a little less, in love with Charlie—and that is Hades, to use the convenient word again, when it has to do duty for the real thing. But mother kept on encouraging me, saying she knew I'd be very happy, and drawing lovely pictures of the position I would occupy and the leadership in society that would be mine; and mothers can make ashes look like bread—only they don't have to eat them through the hungry years.
III
THE BRIDGE THAT LAY BETWEEN
"Do you think we're a star chamber?" I said to my mother, as she stood at the parlour door with a cushion under either arm.
"Think you're what? Think who's what?" she queried in amazement.
"Where are you taking those cushions to?" I pursued, glancing at her burden.
"To the up-stairs sitting-room. You know uncle always takes a nap before he goes to bed." Which was true enough; uncle fancied he didn't sleep well if he neglected this preliminary canter on the sofa. That was where he was wont to try divers notes till he struck the proper key for the night's performance.
"That's where you all are going to stay this evening," I averred. "Uncle will snooze there while you and aunty play cribbage."
"Yes, of course—why?" answered my mother wonderingly. "You and Mr. Giddens will be in the parlour, won't you?"