“I was Charlotte Hastings before my marriage,” she said. “I am sorry to be the one to hurt you, but you have been cruelly treated. I was married to Emory Blake before he left home for the school.”
The smaller woman gave a little gasp and stood silent, while Charlotte, with the fire in her veins scorching her cheeks and eyes and almost smothering her breath, waited for her to offer some resistance, to assert her own claim, or to ask for proof of the statement which denied it; but Nettie said nothing, and after a moment her gaze dropped from Charlotte’s and she began to sob. Charlotte took her by the hand and led her into the room.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. Nettie sat with her face buried in her hands. On one side her child tugged at her dress; on the other, little Hope slept in her cradle. Charlotte stood pale and tall, watching all three.
At last Nettie looked up. “I suppose you think I ought to hate him—now I’ve found out,” she said, “but I don’t; I just can’t. When we were together he was so sweet to me. I don’t think he meant to harm me. He must have thought it would come out all right somehow.”
“If I were in your place,” Charlotte said, slowly, “I should hate him.”
Nettie wiped her eyes and drew her child up into her arms. “But what he did was almost as bad for you as it was for me,” she urged, “and you don’t hate him.”
Charlotte turned suddenly and walked to her own baby’s cradle. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, in a low voice.
After a moment she came back and sat down. “I must ask you some questions,” she said, gravely. “Is this your only child?”
The young woman nodded. Her lips were quivering. “Named Dorcas,” she said, brokenly,—“for his mother.”
Charlotte flushed and the lines about her lips deepened. “Does he—provide for you?” she asked.