“Carl did not deceive you,” Edith went on. “He has told you nothing but the truth.”
“A half-truth is a lie!” Mrs. Yorke interrupted. “I see plainly in this the influence of that pernicious Mr. Griffeth. I well remember one of his sayings: ‘As the doctors give poisons to a sick body,’ he said, ‘so we must sometimes give lies to a sick mind.’ I have a sick mind, it seems.”
“It is for you to prove whether you have or not,” Edith replied quietly.
The reproof was severe, and Mrs. Yorke’s heightened color told that she felt it. She leaned back in her chair, and was silent.
“Carl told me,” Edith said, “because I am healthy, and cannot be endangered by sorrow; and he knew, too, that I would not require any man to sacrifice his duty and prospect of a high career merely that I might have the pleasure of being always with him. When a man is twenty-nine years old, if he is not going to throw himself away, and be a miserable failure, it is time for him to go out into the world, and live his own life. Carl would gladly have told you all his plans, and it was cruel that he should be obliged to go away without your blessing, and to carry with him, as he must, this constant anxiety about you. He was doubtful and unhappy, but did what he thought was best. He told no one but me. Now, be fair, Aunt Amy, and ask yourself what you would have done if Carl had come to you and said that he was going away on a two-years’ journey?”
Mrs. Yorke put her hands over her face, and sat breathing heavily, and without uttering a word. Edith trembled. Would she see the pale hands fall nerveless, and her aunt drop dead in her arms? She sent up a silent prayer to her ever dear Mother of Perpetual Succor, then gently loosened a golden locket from Mrs. Yorke’s belt, and opened it.
“Dear Carl!” she said tenderly, kissing the miniature, “how could your mother misunderstand you so, when your true and loving face was so close to her heart? Is it only Edith who never mistakes you?”
The frail hands slipped down to hers, as she leaned on her aunt’s lap, and she looked up to meet a faint and tearful smile.
“You are all so tender, my dear, that I am afraid it makes me selfish,” Mrs. Yorke said. “Now tell me the whole story. See! I am reasonable.”
“You are an angel to let me talk so, and not be angry!” Edith answered joyfully. “Wait till I get you a granule of digitaline; then I will tell you all about Carl. You will be proud of your son, my lady.”