Spinster of This Parish

by W. B. Maxwell

She thought of the thousand reasons why, even when driven inexorably, one should not do what she herself had done—the remorse for the pain one has caused to others, the crushing sense of being outlawed and proscribed, the slights, the humiliations, the meek submissions that one is called upon to suffer. Every year of her life, every day of it, had shown her another valid reason why any ordinary person should regret an act such as hers. She herself had never regretted. She had not been able to regret—because the thing had been done for Anthony Dyke. She had neither flinched nor faltered. But a pretty little flower like this would wither under the first frosty breath of disgrace. She would soon be sorry that passion had whirled her into a reckless deed. “She is not like me,” thought Emmie, with a faint smile. “She is not by nature the sort of desperate character that sticks at nothing.”

Besides, for Mildred to make a hash of her reputation would be a quite meaningless disaster. There was not the slightest necessity for heroic measures. If, as Emmie hoped and was inclined to believe, the young man proved worthy of such a nice girl, then those silly Parkers must be made to consent. And again Emmie felt a melting tenderness and sympathy for this pretty innocent little soul and her love-dream. It must, and it should end prettily; with music, marriage bells, and sunshine; with the bride all in white coming up the aisle upon her father’s arm, to be given to her sweetheart amidst blessings and rejoicings.

So she offered Mildred—as has been already related—some very old-fashioned advice; and finally made her promise to abandon any idea of acting rashly and improperly. Mildred tore at her gloves, pouted, and shed tears beneath the chilling wisdom. But she in her turn was startled by one or two things that Miss Verinder said to her. Especially something quite inexplicable about no women ever ceasing to wait and to hope, moved her and made her wonder.

Miss Verinder was very severe about running away with people before you married them, no matter for what motive the unsanctified bolt might be undertaken.

“Believe me,” she said, sitting beside Mildred on the sofa, and with an arm round her waist, “it is only the very strongest characters that can brave public opinion.... Yes, I am sure—to go right through with anything of that kind immense self-control, really almost an iron nerve is required. And,” she added, “you musn’t think I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

She said much more, but one reflection touched her young friend with greater strength than all the rest. “You have to think of your Alwyn and the effect it might produce on him.” While she said it her voice grew soft and her eyes had an unexpected radiance. She was thinking of Anthony Dyke. “Perhaps,” she went on, “it is only the very finest natures that can accept—ah—this particular kind of surrender or self-sacrifice from a woman, and still hold her quite as high in their minds as they did before—ah—the surrender occurred.

“There, Mildred dear,” she concluded cheerfully, “I am going to help you for all I’m worth. And you are going to be wise. And don’t—I beg you—forget this. I have my reasons for all I have said.”

Mildred went away wondering what on earth could be Miss Verinder’s reasons for one or two of the things said.

Emmie had promised to give help in this simple love affair, but truly it helped her. It charmed her and absorbed her, filling several of those months which had to be counted before definite news could come.