By-and-by, all became clear to me. My dear Max, I do not hesitate; I am not afraid. I have been only waiting opportunity; which at length came.
Last Sunday I overheard my class--Penelope's that was, you know--whispering something among themselves, and trying to hide it from me; when I put the question direct, the answer was:--
"Please, Miss, Mrs. Cartwright and Lydia have come home."
I felt myself grow hot as fire--I do now, in telling you. Only it must be borne--it must be told.
Also another thing, which one of the bigger girls let out, with many titters, and never a blush,--they had brought a child with them.
Oh, Max, the horror of shame and repulsion, and then the perfect anguish of pity that came over me! These girls of our parish, Lydia was one of them; if they had been taught better; if I had tried to teach them, instead of all these years studying or dreaming, thinking wholly of myself and caring not a straw about my fellow-creatures. Oh, Max--would that my life had been more like yours!
It shall be henceforth. Going home through the village, with the sun shining on the cottages, of whose inmates I know no more than of the New Zealand savages,--on the group of ragged girls who were growing up at our very door, no one knows how, and no one cares--I made a vow to myself. I that have been so blessed--I that am so happy--yes, Max, happy! I will work with all my strength, while it is day. You will help me. And you will never love me the less for anything I feel--or do.
I was going that very afternoon, to walk direct to Mrs. Cartwright's, when I remembered your charge, that nothing should be attempted without my father's knowledge an consent.
I took the opportunity when he and I were sitting alone together--Penelope gone to bed. He was saying she looked better. He thought she might begin visiting in the district soon, if she were properly persuaded. At least she might take a stroll round the village. He should ask her to-morrow.
"Don't papa. Oh, pray don't!"--and then I was obliged to tell him the reason why. I had to put it very plainly before he understood--he forgets things now sometimes.
"Starving, did you say?--Mrs. Cartwright, Lydia, and the child?--What child?"
Then he comprehended,--and, oh, Max, had I been the girl I was a few months ago, I should have sunk to the earth with the shame he said I ought to feel at even alluding to such things. But I would not stop to consider this, or to defend myself; the matter concerned not me, but Lydia. I asked papa if he did not remember Lydia?