Besides which, anger in a good heart burns itself out.

Very slowly, but yet surely, this process was going on, and Maria's att.i.tude was favorable to it, for she was heart-sorry for the circ.u.mstances that had compelled her to a.s.sert the right of her womanhood, and her pathetic self-effacement was sincere and without reproach. By-the-by the babe came in as peacemaker. As soon as she was permitted to see her stepmother she bent all the sweet magnetism of her nature to winning, at least, her forgiveness. She carried the fretful child in her arms and softly sung him to sleep, she praised his beauty, she learned to love him, and she made the lonely hours when Mr. Semple was at the office pa.s.s pleasantly to the sick woman. Finally one day they came to tears and explanations; the dreadful affair was talked out, Maria entreated forgiveness, and was not ungenerously pardoned.

This was at the close of August, and a few days afterward she received a letter from Mrs. Gordon. "We are in London for the winter," she wrote.

"Come, child, and let me see how you look." Rather reluctantly Mrs.

Semple permitted her to make the visit. "She is the next thing to an American," she thought, "and she will make Maria unreasonable and disobedient again." But she need not so have feared; the primal obligations of humanity are planted in childhood, and when we are old we are apt to refer to them and judge accordingly.

Mrs. Gordon's first remark was not flattering, for as Maria entered her room she cried out, "La, child! what is the matter with you? You look ill, worried, older than you ought to look. Are you in trouble?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Stepmother?"

"Father."

"Ah! Stepmothers make stepfathers, every one knows that. We shall have a dish of tea and you shall tell me about it. Then I will help you. But one can't build without stone. What has the stepfather done?"

Then Maria told her friend all her trouble, and was rather chilled in the telling by certain signs of qualified sympathy. And when the story was finished Mrs. Gordon's first remark was yet more disheartening:

"'Tis a common calamity," she said, "and better people than you have endured it."

"But, Madame----"

"Yes, I know what you are going to say. But you must consider first that your father was acting quite within his authority. He had the right to choose your husband."

"I had already chosen my husband."

"Then you ought, when you first came home, to have notified your parents. Sure, you had so much responsibility to fulfill. Why did you not do your duty in this matter?"

"I think I was afraid."

"To be sure you were. Little coward! Pray what did you fear? Ernest Medway?"

"Yes. I thought, perhaps--as I told you, we parted in anger, and I thought perhaps he might not keep his word, there were so many reasons why he might like to break it, and also, in war-time life is uncertain.

He has been wounded, sick; he might have died."

"So might you, or I, for that matter. A pretty account you give of yourself. Lord, child! you surely had letters to show your father."

"I had a few, but they were only a line or two. I was sure they would be made fun of, and I was angry, too. I thought if they would not take my word, I would not give vouchers for it. Not I!"

"Don't dash at things in that way, child. Your father was not bound to believe your story, especially as you did not tell it until he had made all arrangements for your marriage with this Mr. Spencer. Your conduct was too zigzaggery; you should have been straight."

"Father ought to have believed me."

"We have it on good authority that all men are liars, and I daresay that your father has known better people than either you or I to tell lies.

Really, I ought to give you a scolding, and this is nothing like it."

"It was such an outrage to force me to the very altar. The consequences were at my father's door."

"Custom, use and wont, take the outrage out of many things. Good gracious, Maria, most of the women I know were in some way or other forced to the altar; good for them, too, and generally they found that out. My own cousin, Lady Clarisse Home, went weeping there; Miss Anne Gordon, a cousin of my husband, refused to get up, said she was ill, and her friends had the marriage at her bedside. 'Tis above or below reason, but these same women adored their husbands within a week's time."

"Oh, dear! what shall I say? What shall I do?"

"Poor little Maria! You come to England, and then are astonished that a girl of eighteen is not allowed to have her own way, even in a husband."

"I have heard that you took your own way in England, Madame."

"In Scotland, there was some difference, and I was twenty-three and had a fortune of my own."

"Tell me then, Madame, what I ought to do."

"I think you ought to go back to New York. You are unhappy here, and you must make your father's home unhappy. That is not fair. If you are in New York, Ernest Medway will have no difficulty in keeping his word--if he wishes to do so. If he does not keep his word, you will escape the mortification you would certainly feel in your father's house. Ask the stepmother for permission to go back; she will manage the rest."

"Had I not better wait till the twenty-ninth of November has come and gone?"

"If you are a fool, do so. If you are wise, do not give opportunity so much scope. Go at once."

This advice was carried out with all the speed possible. That very night Maria found a good time to ask her stepmother's influence, and in spite of some affected reluctances, she understood that her proposal was one that gave great and unexpected satisfaction. She felt almost that she might begin to prepare for the voyage; nor were her premonitions false.

On the third evening after the request her father came to her room to grant it. He said he was "sorry she wished to leave him, but that under the circ.u.mstances it was better that she left England, at least for a year. The war is practically over," he continued, "and New York will speedily recover herself." Then he entered into some financial explanations of a very generous character, and finally, taking a small package from his pocket, said:

"Give this to your grandfather. It is a miniature of his grandson, Alexander Semple the third. He will be much delighted to see that child, for he has no other grandson. My brothers' children are only girls."

_"Only girls!"_ The two words cut like a two-edged blade, but they were not said with any unkind intent, though he felt the unkind impression they made, and rose and went slowly toward the door. His manner was hesitating, as if he had forgotten something he wished to say, and the momentary delay gave to Maria a good thought. She followed him quickly, and while his hand was on the door laid hers upon it. "Father," she said, "stay a little while. I want to ask you to forgive me. I have so often been troublesome and self-willed, I have given you so much annoyance, I feel it now. I am sorry for it. I cannot go back to America until you forgive me. Father, will you forgive me? Indeed, I am sorry."

He hesitated a moment, looked into her white, upturned face, and then answered, "I forgive you, Maria. You have caused me great shame and disappointment, but I forgive you."

"Not in that way! Oh, not in that way, father! Kiss me as you used to do. You have not kissed me for nearly a year. Dear father, do not be so cold and so far-off. I am only a little girl, but I am _your_ little girl. Perhaps I do not deserve to be forgiven, but for my mother's sake be kind to me."

At these words he turned fully to her, took her hands, and in a low, constrained voice said, "You are a very dear little girl, and we will let all the trouble between us be as if it had never been. We will bury it, forgive it, and forget it evermore. It is not to be spoken of again, not as long as we live."

Then she leaned her head against his breast and he kissed her as those who love and forgive kiss, and the joy of reconciliation was between them.

"Good night, Maria;" and as he held her close within his arm he added with a laugh, "What a little bit of a woman! How high are you? Maria?"

"Just as high as your heart, father. I don't want to be any higher."

"That is a very pretty speech," and this time he kissed her voluntarily, and with a most tender affection.

Five days after this interview Maria sailed for America. Her father had carefully attended to all things necessary for her safety and comfort, and her stepmother had tried to atone by profuse and handsome gifts for the apparent unkindness which had hastened her departure. But Maria knew herself much to blame, and she was too happy to bear ill will. She was going to see her lover. She was going to give him the a.s.surances which she had so long withheld. She was now impatient to give voice to all the tenderness in her heart.

It was the nineteenth day of September when she sailed, and on the following day, as Mr. Semple was sitting in his office, one of the messengers brought him a card. The light was dim and he looked intently at it, appeared startled, rose and took it to the window for further inspection. "Lord Medway" was certainly the name it bore, and ere he could give any order concerning it the door opened and Lord Medway entered.

Mr. Semple advanced to meet him, and the n.o.bleman took the chair he offered. "Sir," he said, hardly waiting for the preliminary courtesies, "Sir, I cannot believe myself quite unknown to you. And I hope that you have already some antic.i.p.ation of the purport of my visit. I come to ask the hand of your daughter Maria in marriage. I have been her devoted lover for more than three years, and now I would make her my wife. I beg you, sir, to examine these papers. They will give you a generally correct idea of my wealth and of the settlement I propose to make in favor of my wife."

Mr. Semple looked at the eager young man with a face so troubled that he was instantly alarmed.

"What is it?" he cried. "Is Maria sick? Married? Sir, do not keep me in suspense."

"Maria must be very near to New York. She sailed three weeks ago."