Now a former thought struck her–she would speak to Mrs. Hawkins.
And naturally enough Mrs. Hawkins appeared on the stage at that moment.
She said she knew all–she knew that Laura had discovered the secret that
Mr. Hawkins, the elder children, Col. Sellers and herself had kept so
long and so faithfully; and she cried and said that now that troubles had
begun they would never end; her daughter’s love would wean itself away
from her and her heart would break. Her grief so wrought upon Laura that
the girl almost forgot her own troubles for the moment in her compassion
for her mother’s distress. Finally Mrs. Hawkins said:
“Speak to me, child–do not forsake me. Forget all this miserable talk.
Say I am your mother!–I have loved you so long, and there is no other.
I am your mother, in the sight of God, and nothing shall ever take you
from me!”
All barriers fell, before this appeal. Laura put her arms about her
mother’s neck and said:
“You are my mother, and always shall be. We will be as we have always
been; and neither this foolish talk nor any other thing shall part us or
make us less to each other than we are this hour.”
There was no longer any sense of separation or estrangement between them.
Indeed their love seemed more perfect now than it had ever been before.
By and by they went down stairs and sat by the fire and talked long and
earnestly about Laura’s history and the letters. But it transpired that
Mrs. Hawkins had never known of this correspondence between her husband
and Major Lackland. With his usual consideration for his wife, Mr.
Hawkins had shielded her from the worry the matter would have caused her.
Laura went to bed at last with a mind that had gained largely in
tranquility and had lost correspondingly in morbid romantic exaltation.
She was pensive, the next day, and subdued; but that was not matter for
remark, for she did not differ from the mournful friends about her in
that respect. Clay and Washington were the same loving and admiring
brothers now that they had always been. The great secret was new to some
of the younger children, but their love suffered no change under the
wonderful revelation.
It is barely possible that things might have presently settled down into
their old rut and the mystery have lost the bulk of its romantic
sublimity in Laura’s eyes, if the village gossips could have quieted
down. But they could not quiet down and they did not. Day after day
they called at the house, ostensibly upon visits of condolence, and they
pumped away at the mother and the children without seeming to know that
their questionings were in bad taste. They meant no harm they only
wanted to know. Villagers always want to know.
The family fought shy of the questionings, and of course that was high
testimony “if the Duchess was respectably born, why didn’t they come out
and prove it?–why did they, stick to that poor thin story about picking
her up out of a steamboat explosion?”
Under this ceaseless persecution, Laura’s morbid self-communing was
renewed. At night the day’s contribution of detraction, innuendo and
malicious conjecture would be canvassed in her mind, and then she would
drift into a course of thinking. As her thoughts ran on, the indignant
tears would spring to her eyes, and she would spit out fierce little
ejaculations at intervals. But finally she would grow calmer and say
some comforting disdainful thing–something like this:
“But who are they?–Animals! What are their opinions to me? Let them
talk–I will not stoop to be affected by it. I could hate—-.
Nonsense–nobody I care for or in any way respect is changed toward me,
I fancy.”
She may have supposed she was thinking of many individuals, but it was
not so–she was thinking of only one. And her heart warmed somewhat,
too, the while. One day a friend overheard a conversation like this:–
and naturally came and told her all about it:
“Ned, they say you don’t go there any more. How is that?”
“Well, I don’t; but I tell you it’s not because I don’t want to and it’s