PAGE 10
My Mother
by
Her sister, with whom she never had anything in common, who was years older, and had been married in England when Lydia was but three years of age, implored, entreated, sneered, ridiculed and stormed. Lydia sat motionless through it all, and then the outraged sister struck a vital spot with: “I don’t know what Elizabeth has been thinking of all these years, to let you associate with Indians on an equality. She is to blame for this.”
Then and only then, did Lydia blaze forth. “Don’t you dare speak of ‘Liza like that!” flung the girl. “She was the only human being in our whole family, the only one who ever took me in her arms, who ever called me ‘dear,’ who ever kissed me as if she meant it. I tell you, she loved George Mansion better than she loved her cold, chilly English brothers. She loved me, and her house was my home, which yours never was. Yes, she loved me, angel girl that she was, and she died in a halo of happiness because I was happy and because I was to marry the noblest, kingliest gentleman I ever met.” The girl ceased, breathless.
“Yes,” sneered her sister, “yes, marry an Indian!”
“Yes,” defied Lydia, “an Indian, who can give me not only a better home than this threadbare parsonage of yours”–here she swept scornful eyes about the meagre little, shabby room–“yes, a home that any Bestman would be proud to own; but better than that,” she continued ragingly, “he has given me love–love, that you in your chilly, inhuman home sneer at, but that I have cried out for; love that my dead mother prayed should come to me, from the moment she left me a baby, alone, in England, until the hour when this one splendid man took me into his heart.”
“Poor mother!” sighed the sister. “I am grateful she is spared this.”
“Don’t think that she doesn’t know it!” cried Lydia. “If ‘Liza approved, mother does, and she is glad of her child’s happiness.”
“Her child–yes, her child,” taunted the sister. “Child! child! Yes, and what of the child you will probably mother?”
The crimson swept painfully down the young girl’s face, but she braved it out.
“Yes,” she stammered, “a child, perhaps a son, a son of mine, who, poor boy, can never inherit his father’s title.”
“And why not, pray?” remarked her sister.
“Because the female line of lineage will be broken,” explained the girl. “He should marry someone else, so that the family title could follow the family name. His father and mother have practically cast him off because of me. Don’t you see? Can’t you understand that I am only an untitled commoner to his people? I am only a white girl.”
“Only a white girl!” repeated the sister, sarcastically. “Do you mean to tell me that you believe these wretched Indians don’t want him to marry you? You, a Bestman, and an English girl? Nonsense, Lydia! You are talking utter nonsense.” But the sister’s voice weakened, nevertheless.
“But it’s true,” asserted the girl. “You don’t understand the Indian nation as ‘Liza did; it’s perfectly true–a son of mine can claim no family title; the honor of it must leave the name of Mansion forever. Oh, his parents have completely shut him out of their lives because I am only a white girl!” and the sweet young voice trembled woefully.
“I decline to discuss this disgraceful matter with you any further,” said the sister coldly. “Perhaps my good husband can bring you to your senses,” and the lady left the room in a fever of indignation.
But her “good husband,” the city clergyman, declined the task of “bringing Lydia to her senses.” He merely sent for her to go to his study, and, as she stood timidly in the doorway, he set his small steely eyes on her and said:
“You will leave this house at once, to-night. To-night, do you hear? I’ll have no Indian come here after my wife’s sister. I hope you quite understand me?”