By-
the-by, I met lately a gentleman who said he knew Mr. Oakley, and was
exceedingly surprised--at which I must confess I scarcely wondered--
when he heard who it was that my brother-in-law had married."
"Oh, Henrietta!" pleaded poor Aunt Maria, with her most troubled look.
But it was too late. Even Christian--quiet as her temper was, and strong
her resolution to keep peace, at any price which cost nobody any thing
excepting herself--was roused at last.
"Miss Gascoigne," she said, and her eyes blazed and her whole figure
dilated, "when your brother married me, he did it of his own free
choice. He loved me. Whatever I was, he loved me. And whatever I
may be now, I at least know his dignity and my own too well to submit
to be spoken to, or spoken of, in this manner. It is not of the slightest
moment to me who among your acquaintances criticises myself or my
marriage, only I beg to be spared the information afterward. For my
father"--she gulped down a great agony, a sorrow darker than that of
death--"he was my father. You had better be silent concerning him."
Miss Gascoigne was silent--for a few minutes. Perhaps she was a little
startled, almost frightened--many a torturer is a great coward--by the
sight of that white face, its every feature trembling with righteous
indignation or, perhaps, some touch of nature in the hard woman's heart
pleaded against this unwomanly persecution of one who bad never
injured her.
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