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Updated: May 12, 2025
Marcella was vehemently sure that he was a charlatan that he got his living by a number of small dishonesties, that he had scented Minta's pension. But apart from the question whether he would make Minta a decent husband, or live upon her and beat her, was the fact itself of her re-marriage, in itself hideous to the girl. "Marry him!" she said. "Marry any one! Isn't it incredible?"
"Whatever have you been doing to your cheek?" she exclaimed, suddenly, as Marcella handed her the empty cup to take away. Marcella explained shortly, and Minta looked more discontented than ever. "A lot of low people as ought to look after themselves," that was how in her inmost mind she generally defined Marcella's patients.
One of the uncouth younger fellows, his shoulders laden with a sack of meal, paused on his way from the porch to the trap-door to look up from beneath his burden with a sly grin as he said, "'Gene war wishin' it war true, that's why." "'Count o' Minta Elladine Riggs," gaily chimed in another.
Then she laid her sharp chin on her tiny hand, and studied Marcella. Miss Boyce was in the light black dress that Minta approved; her pale face and delicate hands stood out from it with a sort of noble emphasis.
"Some time when you are older, won't you try to find her and help her?" The Cavalier was in the younger daughter too. "I certainly think she has caused unhappiness enough. She made our home a different place, and she shortened Father's life. I can't forgive her." "But, Daughter, we don't know. There may have been some mistake." Minta was decided. "She no longer belongs to the Southard family.
She saw herself, as the preacher, sitting on her stool beside the poor grate she realised as a spectator the figures of the women and the old man played on by the firelight the white, bare, damp-stained walls of the cottage, and in the background the fragile though still comely form of Minta Hurd, who was standing with her back to the dresser, and her head bent forward, listening to the talk while her fingers twisted the straw she plaited eternally from morning till night, for a wage of about 1s. 3d. a week: Her mind was all aflame with excitement and defiance defiance of her father, Lord Maxwell, Aldous Raeburn.
"There now you look something like!" said Minta, scanning her approvingly the wide hat and pretty black dress. "Shall Daisy run out with that telegram?" "No, thanks. I shall pass the post. Good-bye." And she stooped and kissed the little withered woman. She wished, ardently wished, that Minta would be more truly friends with her!
As she once more lifted her eyes, she was obviously surprised to see him still standing there, and the crisis seemed to restore to him the faculty of speech. "Minta Elladine," he said huskily and prosaically, "I ain't dead!" She sprang to her feet and stood gazing at him, intent and quivering. "I be truly alive an' kicking an' ez worthless ez ever," he went on.
"To-day," whispered Mary, caressing Minta's hand, while the tears streamed down her cheeks; "he repented, Minta, and the Lord took him to Himself at once forgiving all his sins." Mrs. Hurd gave no sign, but the dark figure on the other side of the cottage made an involuntary movement, which threw down a fire-iron, and sent a start through Willie's wasted body.
Lord Maxwell was still alive, and Hallin, in the midst of his work, was looking anxiously for the daily reports from Aldous, living in his friend's life almost as much as in his own handing on the reports, too, day by day to Marcella, with a manner which had somehow slipped into expressing a new and sure confidence in her sympathy when she one evening found Minta Hurd watching for her at the door with a telegram from her mother: "Your father suddenly worse.
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