"He might not marry anyone I objected to," Mrs Stuart replied, "but I
dread to think his heart may be already gone from his keeping. Young
men are so susceptible to a pretty face and figure, and I confess
that Joy Irving has both. She is a good girl, too, and a fine
musician; but she has no family, and her alliance with my son would
be a great drawback to his career. Her father was a grocer, I
believe, or something of that sort; quite a common man, who married a
third-class actress, Joy's mother. Mr Irving was in very comfortable
circumstances at one time, but a stroke of paralysis rendered him
helpless some four years ago. He died last year and left his widow
and child in straitened circumstances. Mrs Irving is an invalid now,
and Joy supports her with her music. Mr Irving and Joy were members
of Arthur Emerson's former church (Mrs Stuart always spoke of her son
in that manner), and that is how my son became interested in the
daughter--an interest I supposed to be purely that of a rector in his
parishioner, until of late, when I began to fear it took root in
deeper soil. But I am sure, dear Baroness, you can understand my
anxiety."
And then the Baroness, with drawn lips and anguished eyes, took both
of Mrs Stuart's hands in hers, and cried out: "Your pain, dear madam, is second to mine. I have no child, to be
sure, but as few mothers love I love Alice Cheney, my dear husband's
granddaughter. My very life is bound up in her, and she--God help
us, she loves your son with her whole soul. If he marries another it
will kill her or drive her insane."
The two women fell weeping into each other's arms.