Factories -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Love stories; Strikes and lockouts -- Fiction
“Our time is given us,” replied the good woman, also rising, “to make
the best use of, and if we remember that we must give an account of
every moment allotted to us, we will not count that time ill-spent which
is devoted to the welfare of others. I sincerely trust that what I have
said will sink deeply into your mind, and that you will profit by it.”
“I shall not fail to do so.”
“You will understand why I cannot give you any information about Miss
Sartwell, or arrange for any meeting between you. It would not be right.
If she were now in the house, I could not permit you to see her, since
I know you come without her father’s permission. I hope you do not think
me harsh in saying this.”
“Oh, not at all.”
“And whatever comes of your infatuation for her, will you do me the
justice to remember that my last words to you were to implore you to
cast all thought of her from your mind?”
“I shall remember it,” said Marsten.
“If you attempt to meet her, you know you will be doing so against my
strict wish and command.”
“You certainly will not be to blame for anything that happens, Mrs.
Sartwell.”
“Ah, if I could only be sure of that!” said the patient woman,
mournfully shaking her head. “But blame is so easily bestowed, and it
shifts responsibility from shoulders certainly more fitted to bear it,
and perhaps more deserving. No later ago than yesterday, Mr. Barnard
Hope came here, and was surprised to find Edna gone. He told me he came
to see me, but he could not help noticing how still and peaceful the
house was. When he asked where Edna was, I replied to him as I reply to
you. Her father is the proper person to answer that question. Yet Mr.
Hope is the son of my best friend, a noble woman, whose benefactions
shower blessings far and near. Well, good-by, and I’m sorry not to be
able to assist you; but I shall remember you in my petitions, and will
trust that your feet may be guided aright.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sartwell, and good-by.”
As the young man walked away he kept repeating to himself, “High Cliff
School, Eastbourne”; and when he got a sufficient distance from the
house he wrote the name down on a slip of paper.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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