A DISCOVERY.
There was a dinner-party that evening at the Grange. It was given on
account of Ashton, now well known in Redborough; and Catherine Vernon
had taken the trouble to go herself to beg Captain Morgan to be of the
party: but the old man had refused steadily.
"I will have none of your fine company," he said. "No, no; you do enough
for me here. When you come to see us it always is a pleasure, both to my
old woman and me: but a dinner, no. I have not had on my evening coat
this dozen of years. It's not likely it would be in the fashion now."
"What does it matter about fashion? You shall come as you are if you
would like that better," Catherine said; but she did not mean it, and of
that they were all perfectly aware. "It is to do honour to Roland. You
are no longer so anxious to separate yourself from Roland as when he
came here first," she said.
The old man did not say anything, but his wife answered for him.
"We will not commit ourselves, Catherine, you know our way; but we think
the boy does us credit. I think it might be that if we were left to
ourselves we might even do a little match-making for him if we could."
"Are you come to that?" said Catherine: but there was an echo of a sigh
in her voice. "That seems to me to mean a confession--that we are not
enough for them any longer, but still that we will not give in; we will
be enough for them in another way."
"Why should we be enough for them? We could not think that was possible,
living far off as we do, and in a different way. No, but out of pure
love, which is just as foolish as anything else. I am the wisest in this
respect, for I know it will not do."
"And who is the lady?" Catherine asked with a smile.
The next moment she saw very well who it was, for they did not make her
any reply. Old Mrs. Morgan folding her hands said quietly, "It will
never answer," and the captain, leaving the mantelpiece against which he
had been leaning with his face fully presented to her questioning, went
and sat down in his usual place near the window, which afforded no such
facilities to a penetrating eye. They did not mean to tell her, and she
knew. She laughed to carry off the little annoyance with which this
preference and prejudice, as she called it, always moved her, and said,
"You should exert yourself in his sister's favour; by all she tells me
she would not be ungrateful," in a way which communicated the annoyance
she felt back again to her friends.
"We will not meddle with Emma," said old Mrs. Morgan. "I am tempted to
think sometimes that the blood gets thin in a race when it runs too
long, like the last cup of my tea--which he says is just hot water."
"Not so, not so," said old Captain Morgan. "You are growing a
materialist in your old age; that is sometimes just the very essence and
cream of all. In story-books, when there are an old couple left like you
and me, the last child left with them to make them happy is a creature
that is perfect."
"Oh, this is heresy indeed," cried Catherine. "I will not have you
compare Emma to your last cup of tea. There is nobody I meet with so
original; and is she to stay longer and have her chance? or has she come
to the height of her desires and persuaded the gentleman to speak--there
is nothing I want so much to know."
But here Catherine became vaguely sensible of a sentiment which,
according to their own account, had died out long ago in these old
people. They had declared themselves above prejudice in respect to their
own flesh and blood. The captain indeed had thrown off all
responsibility, and announced at Roland's first coming that he was not
prepared to answer for him: and Emma had not been so congenial to them
as Roland. Notwithstanding, when their grandchild was thus freely
criticised it galled them both. The old lady betrayed a little rising
colour of vexation and shame, and Captain Morgan got up again restlessly
and went and stood against the window, shutting out half the light, and
turning his back--which was a very strong step, though but for a
moment--upon his guest.
"She has not been brought up like other girls," said Mrs. Morgan.
"Perhaps it was none of our duty; it is hard to say. We knew nothing of
her: poor little motherless thing, we might have brought her away with
us; but these are all questions it is little use going into now. Such as
she is, she is a good girl in her way. When she is married, for she will
be sure to marry, she will make a good, careful wife."
"One would think I had been saying harm of Emma," cried Catherine, with
some quickness; "when the fact is I am one of those that like her most.
She is the most piquant variety of her species. There is nobody that
amuses me so much. She knows what she wants, which so few do, and she
means to have it. She is quite honest and straight-forward. You do me
injustice in this."
There was nothing said in reply, and Catherine did not like the
position. Perhaps the universal submission to which she was accustomed
had spoilt her, though she was so sure of seeing through it. She got up
to go away.
"I must do without you then, uncle, if I am not to have you; though I
think it is a little hard upon me--and upon Roland too."
"We are always here when you want us, Catherine; as much as is in us is
always at your service. It is not much," said the old man, hobbling
after her to the door; "but your fine house and your fine people are not
in _her_ way nor in mine. And what should I do going back to the world,
and _her_ in the arm-chair? You see yourself that would never do."
"It would delight her!" said Catherine, pausing at the door; "you know
that. Fancy her keeping you by her because she is not able to go out
too! It almost looks as if--but that is impossible--you did not
understand a woman yet."
The old captain laughed and shook his white head.
"Persuade yourself that!" he said; "make yourself think that: that will
chime in with the general opinion, Catherine. If I were an old man on
the stage I would say, there's no understanding women. If I don't
understand her and all her ways, I am a sillier old blockhead than you
think."
"Then you know that what I say is true--that she would like you to
come--that it would please her----"
"Then it is she that is the silly old woman that does not understand her
old man," Captain Morgan said.
Catherine left them with the impression that they were in a mood beyond
her comprehension. It was a fine, clear, almost warm day, and the roads
dry and walking pleasant. She had come on foot, as was not very usual
with her, and meant to walk home. She set out on her return waving her
hand to Mrs. Morgan, but in no very cheerful frame of mind. She had not
been cheerful when she left home. Her mind misgave her as it had not
done before for more years than she could count. What was the reason she
could scarcely tell. Edward was not really less kind, less observant of
her comfort. The change she saw in him was one indescribable, which no
one else would have suspected, which in all probability existed in her
imagination alone. Why should she suppose evils that had no existence?
There was no one like him, no son so dutiful to his mother, no one so
ready to make any sacrifice for the pleasure of his home. If his looks
had been a little abstracted lately, if he had spent his time away from
her, if his work in his own room, which she had made so comfortable for
him, which she had been so anxious to assure him the exclusive
proprietorship of, had increased of late, perhaps this was merely the
natural course of events. Or if he had fallen in love--what then? Did
the boy perhaps think that she would be jealous and stand in the way of
his happiness? How little he knew! Provided only his choice was a right
one; she would open her arms and her heart. She would be ready to do
anything for their comfort. There was no sacrifice she would not gladly
make. Notwithstanding that somewhat nonsensical mystical flourish of the
old captain's about his understanding of his wife, Catherine believed,
and with much show of truth, that men rarely understood women, and never
knew how ready they were to arrange everything, to give up everything
for the comfort and pleasure of those they loved. What a welcome she
would herself give to Edward's wife, though he was trembling and putting
off and afraid to tell her! What a reception that young woman should
have! Provided always--but with Edward's good taste and good sense how
could he go wrong in such a choice?
It was at this moment that a shuffling light step became audible,
hurrying along the road, and a voice calling "Catherine--is it really
Catherine?" followed by another step and another voice, with a fainter
sound in the repetition, but also calling upon "Catherine!" Catherine
Vernon paused and looked round, her face losing its gravity and
brightening into its usual humorous look of half-contemptuous
toleration.
"It is Catherine!" cried Miss Vernon-Ridgway; "I told you so. Dear
Catherine, isn't this long walk too much for you, and on such a cold
day? Take my arm--please take my arm: or won't you come back to our
little house and rest, and we'll send for the carriage? It is a long
walk for us who are not used to luxury, and what must it be to you?"
It was true that the Miss Vernon-Ridgways were under fifty, and
Catherine was sixty-five; but she was far more vigorous than they were,
and more capable of exercise. She turned round upon them smiling, but
kept her arms close by her side, and refused any support.
"I assure you," she said, "I am quite capable of walking. You know I
have always been accustomed to exercise."
"Ah yes," said the sisters, "you were brought up sensibly, dear
Catherine, not spoiled darlings as we were. We have never quite got over
it, though we should have known better long ago, if experience was all:
no one can tell how we miss our carriage; and when we see you on foot,
who can command every ease, it quite wounds our feelings," said Miss
Martha, coming in at the end in a little provocation by herself.
"It is very kind of you: but it does not at all hurt my feelings. This
is a fine day for a walk, and I hope you are enjoying yours, as I do,"
said Catherine, with her laughing look.
They both shook their heads.
"We do what we have to do, and I hope we don't complain. But I declare I
feel hurt that you should have been at the Heronry and not paid us a
visit. I wish not to be jealous. You were no doubt talking things over
with Mrs. John?"
"I know nothing that there is to talk over with Mrs. John," said
Catherine, tartly. "I was visiting my old uncle, which is a duty I never
like to neglect."
"Oh!" said one sister, and "Ah!" said the other. Then they cried eagerly
each to each, "I knew it was a vile story. Of course we have been
misinformed."
"What was there to be misinformed about?" said Catherine; then as she
looked from one to another, a sensation of coming trouble shot across
her. "And what," she added with a smile not so easy as the former one,
"am I supposed to have to say to Mrs. John?"
"Oh, it was all an accident of course," said Miss Matilda. "But you
might tell Catherine all the same. It is best that people should know;
and then they know what steps to take," said Miss Martha. "To be sure
Catherine would know what steps to take," Matilda added again.
"This may all be very amusing," said Catherine, "but as I don't know the
word of the puzzle, I don't see the joke, you know. One would think
something had happened in which I was concerned."
"I am not sure if you would think anything had happened. Oh yes, I am
sure we thought so last night," cried the sisters one after another.
"You see the least little thing looks important when you are going to
bed--after eleven o'clock at night."
"What was this great event?" said Catherine, with a certain sternness in
her tone.
There was a great flutter of nods and looks between the sisters. They
came close to her, one on either side, and Miss Matilda, always the
boldest, put a hand to Catherine's elbow by way of supporting her if
support were needed.
"Dear Catherine, do turn back with us to our little place! it is close
by, and we can give you an easy chair and a cup of tea. You will bear it
better there than here."
"Did you say _bear_ it better?"
"Oh! did I say it--_bear_ it--Martha? I am sure I don't know. I think I
said hear it, Catherine. Oh! for Heaven's sake don't look so stern.
Perhaps you will think nothing of it----"
Catherine gave her foot a stamp upon the ground. She said--
"Tell me at once what you have got to tell," in a voice which was almost
threatening. They looked at each other again, and then Miss Matilda
began--
"I don't want to get any one into trouble, I am sure," she said in a
faltering but eager voice. "It frightened us so--that was the thing. It
frightened us about you. I said to Martha, 'Dear Catherine must be ill;
nothing less than that would bring him here at such an hour.' You see
the voices roused us just as we were going to bed. Mrs. John's door was
locked, for I had heard her do it; she always does it herself, and,
judging by her usual hours, she must have been in bed--when we heard
voices at the gate: oh, I was not surprised at that. Sometimes it is old
Captain Morgan himself, who I am sure, with every respect for him, ought
not to be out of doors at such hours; sometimes the young gentleman, the
grandson--I don't remember his name; or it used to be Harry Vernon in
his time. We all know that girl; we needn't say anything more on that
subject. I merely remarked, 'There she is at the gate again.' And Martha
said----"
"Oh, I said, 'Fiddlesticks, she is at the ball; it must be one of the
maids.' I am so unsuspicious," said Miss Martha.
"And then we listened as you may suppose. There was just a little corner
of the window open. Of course if it had been one of the maids I should
have thought it my duty---- Catherine, you are getting quite tired."
"I freely confess, yes--of your story. What do I care for your maids and
their lovers? You can settle these surely without me."
"Oh, if you will only wait a little! Very soon we could hear that it
was, if you please, Miss Hester's voice, and she was inviting some one
in. Oh, pressing him--almost forcing him. Shouldn't you say so Martha?
like the woman in the _Pilgrim's Progress_."
"Yes, just like that kind of woman. Won't you come in, just for a
moment--just to rest a bit," said Martha, changing her voice into a sort
of squeak of the most unseductive kind. "And he resisted as long as he
could; but she would take no denial. You can't expect a young man to say
'No' if a girl puts herself at his feet like that. So he yielded at
last, poor young fellow. We didn't blame him a bit, did we, Martha?"
"Oh, not a bit! poor young man, with such a creature as that laying
herself out----"
"And who was this whom you are so sorry for?" Catherine said.
As if she did not know! She had been rather glad of all the delays and
_longueurs_ of the tale, and marched along through it, glad to make them
out of breath, almost hoping to be at her own door before the crisis;
but in this she did not succeed. She did not look at them even, but kept
her eyes upon the path with steady indifference.
"Dear Catherine!--but you won't blame him, poor young fellow! It was
your own Edward, that dear boy----"
Prepared as she was, the name gave her a shock, as perhaps Miss Matilda,
still holding her elbow, felt; but if so, it was only for a moment.
"Edward!" she said with a laugh. "You mean Harry, I suppose? Edward was
at home and busy, occupying himself in a very different sort of way."
At this the sisters interchanged glances again, and shook their heads in
unison. "Ah, Catherine, that is just how you are deceived. We know Harry
Vernon's voice very well. It was Edward."
Catherine turned upon them with a countenance perfectly cloudless, a
laugh upon her lips. "When I tell you," she said, "that he was in my own
house! he could not, I think, be in two places at once--my house, his
house--it is all the same. He was at home--" she added after a moment,
in a deeper tone, "and with me."
"Oh! with you!" The sisters broke off with sudden fright, not venturing
to persevere. So sudden a check quenched Miss Matilda's lively genius
altogether. It was her sister, the practical member, who added with a
spasmodic gasp, "Oh, of course, Catherine, if he was with you----"
"Yes, of course he was with me; he is only too attentive. I could wish
he took a little more amusement. So your fine story is at an end, you
see. If it had been any one else I might have thought it my duty to
inquire into it; but as I can prove it not to be Edward--not that I see
much harm in it if it had been Edward," she added, turning upon the
accusers again. "I am not fond of Hester Vernon, but she is his cousin
all the same."
"Oh, no harm! oh, I never thought so," cried the gossips, alarmed and
faltering. "It was only just--it was merely--it frightened us, thinking
that dear Catherine must be ill, or something happened----"
"Did you think then that your dear Catherine, if she were ill, would
send for Hester Vernon?--as her prime favourite, I suppose, and the one
that loved her best among all those who----"
Catherine paused; the native magnanimity in her, beneath all the
pettiness which her laughing cynicism had taught her, would not insult
even these heartless women by a reminder in so many words of their
dependence. It cost her all her strength to stand up erect before them,
and put off their assault. They had got at her heart, but they should
never know it. She stood ample and serene between the two slim shabby
figures and smiled defiance. Never were talebearers more completely
discomfited. They turned upon each other with mutual reproaches in the
confusion of the moment. "You need not have made such a fuss, Matilda."
"I told you, Martha, you oughtn't to be so confident about a voice."
"Come," said Catherine, "we had better say nothing more about it;
evidently there has been a mistake. Hester, who ought to be more careful
if she is to live at the Vernonry, must have another admirer with whose
voice you are not acquainted. But it is unwise to form conclusions on no
better ground than the sound of a voice, and perhaps not very charitable
or kind of you, so much older than she is, to tell anything that is
uncomfortable about that girl, who is no favourite of mine already, to
me. Don't you think you would do better if you warned her, or her
mother?" Catherine's countenance was so calm, her eyes so commanding,
that the Miss Vernon-Ridgways, altogether defeated in their malicious
intention, which was chiefly to wound herself, felt their knees tremble
under them, and were genuinely awe-stricken for perhaps the first time
in their lives.
"Oh, as for that--it was not Hester we were thinking of--it was you,"
they faltered between them, "that you might not allow--or be exposed--"
Their words got incoherent and ran away to nothing, into breaks and
frightened lapses. And when Catherine, opening her eyes still wider,
said, "For me! to warn me!" and laughed them to scorn, Matilda, who
being the most forward was at the same time the most sensitive, was so
overcome by anger and alarm and mortification that she began to cry for
sheer despite, and felt in her inmost heart that she hated the woman who
could humiliate her so.
"You were kindly afraid that I should be tired a few minutes ago: and
standing does tire me, though I like a walk," Catherine said. "I will
say good-bye now. Perhaps you meant it kindly; and if so, I'll thank you
too--all the more as it's a mistake--for that is the best of it," she
said with a laugh, waving her hand: and leaving them, walked on
homewards with an alert and energetic step. But it would have been balm
to their feelings if they had been able to see how very little like
laughter was her face when she had once turned her back upon them. There
was nobody to observe her along that quiet road. The nursemaids with
their children had all turned townwards some time ago. There was not a
soul between her and the gate of the Grange. Catherine's face lengthened
and darkened as if by a sudden effect of years; the sanguine life and
confidence and force went out of it. She looked an old woman in that
moment, as indeed she had a right to do, but did not, nature interposing
for her aid. She said to herself that she would not think, would not ask
herself what it meant until she should get home, and could feel the
shelter of her own walls about her. She wanted shelter and privacy
before she faced the fact which had been dimly shadowing before her, but
never in this form. She was a very resolute woman, and had not come so
far in life without having to confront and overcome many things that
looked terrible enough at the first glance. But never since those early
days which were so far off that they were half forgotten had she been
called upon to face those troubles which sap the strength out of heart
and will, the disappointments and bitterness brought upon us by those we
love. She had few of these sufferings for what seems the saddest reason,
that she had nobody to love. But it was not so sad as it appears. She
had a number of people whom she loved well enough to be delighted by
their prosperities, and overcast by their troubles. She had all the
advantages of affection without being so closely knit to any as to have
its drawbacks too. But this easy position changed when she became, so to
speak, the mother of Edward Vernon. It was not the doing of providence,
it was her own doing. She had taken it upon herself, and for years past
she had said to herself that the boy had made her know, as she had never
known before, what happiness was. But now here was, swinging round
slowly, revealing itself to her in glimpses, the reverse of the medal,
the other side of the picture. Was he deceiving her? She had taken up
his defence boldly, not caring what she said: but she had believed what
she heard all the same, and had known it to be true. Was this why he had
not cared to see her, to bid her good-night, before he came out to have
that meeting with Hester--like a shopgirl and shopboy, she said to
herself, her lip quivering with passion, vexation, derision, all bound
together by the pain that produced them--at the gate? The commonplace
character of the meeting, the look of petty intrigue in it, humbled her
pride in her boy. If they had met at Ellen's dance, or in any legitimate
way, she thought it would not have mortified her so much--but like a
lady's maid and a footman, like Jane the scullery-girl and her young
man! She laughed to herself at the thought, but the laugh was more
painful than tears.
By and by, however, Catherine came to take a little comfort out of the
fact that Edward had not come to bid her good-night. Not considering for
a moment that any incident of all this might be accidental, though
everything was so, she concluded that his heart had failed him, that he
had felt himself incapable of the treachery of kissing her cheek in the
usual tender way when about to do a thing which he knew would be so
displeasing to her. When this occurred to Catherine the whole aspect of
the matter changed: her features relaxed, her colour came back. This, no
doubt, was how it had been. The girl had met him at Ellen's folly--how
truly a folly had never been proved till now: and she was pretty and
clever. Catherine was too proud to deny her her natural advantages; and
men were fools, as was well known--the best of them, the wisest of
them!--where women were concerned. She had led him into some engagement,
some light wager perhaps, some defiance of what he would venture to do.
And Edward had been silly enough to be led away. She did not want him to
be too wise. If he was silly, it was no more than everybody else had
been before him. But he, dear boy, true boy, having involved himself in
a piece of folly, had shown that high respect to her, that he would
rather let her suppose he had forgotten and neglected her, than come to
her with the usual greeting when he knew he was doing something which
would seem treachery to Catherine. Thus she, who for the first moment
had known no wish but that of pushing homeward and hiding her sudden
downfall within her own house where nobody could intrude upon her, had
so triumphantly explained all that trouble away before she got home,
that she entered the Grange radiant, with no sense of having a downfall
to hide. The casuistry of love is more skilful than any device of
philosophy. She explained everything to herself. She wondered that she
had not read it in his face all the evening. She felt that it had been
there, if she had only had eyes to see. A foolish talk carried a trifle
too far--a bold girl, not bad, no, not bad--that was not necessary, and
Catherine would be just--pleased to get a little triumph when she could
over the other side: and a foolish promise, not intended, had drawn him,
perhaps against his will. By this subtle demonstration--which no faculty
less keen than that of love could have made--Catherine proved, to her
full satisfaction, the fundamental truth in him which no little trumpery
deceit (of a kind so innocent as this!) could undermine. All this fine
fabric was raised on the most insignificant foundation of fact. But what
did that matter? it was enough. And if Catherine had been told that
Edward's forgetfulness of the good-night had been accidental, and that
his meeting with Hester was accidental, and that no incident of the
night had been planned beforehand, she would have simply and flatly
denied the possibility. She knew better; and she preferred the matter as
it stood.
The dinner-party was an insignificant affair to her after this. She did
full justice to it, and to Roland Ashton, the chief guest, the man whom
she delighted to honour, and for whose pleasure and profit the best
people in Redborough were called together. He was already known to many
of them, and it was Catherine's pleasure to make her relationship and
interest in the young visitor clear. But her mind was eager to get
through the commonplace courtesies of the evening--to come to the moment
when Edward and she should meet alone. She could not pass her discovery
over without note. She would tell him what she had heard, and what she
had divined. She would give him the tender warning which such an
affection as hers had a right to offer. If it was more than a passing
flirtation (which she did not believe), to beg him to reconsider it; if
his heart should be touched (which Heaven forbid! but the thought made
her smile, it was so profoundly unlikely), to intreat him to reflect,
and see how little satisfaction could come to him from such intercourse.
She went over and over again the interview that was to come--so often,
indeed, that she exhausted it, and when the moment did come, did not
remember half of what she intended to say. It came, indeed, in a way
entirely contrary to that she had imagined. After the party had
dispersed, Edward took Roland into his room to smoke with him--which she
ought to have recollected he was in the habit of doing--and then, what
was more disappointing still, went out with him to accompany him part of
the way. She was going down stairs to Edward's room, that she might get
these explanations off her mind without a moment's delay, and was taken
entirely by surprise when she heard the door close, and two voices
continuing outside.
"Has Mr. Edward gone out?" she asked, with a trembling she could
scarcely control, of the butler, when he came up to put out the lights.
"I was to say, ma'am, as he'd be back in half an hour," said the man.
Catherine sent her maid to bed, and kept her particular lamp burning on
her little table, waiting there in the dimness of the large deserted
room, hearing every crackle and rustle of the night. It seemed to her
far more than half an hour before she heard Edward's key in the door;
but she was resolved not to be balked now. She had no idea, poor lady,
that he thought her suspicious, inquisitive, and watchful, making
domiciliary visits in order to find him out in something, which was very
far from Catherine's disposition. She went down accordingly to lose no
time, and met him in the hall. He was astonished to see her, as was
natural enough; and she had an uneasy tremor upon her, which was natural
too, but which looked like cold. He was full of apologies for having
kept her up.
"If I had known you would have waited for me, Aunt Catherine----"
"You did not say good-night to me last night, Edward. I did not like
that to happen two nights running. I will go into your room, not to
hurry you up stairs."
"I can't think how that happened," he said, following her into the cosy
room, with its red curtains and cheerful fire, and all the conveniences
and prettiness she had accumulated for him there. "I had been thinking
hard, and my mind was full of balance-sheets and figures. I entirely
forgot I had not seen you."
She turned round upon him, taking his arm between her hands, and looking
with a tender smile into his face.
"No, my dear boy, I know better than that. You had a reason--which shows
me how well I have divined you, and how true you are, Edward. I have
been told where--you went to last night."
This startled him greatly for the moment. He looked at her with an
alarmed expression: but seeing no anger in her face, said quickly--
"That was all quite accidental, Aunt Catherine. You don't think I went
there on purpose, do you?" without shrinking at all from her eyes.
"Yes, Edward, I thought you did. Perhaps I was wrong. I thought there
might have been some silly bargain--some promise made without thought:
and that you felt a little treacherous--that is a harsh
word--deceitful--that is worse--to me, and would not come back and kiss
me when you might be supposed to be going against me. I forgave you
entirely, Edward, for that good thought."
He was a little touched in spite of himself.
"You are very good, Aunt Catherine--far better to me than I deserve;
but, as a matter of fact, it was all purely accidental. I had been very
busy, and felt feverish and sleepless. I went out to have a turn in the
moonlight: chance took me that way. There was light in Mrs. John's
window. They heard my steps, and looked out in great surprise, and asked
me to come in. I could scarcely satisfy her," he said, with an
embarrassed little laugh, "that you were not ill, and had not sent for
her to nurse you. It was as good as a play," he went on, still laughing,
followed in every word by her anxious eyes, "to see poor Mrs. John's
struggle between politeness and sleep. She was very sleepy, poor little
woman! but dreadfully polite. You may suppose I was surprised enough to
find myself there."
"Yes," she said, still holding him, still reading his face with her
anxious eyes, but feeling the ground cut from under her feet. She was a
little breathless with anxiety and excitement. "I wonder--that you did
not tell me of it--this morning."
"Dear Aunt Catherine," he said, "pardon me, but you have a little
prejudice, you know, against these people. And it was so entirely
accidental. You might have thought, had I told you, that it had been
done on purpose."
"Did I ever doubt what you said to me, Edward?"
"No," he said, taking her hands in his tenderly, as she thought; and
indeed the action was not without real tenderness, for his heart was
touched. "No," he said, smiling, "but yet you would have had a little
doubt--a little wonder whether it was really so."
"And it _was_ really so?" she said, looking into his face,
"really--really--no little shadow of a wish for--a little provocation, a
little talk, a little fun if you like, Edward? Oh, no, I have no
prejudice. I should know it was quite natural. And you mean that there
was nothing at all, nothing of this--a mere accident, nothing more?"
He kissed her cheek, and he laughed at her in a filial way.
"Didn't I tell you, Aunt Catherine? You believe me--oh, yes; but then
you ask me if really--really I am saying what is true? Really--really as
often as you like; it was accident, and nothing more."
This was how all the eloquent things which Catherine had prepared to say
were never said. She went up to bed pleased and happy, yet not so
pleased as if he had confessed her version of the story to be the true
one. She did not doubt his word--oh no, no--but yet--the other version
looked more true to nature. She could have understood it better that
way.