"_Nothing_!"
"Nothing?"
"No--but oh! I hate myself, and despise myself! I wish I could drown
myself," cried Katharine in her agony. "Have you quarrelled with Major
Clare?"
"No!"
"Refused him?"
"No--oh no!" cried Kate, "never, never speak about him any more."
Her grief was so violent, and in its free expression seemed so childish,
that Emberance had no scruple in following her to her room, and in
trying to soothe and comfort her; and for some minutes Kate sat with her
head on her cousin's lap, and sobbed as if her heart would break. At
last she seemed to gather herself together, ceased crying, and sat up,
gazing into the fire with a strange dreary look, as the quivering mouth
grew still and set itself into harder lines.
"Emmy," she said, "I've been a silly girl. He doesn't care for _me_, he
liked Kingsworth."
"I don't think you have been at all silly in thinking Major Clare liked
you. Any one would have thought so," said Emberance, warmly.
Kate turned and kissed her, while Emberance went on.
"But how can you tell--how can you possibly tell that he doesn't really
care about you? What makes you think so?"
"I don't think I can tell you," said Kate; "but I do know that he
meant--meant to marry me because--I was rich. No, I cannot tell you how
I found it out."
"Oh, Kitty, are you sure? I don't think it can have been _all_ that."
"Well, it is enough if it was _partly_ that," said Kate disdainfully, "I
will never listen to him any more." Emberance was puzzled, she could
not tell how the discovery had come about, and moreover, she guessed
that the facts were more complicated than Kate supposed. She saw that
Kate was angry, and sore, and miserable, full of pain and
disappointment; but she doubted if the very depths of her heart had been
touched, thinking that if so, she would have been more ready to find
excuses for her lover.
"Kate," she said, "sometimes _I_ have felt doubtful whether Major Clare
was quite in earnest. I think he is rather a flirt, do you know?"
"No, he is a fortune-hunter," said Kate, with great decision. She cried
again as she spoke. It was a bitter experience even if it might have
been bitterer still.
"Mamma is right," she said, "it _is_ hateful to be rich or to care about
it."
She kept her secret, Emberance could not tell what had passed, and Kate
never told her, and never talked about her disappointment any more. She
held her tongue, and felt brave and strong in her anger. Her mother
hoped that the change in her ways showed that she was reflecting on her
position altogether, and Kate said no word, not even when she heard that
Major Clare had gone away on another visit. She was too straightforward
to have expected him to try again to "deceive her," as she called it;
but as she stood alone, and looked out towards the Vicarage, there came
over the poor child all in a minute the weariest feeling of wishing that
he had. There came to her a moment, when if Major Clare had been beside
her and spoken tenderly to her again, she would not have cared about
asking the reason, would not, could not have turned away,--a moment when
all her scruples seemed utterly valueless, compared to the love that
they had cost her. Kate could not know that the sick pain of that hour
of ungratified yearning was a light price to pay for the inheritance of
her mother's honesty which had saved her from her mother's fate.