Hester · Chapter 35 (1/3)

XXXV

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 matchmaking 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 storybooks, 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 straightforward. 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 armchair? 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 anyone 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 someone 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.”