Hester · Chapter 35 (2/3)

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 anyone 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 awestricken 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 goodbye 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 downstairs 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 upstairs.”

“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.”