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,”
