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
