Hester

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.”

“And it was really so?” she said, looking into his face, “really⁠—really⁠—no little shadow of a wish for⁠—a little provocation, a little talk, a little fun if you like, Edward? Oh, no, I have no prejudice. I should know it was quite natural. And you mean that there was nothing at all, nothing of this⁠—a mere accident, nothing more?”

He kissed her cheek, and he laughed at her in a filial way.

“Didn’t I tell you, Aunt Catherine? You believe me⁠—oh, yes; but then you ask me if really⁠—really I am saying what is true? Really⁠—really as often as you like; it was accident, and nothing more.”

This was how all the eloquent things which Catherine had prepared to say were never said. She went up to bed pleased and