“Come with me, that is the best thing to do,” Edward said.
XL
The Hour of Need
Catherine stood upon the threshold of her own gate: her house still and vacant behind, the lamps just carried into the vacant place upstairs, the windows beginning to show lights. She stood, herself a shadow, for the moment regardless of the shadow at her feet, looking out into the dim world after the other shadow which went along swift and silent into the darkness. “Edward!” she cried; but he did not hear. He had disappeared before she turned her eyes to the other, who, by this time, had raised herself to her knees, and remained there looking up, her face a paleness in the dim air, nothing more. Catherine Vernon looked at her in silence. She had heard all that had been said. She had heard the girl plead for herself, and it had not touched her heart. She had heard Hester beaten down to the ground by the reproach of her father’s shame, and a certain pity had moved her. But a heart, like any other vessel, can contain only what it can contain. What time had she to think of Hester? what room? Edward had been her son, her creed; whoso proved that he was not worthy of faith even in Catherine’s interest was her enemy; everything else came in a second place. He had stabbed and stabbed her, till the blood of those wounds seemed to fill up every crevice in her being. How could she think of a second? She looked after him with a cry of sorrow and anger and love that would not die. “Edward!” No doubt he could explain everything—he could tell her how it was, what had happened, what was the meaning of it all. Only when he was gone, and it was certain that he meant to explain nothing, did she turn to the other. They looked at each other, though neither could see anything but that paleness of a face. Then Catherine said—
“If you are not hurt, get up and come in. I have to ask you—there are things to explain—”
“I am not hurt: he did not throw me down,” said Hester, “it was an accident.”
Catherine made an impatient gesture. She did not even help the girl to get up; the dislike of so many years, raised to the tragic point by this association with the most terrible moment of her life, was not likely to yield in a moment, to give way to any sense of justice or pity. She motioned to her to follow, and led the way quickly into the house. The great door was ajar, the stairs and passages still dark. They went up, one shadow following another, without a word. In the drawing-room Marshall had just placed the two shaded lamps, and was closing the windows. His mistress called to him to leave them as they were, and sat without speaking until, after various flittings about the room, he went away. Then she hastily raised the shade from the lamp upon her own table, throwing the light upon her own face and the other. They were both very pale, with eyes that shone with excitement and passion. The likeness between them came out in the strangest way as they stood thus, intent upon each other. They were like mother and daughter standing opposed in civil war. Then Catherine sat down and pointed Hester to another chair.
“We are not friends,” she said, “and I don’t think I can ever forgive you; but you are young, and perhaps you are strained beyond your strength. I would not be cruel. Will you let me give you something to restore you, or will you not, before you speak? for speak you must, and tell me what this means.”
“I want nothing,” said Hester. “If I should be killed, what would it matter? I recognise now that I have no right to your kindness—if that was true—”
“It was true.”
“Then I ask your pardon,” said the girl, folding her hands. “I would do it on my knees, but you would think that was—for effect. I should think so myself in your place. You do right to despise us: only this—oh, God help us, God help us—I never knew—”
“Girl,” cried Catherine roughly, “the man you love (I suppose) has just fled away, so far as I can see, dishonoured and disgraced, and leaving you forever! And yet you can stop to think about effect. I do not think you can have any heart.”
Hester made no reply. She had reached that point which is beyond the heights of sensation. She had felt everything that heart could feel. There were no more tears in her, nor anger nor passion of any kind. She stood speechless, let anyone say what they would to her. It might all be true.
“I do not think you can have any heart,” cried her passionate opponent. “If it had been me at your age, and I had loved him, when he threw me from him so, I should have died.”
There came a ghost of an awakening on Hester’s face, a sort of pitiful smile of acquiescence. Perhaps it might be so. Another, more finely tempered, more impassioned, more high and noble than she, might have done that: but for her, poor soul, she had not died. She could not help it.
Catherine sat in her seat as in a throne, with a white face and gleaming eyes, and poured forth her accusations.
“I am glad of it,” she said, “for my part! for now you will be queen’s evidence, which it is fit and right your father’s daughter should be. Do not stand there as if I had put you on your trial. What is it to me if you have any heart or not? I want information from you. Sit down there and
