Catherine was the first to rouse herself. The spasm was like death, but it came to an end. She tried to rise with a little wondering impatience at the obstacle. It was with the strangest sensation that she turned her eyes upon the hidden head lying so near her own, and felt, with an extraordinary thrill, the arms clasped round her arm, as if they never would detach themselves. What new thing was this? Hester had lost all her spirit and power. She had got within the sphere of a stronger than she. She was desolate, and she clung to the only arm that could sustain her. Catherine’s first impulse was to snatch her arm away. What was this creature to her—this girl who one way or other had to do with everything that had happened to her, and was the cause of the last blow? She could have flung her away from her as Edward had done. But the second glance moved her more and more strangely. The helplessness had an appeal in it, which would not be resisted. It even did her the good office of withdrawing her thoughts for a moment from the emergency which claimed them all. She half rose, then fell back again and was silent, not knowing what to do. What appeal could be more strong than that of those arms so tightly holding her own? She tried to speak harshly, but could not. Then an impulse she could not resist, led her to lay her other hand upon the drooping head.
“Hester,” she said, gravely, “I understand that you are very unhappy. So am I. I thank you for being sorry for me. I will try, in the future, to be sorry for you. But just now, understand, there is a great deal to do. We must stand between—him,” her voice faltered for a moment, then went on clear as before, “between him and punishment. If he can be saved he must be saved; if not, we must save what we can. You have overcome me, I cannot put you from me. Free me now, for I have a great deal to do.”
She had felt, by the closer straining of the clasping arms, that Hester heard every word. Now the girl raised her face, pale, with a look of terror.
“What can you do? Are you able to do it?” she said.
“Able!” said Catherine, raising herself upright with a sort of smile. “I am able for everything that has to be done. Child, get up and help me! Don’t cry there and break my heart.”
Hester stumbled to her feet in a moment. She could scarcely stand, but her heart sprang up like a giant—
“I will do—whatever you tell me,” she said.
Catherine rose too. She put away her emotion from her as a workman clears away all encumbering surroundings. She made the girl sit down, and went out of the room and brought her some wine.
“Perhaps,” she said, “we may help each other; at all events we have a common interest, and we have no time to give to lamentations tonight. The first thing is—but your mother will be unhappy about you. What shall I do? Shall I send her word that you are here and staying with me all night? Your mother is a happier woman than you or I. She will accept the reason that is given her without questioning. Probably she will be pleased. Be calm and rest yourself. I will do all that is needful.”
She went to her writing-table and began to write, while Hester, shattered and broken, looked on. Catherine showed no signs of disablement. The butler came in in his stealthy way while she was writing, and asked if he must “shut up.” She said—“No,” going on with her writing. “You will go, or send someone, at once to the Heronry with this note. And afterwards you can go to bed. I wish no one to sit up. I expect news, for which I must wait myself. Let all go to bed as usual. No, stop. Go to the White House also and tell Mr. Harry—What do you think, Hester? is it worth while to call Harry?”
She turned round with the clear eyes and self-controlled aspect of use and wont. Even Marshall, who had the skill of a well-trained domestic in spying out internal commotion, was puzzled. She seemed to be asking a question on a matter of business in which the feelings were no ways involved. Hester was not equal to the call upon her, but she made a great effort to respond.
“He is very—anxious.”
Catherine made a movement with her footstool which partly drowned the last word.
“You can wait a little, Marshall. I will write a note to Mr. Harry too.”
The two letters were written at full speed, and given with a hand as steady as usual into the man’s keeping. “Let them be taken at once,” Catherine said. Then she began to walk up and down the room talking in her usual tones. “Don’t mind me pacing about—it is a habit I have. I can talk best so. It is my way of taking exercise now.” She went on until Marshall was out of hearing, then turned upon Hester with a changed tone. “He meant to take you away by the midnight train,” she said. “That was so? He cannot leave Redborough till then. I am going to meet him there, and endeavour to persuade
