Catherine, who had been sitting thoughtful since the moment when she interfered, all unthanked and misunderstood, to save Hester, rose when the old clerk did, and went out before him, with her rich black silk gown sweeping and rustling. The presence of the elder people made her look blooming, and capable, and young. The old couple watched her from their window, as Rule, gratified and beaming, put her into the carriage.
“She looks young enough to do as much again,” said Captain Morgan, standing in the window with his gum-bottle in his hands, with which he was working.
“Oh, captain!” said his wife, “but where’s the money?” shaking her old head.
Hester behind peered out between these two aged heads, pale with interest, and antagonism, and attraction. She could never think of anyone else when Catherine was near, though all her instincts were in arms against her. The words that passed between the old people were as a foreign tongue to her. She had not the slightest perception what they meant.
Meantime Catherine spoke a warning word to her former prime minister, who had abdicated later than herself.
“You were very near giving that child a heartache,” she said. “Take care not to say anything before her. She need never know that her father deserted his post. The creature has a quick sense of honour, and it might wound her.”
“She is not like his daughter,” said the clerk, “nor that poor lady’s either. She is one of the pure old Vernon stock.”
“Do you think so?” said Catherine, indifferently. “I rather dislike her than otherwise; but I would not do the child any harm.” And then the fat horses put themselves in motion, and she gave a smile and a bow to all her retainers and worshippers—and the Miss Vernon-Ridgways drew away from Mrs. John’s window, where as usual they had been watching Catherine, as she, amid all these visible signs of her wealth and sovereignty, disappeared from their eyes.
“I suppose, Captain Morgan,” said Hester that evening, when she walked out with him as usual, “that Cousin Catherine was young once?”
It seemed an absurd question, but it was put with the utmost gravity; and Hester knew what she meant, as perhaps the reader will too.
“About your age, my dear,” the captain said, promptly, “and not at all unlike you.”
“Like me!”
“You think you are very different now, but there is not much more difference than that of years. She was the same kind of girl as you are—masterful—very sure that her own way was the right one—obstinate as a mule in her mind, but not so difficult to move by the heart.”
“Am I all that?” said Hester, wondering; “not in some things, for I am never sure that I am right—or anyone else—except you, perhaps. No, it is the other way, quite the other way! I am very sure that I am wrong, and everyone else—except you.”
“A large rule and a small exception,” said the old man; “but it is the same thing. Catherine was rich and had everything her own way. You are—in the midst of a poor community where we can have nothing our own way. And at your age you can’t discriminate any more than she could at hers.”
“Then does it come to this, that money is everything?” asked the disciple with some bitterness, but without, as may be supposed, the slightest intention of accepting the master’s teaching on this point.
Captain Morgan made no reply. What he said was—
“I should like to interest you in Catherine, my dear; all that happened, you know, before we came here, while we were busy with our own life, my wife and I; but I have put this and that together since. Catherine was, as people say, crossed in love, notwithstanding her wealth and all her qualities. So far as I can make out, the man preferred a woman that could not hold the candle to her; not so pretty, not so clever, altogether inferior. That must be rather a blow to a woman!”
“A blow! What sort of a woman would she be that cared for a man who did not care for her?”
This somewhat inarticulate sentiment Hester delivered with an indignant blush and flashing eyes.
“That is all very fine, my dear; but you are too clearheaded to be taken in by it,” said the captain. “A woman might not show it, perhaps. I have no reason to suppose that Catherine showed it. But you must remember that a woman is not a woman in the abstract, but Catherine or Hester as the case may be, and liable to everything that humanity is liable to; and she would be a poor creature indeed if she were incapable of falling in love generously, as a man is supposed to do.”
“I don’t know what you mean by generously!”
“Ah, but you do—none better. Something however occurred after, much worse than his preference of another woman. The man turned out to be an unworthy man.”
Hester had been following every word with breathless interest. She grew quite pale, her lips dropped apart, her eyes blazed out of the whiteness of her face upon her old instructor. He went on without taking note of this change,
“I should think for my part that there cannot be any such blow as that. Don’t you remember we agreed it was the secret of all Hamlet’s tragedy? It is the tragedy of the world, my dear. I told the old woman we were going to talk of love and poetry. You see I was right.”
“But—Catherine?”
Hester was, as became a girl, far too much interested in the individual case to be able to stray to the abstract, and in fact she had only assented to her mentor’s theory in respect to Hamlet, not having begun such investigations for herself.
“Ay, Catherine. Well, that is just what happened to her, my dear. The man first showed that he had no appreciation of herself, which we will allow must have wounded her; and then after, when that was all over, proved
