Chapter XX

“. . . . God forbid
We judge man by the faults of youth in age!”

ROBERT BROWNING.

Katherine walked into her mother’s room humming a tune. The exercise had done her good, and there was relief in the air. The relief from uncertainty, which death, in spite of its terrors, sets at rest. Mrs. Linton was dressed in rose-coloured silk, there was a delicate flush on her cheeks, and her eyes were unusually bright. A tall, military man, with a white moustache, was sitting opposite her; he might have been fifty, but he did not look it. There was something slightly familiar in his face, though Katherine knew that she had never seen him before. She stood silently looking from one to the other. Her mother made a little nervous movement towards her.

“We were expecting you, dear,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”

The man shut the door after her, he also offered her a chair.

“I am very, very happy, my dear,” said her mother, “but there is so much to explain, that I don’t know where to begin!”

“You might begin by telling me,” said Katherine, glancing at her mother’s companion, “who this gentleman is, and what he is doing here?” She was not altogether unprepared for her mother’s answer. She had been waiting for it for seven years.

“This is your father, Katherine, and he has come to take me away.”

“This man,” said Katherine, looking at her mother, “is a perfect stranger to me, and I should be glad if he would go away until you have finished your explanation.”

“The girl’s quite right,” said the man with an awkward chuckle. “Better talk it out alone, Louie.”

“Walter, I must beg you not to go!” cried Mrs. Linton.

Katherine’s lips quivered for a moment; she saw that her mother was afraid of her, and it hurt her.

“Very well, then,” she said, “say what you have got to say, and then let me go, this situation is impossible.” Mrs. Linton sank further into her chair, she almost cowered.

“Colonel Dalgeny,” she began, moistening her lips, “knew me when I was a little girl, Katherine; then he went to India, and I married Edward Linton. I do not think I ever really cared for him——”

“You have told me that before,” interrupted Katherine, “and I told you that was no excuse.” The Colonel coughed, and shot an amused glance at Mrs. Linton. Mrs. Linton gasped, and went on:

“Shortly after our marriage he began to drink; we went out to India, and there was a child, and it died.”

“They do die in India, you know,” said the Colonel in a friendly aside to Katherine.

“I was not supposing that my mother had killed it!” said his daughter viciously.

“Oh, Katherine!” groaned Mrs. Linton.

“Go on, mother!” said the girl impatiently, “the child fortunately died.”

The Colonel walked across to the window. He hated with all his heart the whole scene, but his duty to the woman he had come back for, prevented his escape. He remembered that Louie was rather fond of scenes.

“Colonel Dalgeny was at the station,” went on Mrs. Linton.

“I don’t think you need go into all that, Louie,” said the Colonel from the window. “Go on from the time you left.”

“Walter was married too, you know,” Mrs. Linton said rather helplessly.

“Did—_his_ wife drink?” asked Katherine bitterly. The Colonel shot round from the window.

“No!” he shouted, then he recovered himself, and added gently, “She was a very good woman. She died ten days ago.”

“How extremely fortunate,” said Katherine; then she turned to her mother: “I suppose that is why you have gone out of mourning,” she said, “for Captain Linton?”

“You are simply cruel,” cried her mother. “Have you no pity?”

“May I ask you the _point_ of this discussion?” said Katherine coldly. “In other words, what do you intend to do now there are no more encumbrances?”

“We are going to be married,” said Mrs. Linton, “at a registry office, to-morrow. Colonel Dalgeny meets me in town, he has a special licence.”

“I should think,” said Katherine, “he would need one.” There was an awkward silence. “I suppose your kindly waiting here, to see me,” began Katherine, “implies a desire to feel easy about me, and not to leave me in the lurch.”

“Yes, dear,” said her mother. “If you only knew what I feel——”

“Thank God I don’t!” said Katherine very shortly, “nor do I wish to!”

Mrs. Linton began to cry, and the Colonel drummed with his fingers on the pane. “I will allow you two hundred a year,” he said without looking around.

“You may allow it to something else,” said Katherine.

Her mother shook with sobs. Katherine’s lips quivered again, but her father’s next words steeled her heart. “You cannot have led your mother a very happy life,” he said.

“You should have thought of that before,” retorted Katherine, her eyes blazing. “You may like to know my plans, mother,” she added. “I have ten pounds in the bank, which should procure me a nursing outfit. I shall go up for an examination to be held in June at one of the London hospitals. Till then, I shall stay with Daphne.”

“You may fail?” her father put in.

“I may,” said Katherine. The Colonel smiled a little grimly to himself; his daughter was certainly (he thought) a surprising young person. “Then I think there is nothing more to say, mother,” said Katherine, rising to her feet, “except that I hope Colonel Dalgeny will lead you—a very happy life. If you should need me at any time, I feel sure that the Vicar would forward your letters to me. By-the-bye, Dora died this morning.” Katherine walked towards the door.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Katherine!” said Mrs. Linton. “Have you nothing to say to your father?” she pleaded.

The Colonel turned towards her, their eyes met. For one moment, in spite of herself, Katherine felt a strange unspoken sympathy rise up between them, then the passionate jealousy that was fighting at her heart got the better of her moment’s tenderness.

“I have nothing at all to say to my father,” she said.

“Oh, my child!” cried her mother, “won’t you even say good-bye to me?”

“Good-bye, mother,” said the girl, facing her from the door. She went out, shutting it carefully after her.

The two, left by themselves, looked at each other.

Outside, the moon was rising and hung frail as a “little feather” above the trees. The air was full of the poetry of spring, and the two birds that sang in the lane were nightingales. Katherine began to feel bitterly ashamed.