Chapter VIII

“Courage slays giddiness at abysses;
And when is not man confronted with abysses?”

NIETZSCHE.

“Daphne,” said Katherine, when they were left alone, “why did you make me give in? You know I shall not be at home there. What is that you want me for? If I didn’t think you wanted me, nothing would induce me to go.”

“Well—I do want you,” said Daphne. They walked towards a garden seat and sat down, with a silence between them which expressed a confidence deeper than words; yet words were to follow as an outcome of their confidence. It was Katherine who spoke first.

“There is one thing that you ought to understand,” she said, “and that is that I should never have let you become my friend.”

“I do not think that it is necessary for me to understand that now, Katherine, it is too late!” said Daphne smiling.

Through the open window the white-capped maid was preparing tea, they watched her carefully.

“But I want to tell you,” said Katherine; “I think you ought to know.”

“I ought to know nothing that does not make it easier for you,” replied Daphne firmly.

“I think it would make it—easier,” said Katherine. Mrs. Fordington entered the drawing-room, and spoke shortly to the maid, who had been extravagant over jam sandwiches. Daphne frowned.

“Then—tell me,” she said.

“People don’t call much—on my mother,” said Katherine. “That’s all.”

Daphne had seen Mrs. Linton, a pretty, dark woman, who was an officer’s widow. “I have often wondered why,” said Daphne.

“But you never asked me!” said Katherine, her voice trembling a little.

“Dearest, why should I? It could make no difference to us. And there are so many things one can’t tell.”

“There is nothing that I could not tell you!” said Katherine.

Daphne smiled a little. “Tell me—then,” she repeated.

“My father is alive,” said Katherine quietly, “and I have never seen him. Captain Linton was not—my father. People think there is something wrong, but, of course, no one knows the truth.”

“Does anyone—ever know the truth?” said Daphne wearily.

“Yes,” said Katherine. There was an absolute silence again, except for a boisterous thrush, tossing his views of spring across to a blackbird digging up a worm, and far too busy to answer him. Daphne put her hand over Katherine’s. “Don’t!” said Katherine quickly.

Mrs. Fordington walked out on to the lawn. “Miss Linton,” she said coldly, “will you come in to tea?”

Katherine excused herself and went home. “Mother, dear,” she said, “do you think you could spare me for a week to-morrow? I will come in and see every day how you are getting on. Daphne wants me to go with her to her stepmother’s.”

“That would be Lady Middleton’s, wouldn’t it?” her mother asked, laying down some expensive embroidery.

“Yes, mother.”

“Well, dear, I have always wanted you to see some society; but the people are so strange here. They never call, I can’t understand it,” sighed Mrs. Linton. She always lived on that side of her mystery. It was far harder for Katherine than if she had permitted them both to face the truth. “You’ll have to have some new clothes, you know, and I could get some money for you quite easily. I think it’s so cruel of you, Katherine, never to let me have any money! It is not for myself I complain, but it is so terrible to see my daughter a fright, and to know that we could afford a really good carpet.”

“Mother, dear,” said Katherine firmly, “I will never touch any of that money, nor, so long as you choose to live with me, shall you. Daphne and I have seen about clothes, and she is giving me some of hers.”

“Do you mean to say you are accepting charity?” almost screamed Mrs. Linton.

Katherine winced as if she had been struck. Then she smothered a retort that had risen to her lips. “I do not look upon it in that light, mother,” she said.

“Katherine,” said Mrs. Linton, “you are a fool. That girl is only amusing herself with you.”

“Mother,” said Katherine, “I am not going to stay here and listen to your abuse of my friends!”

Mrs. Linton laughed. “This is the kind of brawl, my dear child, that you treat me to so often. You have your father’s temper.” Katherine clenched her teeth, and for a moment her mother seemed quelled. “And his little tricks of manner,” she concluded.

Her daughter walked towards the door. Their discussions usually ended this way.

“Katherine—come back!” her mother called after her. The girl turned, her eyes were blazing. “I hope you will have a good time, dear,” said her mother gently. “And when you’re angry, don’t stride, it looks ridiculous.”

Katherine checked herself again, and moving swiftly over to her mother, caught both her hands. “You’ll be all right, dear, till I come back?” she whispered.

Mrs. Linton laughed. “Silly child,” she said, “kiss me, and go and see to your frocks! You are a good child, too, you know, and almost a pretty one.” Katherine drew herself away from her mother angrily.

She was alternately repelled and fascinated by her, and since sixteen she had worked for her and watched over her with the devotion of a slave and the strength of a master. Her reward was that she kept her mother, and that though people talked, they did not know that worse than what they said was true, neither did they guess that Katherine and Mrs. Linton knew that they said it. Katherine had to work hard, and she had never left her mother alone before. The moment the door shut, Mrs. Linton moved swiftly and gracefully over to her writing-table, and tore up a letter she had written. Then she began to cry, walking up and down the room. She did all this as dramatically as if she had an audience, but she did not cry very hard.

When Katherine returned, she was still doing embroidery. “I am afraid you will tire your eyes, mother,” Katherine said.

“My eyes are always tired, Katherine,” replied her mother, “I am going to bed.” They said good-night but they did not kiss each other.

After her mother had gone to bed, Katherine saw the paper on the floor. It had been torn so loosely, that she could read the address. “Well! she tore up the letter,” said Katherine, “so it’s all right. I can go to-morrow!”

She rose to her feet almost light-heartedly. She had lived so long and so closely with tragedy, that she had grown quite used to it. There were times when it wouldn’t leave one alone, when there seemed no let up, for the emotions, and there were times when it would. It was Katherine’s nature to believe that there were more of the easier times, and to face the hard ones when they came with the quietness of a great courage.