Yes, it was true; and she knew it. She was his all; she had been his all, ever since the death, ten years earlier, of his adored wife, her adored aunt, the sweet, gentle, winsome Lady Mary, who when dying had given over her husband to Katherine's devoted care. She had most faithfully fulfilled her charge, with only the one doubt in her mind as to future days—if Hamilton should want her!
But he would not now. He would only want—Doris.
"As well, perhaps," she murmured. "How could I leave him—after what she said?"
But two great tears fell slowly.
Meanwhile the Squire went back to his seat, not to drink more wine, for he was the most abstemious of men, but to remain long motionless, lost in thought, with bent head. Gradually he saw his way, and determined what to do.
Fruit of which cogitations appeared in the morning, when his horse was brought to the door, and he said to Katherine,—"Don't wait for me. I hardly think I can be back to luncheon. I have a long round."
He proposed to see Doris, the Rector, Mrs. Brutt, and the farm people. Which first?—was the question. He decided to begin with the widow.
A touch sufficed to draw from her a flood of details. She described the farm and its belongings, animate and inanimate, with her usual wealth of adjectives, appropriate and inappropriate. Another touch—and she launched into speculation.
"There's something distinctly mysterious about those people, Mr. Stirling. Of course it is no business of mine—" this was the usual preface. "But one can't help noticing, you know. And there's something about the woman that gives one such a sensation of something underneath. Something almost uncanny, don't you know? I always feel that sort of thing. I always know when there's more than shows on the surface."
The Squire said "Really!"—with an air of incredulity.