“And you—and you?” cried Catharine, eagerly.
“Are his grandfather—”
“And Madame de Marke?”
“Hush! do not mention her name; it is an accursed sound under this roof,” answered the old man, almost sternly.
Catharine sat down, silenced, but still keenly anxious. The old gentleman seated himself also, close by his wife, who regarded him with a look, half frightened, half sorrowful.
“Tell her,” said the old man, in a low voice, “women understand each other best.”
“I cannot. See how I shake.”
The old man took the hand held toward him in both of his, smoothing and caressing it with gentle tenderness.
“You can witness,” he said, addressing Catharine, “how great this sorrow has been. She cannot bear to speak of it. For years we have been silent, even with each other.”
“I see,” answered Catharine, looking wistfully at the old lady, and following her own thoughts. “His grandmother! That is why she seemed so lovely from the first—his grandmother, and his mother, oh! how I have been unconsciously blessed.”