Catharine parted her pale lips to speak, but could not utter a word.
“She wishes you to stand bridesmaid, and be at the cottage when they arrive. As her best friend, she hopes you will receive them, and see that the servants make no blunders.”
“Me, me!” burst from Catharine’s lips, in a cry of such agony, that the woman stepped back with a startled look, which soon passed away, however, and that gleam of singular intelligence again resumed its place. “Me her bridesmaid!”
“You will certainly come. The mistress depends upon it,” she said, without appearing to heed the cry.
“I cannot. Oh, my God! I cannot do it. This is too much—too much! I shall drop dead under torture!”
A look of rude compassion came to the woman’s face. She drew close to Catharine, and touched her on the arm.
“You must be there, or the thing will go on!”
“What thing, woman?”
“The marriage of my mistress, Mrs. Townsend Oakley, with another woman’s husband—that is the thing!”
Catharine looked at the woman in affright.