“He told me so himself, dear; depend on it, he never will come back, and never can marry you; it would make him a beggar.”
“Why?”
“Why, darling? because his father just left it in his will that his son should never marry without my consent; if he did, all the property should come to me. So, my dear, you understand how it would turn out if you were really married; he would be a beggar, and I rolling in gold—rolling in gold. Oh, if you only had been married, now wouldn’t it have been a run of luck for me? But he won’t do it—not fool enough for that—never thought of such a thing.”
“Do you mean to say that George has practised a deception on me?”
“Oh, a little cheat, nothing else, of course you understand all about it; the certificate that you made so much of, all fudge and nonsense. Just go away, darling, as I tell you; he’ll never come back till you do, and never then, I dare say.”
Catharine held by the chair still trembling from head to foot. In all her trouble she had possessed one source of consolation and strength—deep faith in her husband’s love and integrity. Now her very heart seemed uprooted. For a moment, she had no faith in anything. She leaned heavily on the chair, grasping it with both hands, but her limbs trembled and gave way; she sunk slowly downward, and bowing her face, cried out in bitter anguish:
“Oh, my God, what have I done that all Thy creatures turn against me? Let me die—let me die!”
Madame De Marke turned away. At the head of her cot was a small hen-coop such as farmers use in transporting poultry to market. Through the bars of this coop, two or three lank, hungry fowls were protruding their long necks, and set up a low chuckle as if they joined the old woman in mocking at the poor girl. “Ha, ha! you understand it, dears,” said the crone; “here now, my pets, help yourselves.”
She went to a platter that stood on her deal table, and dividing a cold potato with her fingers, thrust half of it through the bars. As the hungry fowls devoured it, she began quietly eating the other half, while she eyed the poor girl with a look of malicious cunning, apparently quite unmindful of the anguish that made her very heart quiver.
At last Catharine lifted her head and looked steadily at the old woman. “Madam, if you have deceived me in this, if you know this of my husband.” She paused—the name almost suffocated her; goaded with fresh agony, she arose to her feet.