“And did she fill you with repulsion?—was she the hateful one?”
“I had seen her before; I knew her!”
“Indeed—where?” said the youth, in a displeased manner.
“I would rather not say—it is unpleasant to talk about,” I answered, greatly annoyed.
“But it is years since my—that is Lady Catherine, has been at Greenhurst,” he answered, thoughtfully. “Never, I think, since the very sudden death of Lady Clare. You must have mistaken her for some other person.”
I was greatly excited. The remembrance of that heartless voice, when I was taken into Greenhurst, so helpless, stung me.
“No—no,” I answered, “there are some things one never forgets, never mistakes. I have seen that face in my dreams, and hated it in my thoughts too long for any hope of that!”
The youth drew himself back, and ceased to caress my horse. There was a quiet dignity in his manner that made me ashamed of my own vehemence.
“That lady is my mother!” he said calmly, but with a tone of cold reproof in his voice.
I scanned his face with a keen wish to disbelieve him. But now that he was angry, there was a resemblance between his features and those I did in truth hate.