The lady played with her flowers awhile, and then spoke again very softly, and with a degree of persuasion in her voice.
“Well, Turner, we will not press you too hard. I cannot forget that you were my brother’s favorite and oldest servant, and now his agent—that he trusted you.”
“He did indeed,” cried the old man, casting a glance full of affection at me.
“I am sure you would do nothing that could cast reproach on him,” continued the lady, placing a strong emphasis on the pronoun.
“Not for the universe,” ejaculated Turner.
“Yet, while you live thus—while there is a doubt left regarding this child, cannot you see that even my noble brother may be condemned as—as sanctioning—you understand—this species of immorality—on his estates?”
“But how am I to prevent this?” exclaimed Turner, after a moment of perplexed thought, during which he gazed on Lady Catherine, as if searching for some meaning in her words which they did not wholly convey.
“Let me tell you—for I have been thinking on this subject a good deal—she is a fine-spirited girl that, a little wild and gipsyish; but many of our guests were struck with her.”
“No wonder!” exclaimed Turner, with his face all in a glow. “Who could help it?”
“So they inquired a good deal about her, and when it came out that she lived here under your protection, of course, it led to questions and old things—nonsensical gossip about by-gone times that quite made me nervous—you understand, good Turner. So I told them what I am sure is the truth even yet—that the Spanish woman here is her mother, that she is your own child—that you are married.”