“Was a beauty, Mrs. M.,—was a beauty. People alter.”
“A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is—”
“My dear, can’t you walk faster?”
“If you had my corns, Mr. Morton, you would not talk in that way!”
The happy pair sank into silence, only broken by sundry “How d’ye dos?” and “Good mornings!” interchanged with their friends, till they arrived at the inn.
“Let us go up quickly,” said Mrs. Morton.
And quiet—quiet to gloom, did the inn, so noisy overnight, seem by morning. The shutters partially closed to keep out the sun—the taproom deserted—the passage smelling of stale smoke—an elderly dog, lazily snapping at the flies, at the foot of the staircase—not a soul to be seen at the bar. The husband and wife, glad to be unobserved, crept on tiptoe up the stairs, and entered Catherine’s apartment.
Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney-dressed, like Mrs. Roger Morton, to look his prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that awaited his destiny, but pleased at the excitement of seeing new friends, as handsome children sure of praise and petting usually are—stood by her side.
“My wife—Catherine,” said Mr. Morton. Catherine rose eagerly, and gazed searchingly on her sister-in-law’s hard face. She swallowed the convulsive rising at her heart as she gazed, and stretched out both her hands, not so much to welcome as to plead. Mrs. Roger Morton drew herself up, and then dropped a courtesy—it was an involuntary piece of good breeding—it was extorted by the noble countenance, the matronly mien of Catherine, different from what she had anticipated—she dropped the courtesy, and Catherine took her hand and pressed it.
“This is my son;” she turned away her head. Sidney advanced towards his protectress who was to be, and Mrs. Roger muttered: