“E-hem!—Catherine, my dear, I am afraid that is out of the question,” began Mr. Morton, who, when fairly put to it, could be business-like enough. “You see bygones are bygones, and it is no use raking them up. But many people in the town will recollect you.”
“No one will see me—no one, but you and Sidney.”
“It will be sure to creep out; won’t it, Mrs. Morton?”
“Quite sure. Indeed, ma’am, it is impossible. Mr. Morton is so very respectable, and his neighbours pay so much attention to all he does; and then, if we have an election in the autumn, you see, ma’am, he has a great stake in the place, and is a public character.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr. Morton. “But I say, Catherine, can your little boy go into the other room for a moment? Margaret, suppose you take him and make friends.”
Delighted to throw on her husband the burden of explanation, which she had originally meant to have all the importance of giving herself in her most proper and patronising manner, Mrs. Morton twisted her fingers into the boy’s hand, and, opening the door that communicated with the bedroom, left the brother and sister alone. And then Mr. Morton, with more tact and delicacy than might have been expected from him, began to soften to Catherine the hardship of the separation he urged. He dwelt principally on what was best for the child. Boys were so brutal in their intercourse with each other. He had even thought it better represent Philip to Mr. Plaskwith as a more distant relation than he was; and he begged, by the by, that Catherine would tell Philip to take the hint. But as for Sidney, sooner or later, he would go to a day-school—have companions of his own age—if his birth were known, he would be exposed to many mortifications—so much better, and so very easy, to bring him up as the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of some distant relation.
“And,” cried poor Catherine, clasping her bands, “when I am dead, is he never to know that I was his mother?” The anguish of that question thrilled the heart of the listener. He was affected below all the surface that worldly thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over the humanities within. He threw his arms round Catherine, and strained her to his breast:
“No, my sister—my poor sister—he shall know it when he is old enough to understand, and to keep his own secret. He shall know, too, how we all loved and prized you once; how young you were, how flattered and tempted; how you were deceived, for I know that—on my soul I do—I know it was not your fault. He shall know, too, how fondly you loved your child, and how you sacrificed, for his sake, the very comfort of being near him. He shall know it all—all—”
“My brother—my brother, I resign him—I am content. God reward you. I will go—go quickly. I know you will take care of him now.”
“And you see,” resumed Mr. Morton, re-settling himself, and wiping his eyes, “it is best, between you and me, that Mrs. Morton should have her own way in this. She is a very good woman—very; but it’s prudent not to vex her. You may come in now, Mrs. Morton.”