Cuthbert did not think him fit for an argument, and sat by him in silence. He felt that the sight of Guy’s agony had tried his own nerves somewhat. It was an odd turn of fate, he thought, that brought a quiet, everyday person like himself, to whom no great heights or depths, either of character or of fortune, were likely to come, who held steady, unexciting opinions, and expected no revelations about anything, to be guide, philosopher, and friend, to this strange being, for whom the balance swung with such frightful oscillations.
Guy was very quiet all the evening, submitting with a little surprise to his friend’s precautions, but evidently finding it comfortable to have done with concealment.
Only, the last thing of all, he looked at Cuthbert with his mocking smile on his lip—“What a ‘softy’ I should be,” he said, “if this was what you think it!”
Part 2, Chapter V.
The Mother’s Book.
Some few days before the stay at Moorhead came to an end, Kitty Staunton received a letter, which surprised her greatly, as it came from a person of whose existence she had never previously heard. It was signed “Catherine Maxwell,” and began, “My dear young cousin,” and stated that the writer had heard from her old friend Mrs Raby that the Miss Stauntons were staying at Moorhead, and that, as she believed them to be her cousin George Maxwell’s grandchildren, it would give her great pleasure to make their acquaintance; would they come over and spend the day with her at her little cottage at Ousel well, bringing with them any of their young friends who cared for the drive?
Kitty and Violet being curious and interested, and Florella being inclined for the expedition, the three set off one fine brisk morning; over the moors on the opposite side to Kirk Hinton, and came to a little cold, fresh village, high up on the side of a narrow valley. Here in a cold, fresh little house, with latched doors painted with thin white paint, and deeply recessed windows looking into a little garden full of hardy plants, now turning brown and yellow with the autumn frosts, they found an apple-cheeked old lady dressed in a shot-silk gown of so old a style that it was just about to come again into fashion. She spoke with so strong a northern accent that the London girls caught what she said with difficulty; but she made them most heartily welcome, gave them some very thin and long-legged fowls for dinner, followed up by curds and red-currant jelly. Then she showed them sundry curiosities, which they knew how to admire. There was a filigree basket, like to the one which Rosamond of the Purple Vase made for her cousin’s birthday, and for which she was so unmercifully snubbed by the common sense of her unfeeling parents. There were engravings in oval frames, bits of Leeds china, an old spinning-wheel, and finally, a quaintly shaped card-table, which on being opened, displayed, instead of green cloth, an exquisitely worked pattern of faded roses in the very finest tent-stitch.
“And that, cousin love,” she said, “was in Waynflete Hall when it belonged to my great-grandfather Maxwell.”