She watched the girl’s face for a change of expression, but Katharine’s impassive features were not quick to express any small feeling beyond passing annoyance.
“Aren’t you happy, Charlie?” Katharine asked, gravely.
“Happy!”
The elder woman only repeated the single word, but it told her story plainly enough. She would have given much to have come back to the old room, dreary as it looked.
“I’m very sorry,” said Katharine, in a lower voice and beginning to understand. “Isn’t he kind to you?”
“Oh, it’s not that! He’s kind—in his way—it makes it worse—far worse,” she repeated, after a moment’s pause. “I hadn’t been much used to that sort of kindness before I was married, you know—except from mamma, and that was different—and to have it from—” She stopped.
Katharine had never seen her sister in this mood before. Charlotte was generally the last person to make confidences, or to complain softly of anything she did not like. Katharine thought she must be very much changed.
“You say you’re unhappy,” said the young girl. “But you don’t tell me why. Has there been any trouble—anything especial?”
“No. You don’t understand. How should you? We never did understand each other very well, you and I. I don’t know why I come to you with my troubles, either. You can’t help me. Nobody can—unless it were—a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” Katharine was taken by surprise now, and her eyes showed it.