“Mother, is everybody as heartless as that?” asked Katharine when she was gone, in a tone which seemed to expect no answer.
“Heartless?” repeated Mrs. Lauderdale. “I don’t think she’s heartless. She’s dreadfully anxious about Hester.”
“Yes; but about poor Mr. Crowdie—she doesn’t seem to care in the least.”
“Oh, no—she never liked him. Why should she? Take care, though! somebody might hear us talking.”
Katharine sighed and was silent. Her mother did not seem to understand what she meant any more than any one else. After the first shock they all appeared to be perfectly indifferent. Crowdie was dead. Bury him! Doubtless they were already wondering whether Hester would marry again, and if so, when. Yet Katharine knew that they would all be shocked if Hester wore mourning less than three years. It was her business to mourn; it was theirs, in the interest of society, to see that she mourned long and decently for a man whom they had all disliked.
Before long Mrs. Bright returned, softly as she had gone, shut the door noiselessly behind her, and looked round the room as though she thought that some fourth person might be present and listening. Then, with an air of secrecy, she spoke to Katharine.
“My dear, she’ll see you if you’ll come upstairs.”
“Certainly,” answered Katharine. “I’ll go at once.”
“But you mustn’t be surprised by anything she does,” said Mrs. Bright, anxiously. “She’ll want you to see him, I think. She’s looking very quiet, but she’s very strange. Humour her, Katharine—humour her a little.”
Katharine nodded, but said nothing.