She had anticipated a wild outbreak of indignant sorrow when Lady Desmond should first hear the terrible solution of his mysterious conduct, with which Lord Effingham had astonished the real object of his affections. But that she should be accused of deliberate treachery, of such complete and constant dissimulation, had never entered into her heart to conceive. A warm flush of indignant color rose to her brow as she thought of the injustice, and she murmured, almost aloud—
"She should have known me better. She who knew my childhood; how dare she think me so inferior to herself? She must, when she is calmer, acknowledge her error."
Then Kate recalled to her memory the whole scene, and wondered, in vain, how her cousin had been informed of Lord Effingham's presence, and the purpose of his strange visit. Continued thought suggested that she must have overheard what had taken place. Yet, if so, she must have heard Kate's utter rejection of him—this was a painful enigma. How—how was she to clear herself? She knew not from what source Lady Desmond's impression arose, and she was utterly ignorant in what way she should proceed to free her cousin's mind from the injurious doubts which had taken possession of it; for her indignation was soon merged in tender pity and compassion for her wretched relative.
"Unhappy Georgy," she exclaimed, "not content with the real injury and mortification you have sustained, you torture yourself doubly by believing me—me, to whom you acted more than a sister's—a mother's part—so false, so worthless; but how am I to justify myself? to convince you?"
Then rose up, in formidable array, the gossip of servants, and worse, dear friends, to be met and silenced, and the anxious desire to save her cousin's name from the flattering comments of the rather unmerciful, though well-bred coterie, amongst whom they were placed. Above all the predominant idea in poor Kate's mind was that her interval of repose was at an end—that the only home to which she had a shadow of claim was rent from her—that to remain the recipient of benefits from an estranged benefactress, was impossible—that she was indeed desolate. Mingling with all this, was the memory of her grandfather's implicit trust, his unwearied tenderness—that it had gone from her life for ever.
Yes, she must go—she must seek some other home—she must earn one. And nurse—her curiosity must be baffled. And time was stealing fast away while she thought so painfully and ineffectually; something must be done; and at once, she rose with a fervent ejaculation—"God guide me for the best," and sat down to write to Lady Desmond.
As she opened her desk, the recollection of the happy letter she had that morning despatched to Winter flashed across her mind.
"And when shall I hear from him again?" she thought—a glance at her watch. "Ah, post-hour is long past; and what else could I write without betraying Georgy? and she must be my first consideration. Would to Heaven Mr. Winter was in England; but it is in vain to wish."