Grizel in a grey dress, with a hat wreathed with violets, was a shock to Katrine’s sensibilities. In theory she disapproved of conventional mourning, and approved of fulfilling the wishes of the dead; in reality she was still under the thraldom of public opinion, and the prospect of walking down the High Street with a mourner in colours assumed the dimensions of a dread. “They” would say,—what would “they” say?
The unchanged demeanour of the mourner was likewise a shock. There was every reason why Lady Griselda’s death should be regarded as a relief, but an assumption of regret and gravity were customary under the circumstances, and Grizel was not even subdued. She smiled, and jested, preserved her lazy, untroubled air, and to an outside eye was in no respect altered by the happenings of the last weeks. Katrine waited impatiently for some reference to the dramatic will, and when none came, was driven to open the subject herself.
“Isn’t it glorious,” she questioned curiously, “to be mistress of that enormous fortune? To know that you can practically get anything in the whole world which you happen to fancy?”
Grizel stroked her nose, her eyes asking the question which would have been too banal in words. Anything? Katrine understood the reference, and flushed brightly. She hurried to add a clause:
“Of course, if you had been sentimentally disposed, it would have been different, but you have never—”
“No,” responded Grizel amiably, “I never have.”
Voice and manner were all that is friendly; there was not a particle of resentment, nevertheless the subject was closed, and Katrine knew that she could never refer to it again. That Martin would not do so on his own accord she felt convinced, for though Grizel herself was unchanged, there was an unmistakable difference between his present behaviour to his guest, and that during her recent visit. Now he was merely the courteous host, concerned with the comfort and amusement of his sister’s guest, but making no personal claim for attention. By day he shut himself in his study; in the evening he sedulously avoided tête-à-têtes. A still, set look had come back to his face, which brought with it a haunting memory of the past. Katrine had not realised how far from the desert of sorrow he had travelled until she recognised that look, and at the sight her heart contracted with a pang of protective tenderness, startling in its intensity. At that moment, and for the first time in her life, Self was wiped out, and her own welfare ceased to weigh in the balance. “Not again! Not again!” cried the inner voice. “He has suffered enough!” It was intolerable to think of living to see Martin pass through a second period of despair!
Katrine set her wits to work to puzzle out the problem before her, and at each point in her reflections the same question recurred with ever-increasing force. Why had Grizel come back? Realising as any woman must have done the depth of Martin’s love, why, at this moment of all others, had she deliberately put herself in his way? Grizel was not heartless, her numerous flirtations had been of an open and innocent nature, stopping well short of the danger point; it was inconceivable to believe that she would deliberately increase Martin’s pain. Then—could it be possible that she was willing to sacrifice all; was but waiting for a word, a sign? It was almost impossible to believe, but at least, Katrine determined, the opportunity should be given. Now that the critical moment had arrived all other dreads dwindled before that of failing to do her share to secure Martin’s happiness.
That very day at lunch she made her attempt.
“I have to be out this afternoon, Grizel,” she announced. “A committee meeting, and a tea. Martin must amuse you. The study is cool in the afternoon, you might sit there, or have tea in the garden.”