"It musn't—it can't be allowed!" said Catharine, with energy. And, as she spoke, she seemed to feel again the soft bloom of Hester's young cheek against her own, just as when she had drawn the girl to her, in that instinctive caress. The deep maternity in Catharine had never yet found scope enough in the love of one child.
Then, with a still keener sense of the various difficulties rising along Meynell's path, Flaxman and Rose returned to the anxious discussion of Barron's move and how to meet it. Catharine listened, saying little; and it was presently settled that Flaxman should himself call on Dawes, the colliery manager, that afternoon, and should write strongly to Barron, putting on paper the overwhelming arguments, both practical and ethical, in favour of silence—always supposing there were no further developments.
"Tell me"—said Rose presently, when Flaxman had left the sisters alone—"Mary of course knows nothing of that letter?"
Catharine flushed.
"How could she?" She looked almost haughtily at her sister.
Rose murmured an excuse. "Would it be possible to keep all knowledge from Mary that there was a scandal—of some sort—in circulation, if the thing developed?"
Catharine, holding her head high, thought it would not only be possible, but imperative.
Rose glanced at her uncertainly. Catharine was the only person of whom she had ever been afraid. But at last she took the plunge.
"Catharine!—don't be angry with me—but I think Mary is interested in
Richard Meynell."
"Why should I be angry?" said Catharine. She had coloured a little, but she was perfectly composed. With her gray hair, and her plain widow's dress, she threw her sister's charming mondanity into bright relief. But beauty—loftily understood—lay with Catharine.