“You need not fear, Hubert,” said his mother, “I will not embarrass you. You shall be in no danger.”
“I think you need not have said that, mother; I am not usually thought a coward.”
Lady Maxwell flushed a little, and began to finger her silver knife.
“However,” Hubert went on, “I thought it best to say that. The chapel, you see, is in that wing; and you have that lawn; and—and I do not think I am treating you hardly.”
“And is your brother James not to come?” asked his mother.
“I have thought much over that,” said Hubert; “and although it is hard to say it, I think he had better not come to my part of the house—at least not when I am here; I must know nothing of it. You must do what you think well when I am away, about him and others too. It is very difficult for me, mother; please do not add to the difficulty.”
“You need not fear,” said Lady Maxwell steadily; “you shall not be troubled with any Catholics besides ourselves.”
“Then that is arranged,” said the lad. “And now there is a word more. What have you been doing to Isabel?” And he looked sharply across the table. His mother’s eyes met his fearlessly.
“I do not understand you,” she said.
“Mother, you must know what I mean. You have seen her continually.”