Mrs. Holton laughed, but was evidently too much interested in her new piece of gossip to notice Aunt Mary’s sarcasm. She turned to me with a malicious expression of countenance, and said, “Notwithstanding it interests you so particularly, Enna, you bear it very properly, I must confess.”
I stared, as I well might, for I could not understand a word of what she was saying.
“What is it you mean, Catharine?” said my aunt, a little decidedly. Mrs. Holton stood a little in awe of Aunt Mary, and said quickly, “Oh, I mean nothing, to be sure; I did not believe the report about Enna when I heard of it this morning, notwithstanding even Mrs. Wilson herself told me Betty had been outrageously jealous of her.”
“Mrs. Wilson!—Betty!—jealous of Enna!—what are you talking about, Catharine Holton?” exclaimed Aunt Mary, really angry, “truly that unruly member of yours does make you take strange liberties.”
“I only say what every one else says,” said Mrs. Holton, in a piqued tone, “that Mr. Morris’s attentions to Enna, have been the means of his obtaining a rich wife. That newspaper will tell you, if you choose to look at it, that yesterday he eloped with Betty Wilson. The whole affair has been managed admirably; her mother never dreamed of such a thing until the bird had flown. I went to see Mrs. Wilson this morning, as soon as I read it in the paper, and she was raving away at a terrible rate. She says she knew Betty was terribly jealous of you, Enna, all last winter; but she thought it had all blown over, as Betty had not mentioned his name for a long while.”
I have no doubt Kate Holton felt more gratification in giving this account of Mr. Morris’s and Miss Wilson’s marriage, than she had ever experienced before, for my terror and wretchedness were expressed on my face, although I listened with a forced calmness to all her gossiping details of the affair. Up to this day I am sure she thinks I was jilted by Mr. Morris, but at the time I could say nothing, so anxious was I for poor Meta. I knew that the elopement would be a town talk, for during the last few months Miss Wilson had made herself very prominent. Although not belonging to that charmed circle yclept par excellence, “society,” she had made herself a subject of conversation with them, by her splendid equipage, her rich and noisy costume, and lavish expenditure of the immense income left to her, untrammeled, by her father, two years before. Young, aristocratic beaux, with little money, had saucily pitied the “poor thing’s isolated position,” and more than one had declared his generous, self-sacrificing intention of “taking the girl, and showing her how to spend her money,” but here Charles Morris had quietly stepped in and carried her off! I may as well mention here, the part of Mrs. Holton’s recital, which I subsequently learned, was true.
Mr. Morris had, before meeting with Meta, addressed Miss Wilson. This occurred soon after the death of her father. The mother, a sensible, shrewd old woman, had influenced Miss Betty to refuse the aristocratic lover. Then he met with Meta, with whose family he had always been on intimate terms. At first I believe he was sincere, or at least as sincere as his selfish nature would permit him to be; but during the previous summer he had discovered that the silly heiress was dying of disappointed vanity and jealousy, fancying from his frequent visits to our house, that he had transferred his affections to me. By some chance they met; he found her ready to throw herself and her half million into his arms, almost without the asking, which temptation he could not, of course, withstand. This was the cause of his coldness and indifference to poor Meta, for I suppose he did not wish to give her up entirely until certain of the heiress.
Although I listened to Mrs. Holton’s conversation in dignified silence, the agony I endured was almost unbearable. I could almost have put her out of the house, so anxious was I to go to Meta—and heartily did I rejoice when this gossiping woman rose to go. As the door closed on her, Aunt Mary exclaimed, “Why, Enna, one might believe Kate Holton’s story about Mr. Morris’s jilting you was true, you look so wretchedly.”
“Do I?” asked I, with an hysteric laugh and sob mingled, and for a few moments my weeping was so violent that my poor aunt really believed it, and turning it over in her mind, innocent soul! she wondered she had not divined it before. At last, under promise of secrecy, I told her the whole affair, for I knew she would fret unceasingly.
“Poor Meta! foolish girl!” said Aunt Mary, as I concluded. “She ought to consider herself well off for being rid of him; he’s a good for nothing fellow, and she never would have been happy if she had married him.”