The old mother’s instinct—not the old mother’s reason—told her what to do. She drew her daughter to the open window, and called to Kitty to come in. The child (still amusing herself by fishing in the lake) laid down her rod. Mrs. Linley saw her running lightly along the little pier, on her way to the house. That influence effected what no other influence could have achieved. The outraged wife controlled herself, for the sake of her child. Mrs. Presty led her out to meet Kitty in the garden; waited until she saw them together; and returned to the breakfast-room.
Herbert Linley’s letter lay on the floor; his discreet mother-in-law picked it up. It could do no more harm now, and there might be reasons for keeping the husband’s proposal. “Unless I am very much mistaken,” Mrs. Presty concluded, “we shall hear more from the lawyer before long.” She locked up the letter, and wondered what her daughter would do next.
In half an hour Mrs. Linley returned—pale, silent, self-contained.
She seated herself at her desk; wrote literally one line; signed it without an instant’s hesitation, and folded the paper. Before it was secured in the envelope, Mrs. Presty interfered with a characteristic request. “You are writing to Mr. Linley, of course,” she said. “May I see it?”
Mrs. Linley handed the letter to her. The one line of writing contained these words: “I refuse positively to part with my child.—Catherine Linley.”
“Have you considered what is likely to happen, when he gets this?” Mrs. Presty inquired.
“No, mamma.”
“Will you consult Randal?”
“I would rather not consult him.”
“Will you let me consult him for you?”