Quietly and firmly Mrs. Linley answered: “I mean to show it to Miss Westerfield.”
“Against my opinion? Against your mother’s opinion?” Herbert asked. “Have we no influence over you? Do as Randal does—take time, my dear, to think.”
She answered this with her customary calmness of manner and sweetness of tone. “I am afraid I must appear obstinate; but it is indeed true that I want no time to think; my duty is too plain to me.”
Her husband and her mother listened to her in astonishment. Too amiable and too happy—and it must be added too indolent—to assert herself in the ordinary emergencies of family life, Mrs. Linley only showed of what metal she was made on the very rare occasions when the latent firmness in her nature was stirred to its innermost depths. The general experience of this sweet-tempered and delightful woman, ranging over long intervals of time, was the only experience which remained in the memories of the persons about her. In bygone days, they had been amazed when her unexpected readiness and firmness of decision presented an exception to a general rule—just as they were amazed now.
Herbert tried a last remonstrance. “Is it possible, Catherine, that you don’t see the cruelty of showing that newspaper to Miss Westerfield?”
Even this appeal to Mrs. Linley’s sympathies failed to shake her resolution. “You may trust me to be careful,” was all she said in reply; “I shall prepare her as tenderly for the sad news from America, as if she was a daughter of my own.”
Hearing this, Mrs. Presty showed a sudden interest in the proceedings “When do you mean to begin?” she asked.
“At once, mamma.”
Mrs. Presty broke up the meeting on the spot. “Wait till I am out of the way,” she stipulated. “Do you object to Herbert giving me his arm? Distressing scenes are not in his line or in mine.”
Mrs. Linley made no objection. Herbert resigned himself (not at all unwillingly) to circumstances. Arm in arm, he and his wife’s mother left the room.