Randal insisted on making Mrs. Presty express herself plainly. “You speak of guilty persons,” he said. “Am I to understand that one of those guilty persons is my brother?”
Mrs. Linley advanced a step and took the parasol from the table. Hearing what Randal said, she paused, wondering at the strange allusion to her husband. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Presty answered the question that had been addressed to her.
“Yes,” she said to Randal; “I mean your brother, and your brother’s mistress—Sydney Westerfield.”
Mrs. Linley laid the parasol back on the table, and approached them.
She never once looked at her mother; her face, white and rigid, was turned toward Randal. To him, and to him only, she spoke.
“What does my mother’s horrible language mean?” she asked.
Mrs. Presty triumphed inwardly; chance had decided in her favor, after all! “Don’t you see,” she said to her daughter, “that I am here to answer for myself?”
Mrs. Linley still looked at Randal, and still spoke to him. “It is impossible for me to insist on an explanation from my mother,” she proceeded. “No matter what I may feel, I must remember that she is my mother. I ask you again—you who have been listening to her—what does she mean?”
Mrs. Presty’s sense of her own importance refused to submit to being passed over in this way.
“However insolently you may behave, Catherine, you will not succeed in provoking me. Your mother is bound to open your eyes to the truth. You have a rival in your husband’s affections; and that rival is your governess. Take your own course now; I have no more to say.” With her head high in the air—looking the picture of conscious virtue—the old lady walked out.