Mrs. Woodward found herself obliged to give way.
She had not the heart to bid her daughter go away
to bed, nor, had she done so, would it have been of
any avail. Katie would only have lain and sobbed
in her own room, and very probably have gone into
hysterics. The best thing for her was to try to
turn the current of her thoughts, and thus by degrees
tame down her excited feelings.
’Well, darling, then we will have the story,
if Charley will let us. Go and fetch it, dearest.’
Katie raised herself from her mother’s bosom,
and, going across the room, fetched the roll of papers
to Charley. As he prepared to take it she took
his hand in hers, and, bending her head over it, tenderly
kissed it. ’You mustn’t think,’
said she, ’that because I say nothing, I don’t
know what it is that you’ve done for me; but
I don’t know how to say it.’
Charley was at any rate as ignorant what he ought
to say as Katie was. He felt the pressure of
her warm lips on his hand, and hardly knew where he
was. He felt that he blushed and looked abashed,
and dreaded, fearfully dreaded, lest Mrs. Woodward
should surmise that he estimated at other than its
intended worth, her daughter’s show of affection
for him.
‘I shouldn’t mind doing it every night,’
said he, ’in such weather as this. I think
it rather good fun going into the water with my clothes
on.’ Katie looked up at him through her
tears, as though she would say that she well understood
what that meant.
Mrs. Woodward saw that if the story was to be read,
the sooner they began it the better.
‘Come, Charley,’ said she, ’now
for the romance. Katie, come and sit by me.’
But Katie had already taken her seat, a little behind
Charley, quite in the shade, and she was not to be
moved.
‘But I won’t read it myself,’ said
Charley; ’you must read it, Mrs. Woodward.’
‘O yes, Mrs. Woodward, you are to read it,’
said Norman.
‘O yes, do read it, manna,’ said Linda.
Katie said nothing, but she would have preferred that
Charley should have read it himself.
‘Well, if I can,’ said Mrs. Woodward.
‘Snape says I write the worst hand in all Somerset
House,’ said Charley; ‘but still I think
you’ll be able to manage it.’
‘I hate that Mr. Snape,’ said Katie, sotto
voce. And then Mrs. Woodward unrolled the
manuscript and began her task.
CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR; OR, MY AUNT’S WILL
‘Well, Linda was right,’ said Mrs. Woodward,
’it does begin with poetry.’
‘It’s only a song,’ said Charley,
apologetically—’and after all there
is only one verse of that’—and then
Mrs. Woodward began
“CRINOLINE AND MACASSAR.”
’Ladies and gentlemen, that is the name of Mr.
Charles Tudor’s new novel.’
‘Crinoline and Macassar!’ said Uncle Bat.
’Are they intended for human beings’ names?’
