“You dear woman!” cried Flaxman, impulsively,
and he raised her hand to his lips. Catharine
and Rose looked their astonishment. Whereupon
he gave them the history of the hour he had just passed
through.
But although what one may call the natural freemasonry
of the children of light had come in to protect Catharine
from any touch of that greedy credulity which had
fastened on Barron; though she and Rose and Hugh Flaxman
were at one in their contemptuous repudiation of Barron’s
reading of the story, the story itself, so far as
it concerned Alice Puttenham and Hester, found in
all their minds but little resistance.
“It may—it may be true,” said
Catharine gently. “If so—what
she has gone through! Poor, poor thing!”
And as she spoke—her thin fingers clasped
on her black dress, the nun-like veil falling about
her shoulders, her aspect had the frank simplicity
of those who for their Lord’s sake have faced
the ugly things of life.
“What a shame—what an outrage—that
any of us here should know a word about it!”
cried Rose, her small foot beating on the floor, the
hot colour in her cheek. “How shall we
ever be able to face her to-night?”
Flaxman started.
“Miss Puttenham is coming to-night?”
“Certainly. She comes with Mary—who
was to pick her up—after dinner.”
Flaxman patrolled the room a little, in meditation.
Finally he stopped before his wife.
“You must realize, darling, that we may be all
walking on the edge of a volcano to-night.”
“If only Henry Barron were!—and I
might be behind to give the last little chiquenade!”
cried Rose.
Flaxman devoutly echoed the wish.
“But the point is—are there any more
of these letters out? If so, we may hear of others
to-night. Then—what to do? Do
I make straight for Meynell?”
They pondered it.
“Impossible to leave Meynell in ignorance,”
said Flaxman—“if the thing spreads
Meynell of course would be perfectly justified—in
his ward’s interests—in denying the
whole matter absolutely, true or no. But can
he?—with Barron in reserve—using
the Sabin woman’s tale for his own purposes?”
Catharine’s face, a little sternly set, showed
the obscure conflict behind.
“He cannot say what is false,” she said
stiffly. “But he can refuse to answer.”
Flaxman looked at her with an expression as confident
as her own.
“To protect a woman, my dear Catharine—a
man may say anything in the world—almost.”
Catharine made no reply, but her quiet face showed
she did not agree with him.
“That child Hester!” Rose emerged suddenly
from a mental voyage of recollection and conjecture.
“Now one understands why Lady Fox-Wilton—stupid
woman!—has never seemed to care a rap for
her. It must indeed be annoying to have to mother
a child so much handsomer than your own.”
