“He can't get it out of his head,” said the other, in a low, stealthy whisper, “that, if you should leave Lady Dorothea, he will be turned away out of the stewardship. He is always saying it,--he repeats it even in his dreams. But for that, he 'd not have met you so--so--unkindly.”
Kate pressed her hand affectionately, and smiled a thankful acknowledgment of this speech. “And the cottage,” said she, rallying suddenly, “is about three miles off?”
“Not more. But you could scarcely walk there and back again. Besides, it is already growing late, and you have no chance of seeing Miss Mary if you 're not there by breakfast-time, since, when she comes home of an evening, she admits no one. She reads or studies, I believe, all the evening.”
“I think she'd see me,” said Kate; “I should have so much to tell her about her friends. I 'm sure she 'd see _me_,--at least, I'll try.”
“But you'll eat something,--you 'll at least drink a glass of wine before you set out?”
“I do not like to refuse you,” said Kate, smiling good-naturedly, “but I could n't swallow now. I have a choking feeling here in my throat, like a heavy cold, that seems as though it would suffocate me. Good-bye, for a while. I shall be quite well, once I 'm in the open air. Good-bye!” And, so saying, she wrapped her shawl around her, and motioning a farewell with her hand, set out on her errand.
It was one of those fresh and breezy days where brilliant flashes of sunlight alternate with deep shadow, making of every landscape a succession of pictures, that Kate Henderson set out on her way to the cottage. Her path led through the demesne, but it was as wild as any forest scene in Germany, now wending through dark woods, now issuing forth over swelling lawns, from which the view extended many a mile away,--at one moment displaying the great rugged mountains of Connemara, and at another, the broad blue sea, heaving heavily, and thundering in sullen roar against the rocks.
The fast-flitting clouds, the breezy grass, the wind-shaken foliage, and the white-crested waves, all were emblems of life; there was motion and sound and conflict! and yet to her heart, as she walked along, these influences imparted no sense of pleasure or relief. For a few seconds, perhaps, would she suddenly awake to the consciousness of the fair scene before her, and murmur to herself, perchance, the lines of some favorite poet; but in another moment her gloomy thoughtfulness was back again, and with bent-down head was she again moving onward. At times she walked rapidly forward, and then, relaxing her pace, she would stroll listlessly along, as though no object engaged her. And so was it in reality,--her main desire being to be free, in the open air; to be from beneath that roof whose shadow seemed to darken her very heart! Could that haughty spirit have humbled itself in sorrow, she might have found relief; but her proud nature had no such resource, and in her full heart injury and wrong had alone their place.