It was so evidently a relief to her to talk that Katharine let her run on till she paused, before asking a question.
“What was the matter with him? Tell me, dear.”
Mrs. Crowdie did not answer at once, but sat holding the young girl’s hand and staring at the fire.
“Katharine,” she said at last, “I’m in great trouble. I want a friend--not to help me, for no one can--I must bear it alone--but I must speak, or it will drive me mad.”
“You can tell me everything if you will, Hester,” said Katharine, gravely. “It will be quite safe with me. But don’t tell me, if you are ever going to regret it.”
Mrs. Crowdie hesitated and there was a short silence. She covered her eyes for an instant with one small hand--her hands were small and pointed, but not so thin as might have been expected from her face--and then she looked at her companion. The strong, well-balanced features apparently inspired her with confidence. She nodded slowly, as though reaching a conclusion within herself, and then spoke.
“I will tell you, Katharine. I’d much rather tell you than any one else, and I know myself--I should be sure to tell somebody in the end. You’re like a man in some things, though you are only a girl. If I had a man friend, I think I should go to him--but I haven’t. Walter has always been everything to me. Somehow I never get intimate with men, as some women do.”
“Surely--there’s your brother, Hester. Why don’t you go to him? I should, in your place.”
“No, dear. You don’t know--Hamilton never approved of my marriage. Didn’t you know? He’s such a good fellow that he wouldn’t tell any one else so. But he--well--he never liked Walter, from the first, though I must say Walter was very nice to him. And about the arrangements--you know I had a settlement--Ham insisted upon it--so that my little fortune is in the hands of trustees--your father is one of them. As though Walter would ever have touched it! He makes me spend it all on myself. No, dear--I couldn’t tell my brother--so I shall tell you.”
She stopped speaking and leaned forward, burying her face in her hands for a moment, as though to collect her thoughts. Then she sat up again, and looked at the fire while she spoke.
“It was last night,” she said. “He dined with you, and I stayed at home all by myself, not being asked, you see, because it was at a moment’s notice--it was quite natural, of course. Walter came home early, and we sat in the studio a long time, as we often do in the evening. There’s such a beautiful light, and the big fireplace, and cushions--and all. I thought he smoked a great deal, and you know he doesn’t usually smoke much, on account of his voice, and he really doesn’t care for it as some men do. I wish he did--I like the smell of it, and then a man ought to have some little harmless vice. Walter never drinks wine, nor coffee--nothing but Apollinaris. He’s not at all like most men. He never uses any scent, but he likes to burn all sorts of queer perfumes in the studio in a little Japanese censer. I like cigars much better, and I always tell him so,--and he laughs. How foolish I am!” she interrupted herself. “But it’s such a relief to talk--you don’t know!”