"You're going to be married again," said she, helping him out, with a
quiet dry voice, and gently drawing her hand out of his.
"Yes. To Mrs. Kirkpatrick--you remember her? They call her Clare at
the Towers. You recollect how kind she was to you that day you were
left there?"
She did not answer. She could not tell what words to use. She
was afraid of saying anything, lest the passion of anger,
dislike, indignation--whatever it was that was boiling up in her
breast--should find vent in cries and screams, or worse, in raging
words that could never be forgotten. It was as if the piece of solid
ground on which she stood had broken from the shore, and she was
drifting out to the infinite sea alone.
Mr. Gibson saw that her silence was unnatural, and half-guessed at
the cause of it. But he knew that she must have time to reconcile
herself to the idea, and still believed that it would be for her
eventual happiness. He had, besides, the relief of feeling that the
secret was told, the confidence made, which he had been dreading
for the last twenty-four hours. He went on recapitulating all the
advantages of the marriage; he knew them off by heart now.
"She's a very suitable age for me. I don't know how old she is
exactly, but she must be nearly forty. I shouldn't have wished to
marry any one younger. She's highly respected by Lord and Lady Cumnor
and their family, which is of itself a character. She has very
agreeable and polished manners--of course, from the circles she has
been thrown into--and you and I, goosey, are apt to be a little
brusque, or so; we must brush up our manners now."
No remark from her on this little bit of playfulness. He went on,--
"She has been accustomed to housekeeping--economical housekeeping,
too--for of late years she has had a school at Ashcombe, and has had,
of course, to arrange all things for a large family. And last, but
not least, she has a daughter--about your age, Molly--who, of course,
will come and live with us, and be a nice companion--a sister--for
you."
Still she was silent. At length she said,--
"So I was sent out of the house that all this might be quietly
arranged in my absence?"
Out of the bitterness of her heart she spoke, but she was roused
out of her assumed impassiveness by the effect produced. Her
father started up, and quickly left the room, saying something to
himself--what, she could not hear, though she ran after him, followed
him through dark stone passages, into the glare of the stable-yard,
into the stables--