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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 68

III

III.

Jan. 22.—I have seen Catherine to-day for the first time for five years! She is very little changed, and I feel quite sure now that it must have been she that Edgar Stadding mistook me for on the night of his return; and the knowledge is very far from being pleasing to me. I not only dislike him personally—and I frankly admit that I do, as I have said before—but his tone, when he spoke to me, both on the first occasion and since, was to my thinking a deal too familiar and—well, disagreeable, to say the least. From what I have seen of him during the last day or two, I believe him to be a selfish and unprincipled man.

Catherine is staying at the Truss o' Straw, at the Hutt, where she established; herself this morning. She sent a note telling me she had arrived, and as soon as my work for the day was over I went down to see her. I inquired for "Miss Ada de Bonville," which was the name—a foolish one, I thought—on the note she had sent, and was shown up to her room, where we committed all kinds of extravagances in the first joy of meeting after so long a separation as ours has been. At least, I know I did; and when my first lucid interval occurred, I found myself, with tumbled hair and dress, sitting on the sofa opposite Catherine, and both of us in a generally confused state of half laughter, half tears.

When I say she is little changed, I mean as to her appearance; in other respects there is a change, though what it is I scarcely know, except that I have an uneasy sense that it's there, and that I wish it was not. But beyond this it is the same dear self-willed impulsive Catherine of old.

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We sat and talked as girls will talk after they have been long parted, but what it was all about I haven't the faintest idea now. The long summer evening dosed in upon us all too soon, and as I wished to be back at The Peak before dusk, I rose to go. I was standing in front of the glass arranging my head-gear with Catherine beside me, when I was struck anew by the resemblance between our faces, and at once recalled my first interview with Edgar Stadding, and the mistake lie had made.

"Catherine," I said, suddenly, "do you know anyone named Edgar Stadding?"

She started, and then laughed guiltily, and began to colour up.

"We are in the way of knowing a good many people in our profession," she said, evasively. "It's different to a governess's, you know—considerably."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" with a short laugh.

"Do you know Edgar Stadding?" I repeated, determined to have a direct answer to my question.

"Well, as I say, one knows so many—but why do you ask?"

"Because I'm pretty sure he knows you, and knew you were coming here too."

"Oh, that's very likely," she answered, carelessly, "and so did five thousand others, for the matter of that. It was in the papers about our coming long enough, goodness knows. Besides, more people know Tom Fool—you know the rest."

"Yes, but he knew more about you than he got from any paper. The papers didn't say you were my sister, or give your right name, did they; or say that you were tall and dark, and had a temper of your own?"—(Or speak of you as "puss," I was going to add, but checked myself in time.)

"Did he say that?" she said, her eyes sparkling. "You know him—you've spoken to him, then?" and she glanced up at me quickly.

"Or, rather, he has to me—and I'd thank him not to in future."

"And why, indeed? Isn't he good enough for your ladyship?"

"I don't say anything as to his goodness or badness, though I have my doubts about the former. But I don't like him—for one thing."

"Indeed! And what is the other thing, may I ask?" she said, wavering between jest and earnest, with a growing inclination to the latter.

"Simply because he doesn't know how to speak when he does do so—as far as I have seen as yet, at anyrate."

"That sounds very like a 'bull,' doesn't it? Did he say anything so very shocking, then?"

'It's not what he has said to me altogether, but to others, and his manner in general. But that has nothing to do with my question as to whether you know him or not—though I scarcely need ask you now."

"What a persistent little fool it is! Why, of course I do—that is, we have a I slight acquaintance—platonic, you know. The fact is, he is an artist, and appreciates I good acting-"

"And actresses," I said, with a curtsey.

"I accept the amendment. And actresses, as you remark," with a return of the curtsey.

"He may be an artist, but he's certainly not a gentleman, nor the kind of person I would choose for—for—well, a friend—"

"Oh, nonsense. Don't be so absurd. What do you know about him to form an opinion on, and what's your opinion worth when you have formed it, I'd like to know? I'll be bound you haven't spoken to him half a dozen times altogether."

"No indeed I haven't, and don't intend to, that's more. I found twice quite enough for my taste."

"Twice! There you are, now! The very idea of running away with an opinion of a man's character after seeing him twice! I wonder you were introduced to him it all."

"It would be a good while before we'd become acquainted if he waited for that, I'm afraid. We weren't introduced; he doesn't wait for such old-fashioned formalities as that. He introduced himself, and that, too, in a way that was a good deal more peculiar than agreeable."

"He has a free and easy way with him, I know."

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"Yes—very much so. The first time he saw me I've a shrewd idea he took me for some one else." I looked hard at her, but she met my eyes with a look of childlike innocence.

"I shouldn't wonder if he did. I doubt if he would have the courage to speak to such a little dragon of propriety, if he knew. You always were a little prude, you know that yourself. But who could he take you for?"

"Can't you guess?"

"Not the faintest idea," she said, shaking her head.

"Shall I tell you?"

"Please."

"Ada de Bonville."

"Ada de Bonville! Me! Never!" she exclaimed, with well simulated surprise.

"Come, come," I said, mischievously, "you're not on the stage now. It's well acted, but only acted after all. You know it was you he must have mistaken me for if he mistook me for anyone."

"Go along with you, you impudent minx! How should I know? He might have taken you for one of the old maids of Lee. As likely as not—you look the part. But tell me—what did he say?"

"No more than you might expect any other young man to say who found himself in a very ridiculous position. Mumbled something I suppose he intended for an apology, got back into his dog-cart, and drove off again—and all with the worst grace imaginable."

"Mumbled! He didn't mumble. But surely that wasn't all he said. What were his words—what did he say?"

"Bless my heart, I don't set so much store by his words as to be able to repeat them verbatim a week after hearing them. Something about an unexpected plea-sure, and how on earth did I get there. Which I think it was like his impudence to say." (I still suppressed the "puss.")

"And was that all he said?" she asked, with a certain air of relief, as if she had been afraid he had said a good deal more.

"As far as I remember that was all he said."

"Ha! ha! ha!" she laughed, "the very idea of his taking you forme! That is good. Well, we are alike, certainly—in looks, anyway. I suppose you were highly indignant at the innocent mistake he made?"

"Indignant? Why should I be, at his saying to me what it would be appropriate to say to anyone else in a like position?"

"Oh, but you were always such a straight-laced little prude of a thing. You know you were."

"A prude," I said, irritably. "I think you told me that before, this evening. I'm not quite sure what you call a prude. If it's prudish not to like anyone who doesn't know how to behave himself, then I'm a prude, and mean to remain one."

"I'd better count ten before I add anything to that, don't you think, Ettie? Don't let us quarrel over it."

"Quarrel! I don't want to quarrel. But what do you say such ridiculous things for? And all for the sake of a—"

"Let us change the subject, Ettie," she said, stopping me by putting her hand over my mouth. "When shall I see you again?"

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to call here often. Come up and see me at The Peak. I've got a room to myself."

"Thank you," she said, with another curtsey. "I've no wish to see your puritanical old Mother Hubbard up there. Besides, what would she think of the governess who defiled her house by bringing an unregenerate, painted actress into it; and that actress her sister, too?"

"Why, what can you know about Mrs. Shaw?" I asked, in surprise.

"Oh, I know plenty about her. I know her a good deal better than you think," and she nodded her head wisely.

"From Edgar Stadding," I commented mentally, and then aloud—"Have you ever spoken to her?"

"Not I, but I know what kind of woman she is, all the same. I have means of hearing. What? The time? Oh, well if you must go. Will yon have a ticket for the theatre? 'Deeds Done in Darkness.' Come and see your page 13 sister filling the rôle of the 'Deserted Wife' as played by her for two hundred and fifty nights before enthusiastic audiences in all the leading cities of the colonies, an impersonation universally admitted to be unique in its boldness of conception and minute conscientiousness of detail—ahem! Can't I reel off the patter? I got that from one of the notices written by a newspaper fledgling I charmed in the stalls one night. Won't, you come? I'd like you to see it. I'm sure you'd like it. We begin in Wellington in a night or so. My leave is up to-morrow."

"Thanks. I'd like to go; but then you know—"

"Oh, yes; Mrs. Shaw, propriety, and all the rest of it. I'd go in spite of the old cat, if I had to climb out of the window. What's it got to do with her, I'd like to know."

"But being an irreclaimable prude I couldn't do that, you see."

"You climb out of window! I don't believe you could persuade yourself to leave a house afire if you had to save your life at the risk of your ankles being seen. What is it Miss Mowcher says about that? Well, what must be, must be, I suppose. I should like you to see it, though, at the same time. I rather pride myself on my 'Deserted Wife.' You wouldn't believe what a hold it has taken of me. I quite terrified myself the other night when I woke up in the middle of a dream and found myself going through the scene on the floor of my room."

"I should like to see you too, Kate; but if I can't see you in the part of a Deserted Wife, perhaps I'll see you have a still longer run in that of an Old Maid in the Comedy of Life, so cheer up."

"No, that indeed you won't—not while leap year's in the calendar and I've got a tongue in my head. Good night, old chap. I can see you are taxing yourself to work up a joke on something about a 'drop-scene' and a "curtain lecture,' but I don't care to hear it. Here, take this ticket in case the spirit should move you to try the window-climbing business. Ta, ta!"