Mr. Furze was very restless during his meal. He went to the window
two or three times, and returned with the remark that it was going
to be wet; but the observation was made in a low, mumbling tone.
Mrs. Furze was also fidgety, and, in reply to her daughter's
questions, complained of headache, and wondered that Catharine could
not see that she had had no sleep. At last the storm broke.
"Catharine!" said Mrs. Furze, "it WAS Tom, then, who came home with
you last night."
"It was Tom, mother."
"Tom! What do you mean, child? How--how did he--where did you meet
him?"
Mr. Furze retired from the table, where the sun fell full upon him,
and sat in the easy chair, where he was more in the shade.
"He overtook me somewhere near the Rectory."
"Now, Catharine, don't answer your mother like that," interposed Mr.
Furze; "you know what you heard, or might have heard, last Sunday
morning, that prevarication is very much like a lie; why don't you
speak out the truth?"
Catharine was silent for a moment.
"I have answered exactly the question mother asked."
"Catharine, you know perfectly well what I mean," said Mrs. Furze;
"what is the use of pretending you do not! Tom would never dare to
walk with you in a public street, and at night, too, if there were
not something more than you like to say. Tom Catchpole! whose
father sold laces on the bridge; and to think of all we have done
for you, and the money we have spent on you, and the pains we have
taken to bring you up respectably! I will not say anything about
religion, and all that, for I daresay that is nothing to YOU, but
you might have had some consideration for your mother, especially in
her weak state of health, before you broke her heart, and yet I
blame myself, for you always had low tastes--going to Bellamy's, and
consorting with people of that kind rather than with your mother's
friends.
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