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The Cynical Miss Catherwaight
by
There was something very likable in the old gentleman who came forward to greet her as she entered the drawing-room; something courtly and of the old school, of which she was so tired of hearing, but of which she wished she could have seen more in the men she met. Young Mr. Latimer had accompanied his guardian, exactly why she did not see, but she recognized his presence slightly. He seemed quite content to remain in the background. Mr. Lockwood, as she had expected, explained that he had called to thank her for the return of the medal. He had it in his hand as he spoke, and touched it gently with the tips of his fingers as though caressing it.
“I knew your father very well,” said the lawyer, “and I at one time had the honor of being one of your mother’s younger friends. That was before she was married, many years ago.” He stopped and regarded the girl gravely and with a touch of tenderness. “You will pardon an old man, old enough to be your father, if he says,” he went on, “that you are greatly like your mother, my dear young lady–greatly like. Your mother was very kind to me, and I fear I abused her kindness; abused it by misunderstanding it. There was a great deal of misunderstanding; and I was proud, and my friend was proud, and so the misunderstanding continued, until now it has become irretrievable.”
He had forgotten her presence apparently, and was speaking more to himself than to her as he stood looking down at the medal in his hand.
“You were very thoughtful to give me this,” he continued; “it was very good of you. I don’t know why I should keep it though, now, although I was distressed enough when I lost it. But now it is only a reminder of a time that is past and put away, but which was very, very dear to me. Perhaps I should tell you that I had a misunderstanding with the friend who gave it to me, and since then we have never met; have ceased to know each other. But I have always followed his life as a judge and as a lawyer, and respected him for his own sake as a man. I cannot tell–I do not know how he feels toward me.”
The old lawyer turned the medal over in his hand and stood looking down at it wistfully.
The cynical Miss Catherwaight could not stand it any longer.
“Mr. Lockwood,” she said, impulsively, “Mr. Latimer has told me why you and your friend separated, and I cannot bear to think that it was she–my mother–should have been the cause. She could not have understood; she must have been innocent of any knowledge of the trouble she had brought to men who were such good friends of hers and to each other. It seems to me as though my finding that coin is more than a coincidence. I somehow think that the daughter is to help undo the harm that her mother has caused–unwittingly caused. Keep the medal and don’t give it back to me, for I am sure your friend has kept his, and I am sure he is still your friend at heart. Don’t think I am speaking hastily or that I am thoughtless in what I am saying, but it seems to me as if friends–good, true friends–were so few that one cannot let them go without a word to bring them back. But though I am only a girl, and a very light and unfeeling girl, some people think, I feel this very much, and I do wish I could bring your old friend back to you again as I brought back his pledge.”
“It has been many years since Henry Burgoyne and I have met,” said the old man, slowly, “and it would be quite absurd to think that he still holds any trace of that foolish, boyish feeling of loyalty that we once had for each other. Yet I will keep this, if you will let me, and I thank you, my dear young lady, for what you have said. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are as good and as kind as your mother was, and–I can say nothing, believe me, in higher praise.”