Dressed in Black

Chapter 2

A se'nnight passed before Catherine heard from the General, and in the interval of time she spent waiting, she waxed edgy and tentative – quite the opposite of her habitual self – almost entirely certain that General Slater had forgotten her, not received her message, or changed his mind about taking her in at all. However, on the evening at the close of the week, a letter came from the desired correspondent. It was written in these brief terms: "My dear madam. I am delighted to be receiving Frederick's only daughter. My own daughter, I assure you, cannot sit still with the anticipation of your imminent arrival. I will be with you most likely a few days from your receiving this letter. –Respectfully yours, General Fitzwilliam Slater."

Catherine immediately informed Mrs. Dixon of the General's arriving in a day or two. The latter, upon hearing this, burst forth with, "What! You are not serious? Are you really to go?"

"Indeed," Catherine bowed, adding solemnly, "I ought to have warned you beforehand, but you see I keep my own council and value my privacy beyond anything else – save my reputation, of course."

"In that case, Miss Catherine," she commenced, a frown creasing her wooden skin – a rough complexion – "I imagine I have no more influence upon your decision. I advise you to pack: you say the General's equipage shall soon arrive. Well! Upon my word, it would be best to be ready for them – when they do come, mind you. Do not make haste, my dear, for you will strain your nerves, as I am sure I would, because we are the both of us such delicate creatures. I am dreadfully nervous, you know, monstrous nervous in these sorts of situations. I am afraid I positively abhor so much commotion. I am sure you are of my disposition. However, you mustn't fret. The brouhaha shall soon abate." Typically, Catherine would have laughed into her sleeve at such a speech from the Rose Grove's housekeeper, but her present state of perturbed gloom hindered such an outburst of hilarity.

Having packed her trunks, and therefore appeased the old widow's ruffled spirits; she sat in her settee, staring fixedly at the flame in the fireplace. After a considerable time spent in mutual silence, Mrs. Dixon looked up from her work and asked whether she did not wish to be occupied.

"Shall I play, Mrs. Dixon?" was the young lady's unenthusiastic rejoinder, glancing to the piano at the back of the drawing-room. A glow overspread the placid widow's face.

"I should be delighted," she beamed, putting down her sewing-things as she watched her mistress glide to the shining black instrument. She took her place on the stool, lifted the cover, and picked her father's favourite tune from the music sheets.

"Remind me, Miss Catherine," Mrs. Dixon said as Catherine's fingers hovered over the keys. "Who shall you be playing?"

"Chopin," she whispered, "Nocturne in G minor." Whatever gloomy meditations tormented her were surging out of her by some curious medium and settling over Mrs. Dixon's person. It was not long ere she truly felt this, and voiced her discomfort.

"O dear," she moaned not a minute into the tune. "Your playing is very nice, Miss Catherine – uncommonly nice – but I'm afraid the choice of song is much too despondent for me. You will excuse an old lady her folly." Having said this, she took up her sewing again, frowning to herself from time to time. Though upset by having been thus cut short, Catherine felt for the old woman, too understanding to hold a grudge against anyone. After a while, Mrs. Dixon looked up from her occupation and addressed her in a kinder tone – a tone she had used when she was a child. "You should be sleeping, Miss Catherine. You look drawn and not at all as well as you once did. Once so healthy and blooming – now so sickly and pale."