Dressed in Black

Chapter 17

Most men would say they go by reason, not feeling; however, feeling was Albert's essence. He was ignorant of it; because he had made such a show of his manners that he didn't realise how well he could feel – how strong and refined was the language of his heart. He had always made it a point with himself to sever his rising emotions when they dashed to his head, and leave them for dead, but somehow he had not noticed this latest growth of feeling, and it had snuck into his head, and cunningly played with his sound judgement and good understanding.

He was scribbling a short letter to his son, when Mr. Borne burst in looking very much refreshed by his morning ride. He nodded his head coolly at him, pretending not to be interested in the proceedings of his call, when Mr. Borne commenced on the subject himself, sinking into a chair hard by his writing-table.

"She's very angry with you," he said brightly.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Musgrave inquired softly, plopping his quill pen into the glass inkwell at the upper right corner of his sheet.

"Her voice gave the alarm."

"You sound like Whitehead."

"Indeed. I believe you are being very cruel to this girl, Musgrave. Have you no heart?"

"You'd be surprised, man, but lately I've been feeling too much," he said, oblivious to Borne's suspicions. "I wish I had no heart."

"Now, the heart has many redeeming qualities, my good man. If it hisses once, it will purr later, and if it rattles one moment, it will soothe the next."

"In short, it is an untrustworthy, variable organ."

"Besides," he said ignoring his last comment, and speaking in a confidential murmur. "Without a heart, one could not love." Albert frowned, looking with puzzled politeness at his smiling friend.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked, loosening his white neckerchief and black silk cravat with faltering fingers.

"I needn't name my suspicions, Musgrave. You know them." He was shaking visibly, and when at last he had regained sufficient control of his senses, he spoke up.

"Very well. I won't deny it. I have grown attached to Catherine, though I believe I've somehow always loved her, in one way or another."

"You do realise you can't tell her a word of it – not now."

"Yes, I know," he said, giving him as black a look as he could manage.

"But, as it is, you don't seem to be master of your own actions. You must keep a rein on your galloping heart; else she'll suspect that something is up."

"That is why I did not accompany you to the Abbey this morning."

"I thought as much. Shall you be disposed to see her tomorrow, then?"

"Only if she neither caresses me with her looks and touches nor speaks with confidential sweetness to me. Only on those terms could I bear to be near her. This confounded heart of mine – why cannot it be more reasonable, like my brain, and philosophically soothe rather than basely disquiet? I cannot understand it."

"Of course – it'll take a lot for you to fully understand your own heart, for you are a man of sense. Now, let us talk of something less sentimental. To whom are you writing, man?"

"My son."

"That is serious business. Finish your letter, then. I shall take a turn of the grove about the inn."