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Updated: June 28, 2025
Ardagh sat up still more among her pillows. "You don't think it's a silly fancy?" "I don't know. I wonder." Catherine was crying quietly. "It keeps coming," said Mrs. Ardagh, "as if God sent it to me. What can I do? How can I send to William Foster? I don't know where he is. Could that Mr. Berrand ?" "Mother," Catherine said. "Leave it to me, I will bring William Foster to you."
She was filled with hope and with a species of religious optimism. Some days passed, Catherine and Mark spent them in a renewal of friendship with their domain. They were like two children and were gayer than the spring. Then one evening Mark said, "And now, Kitty, I am going to start work again. Berrand has written that he will be in England next week and will come on here at once.
Catherine had long felt an eager desire to see this one intimate friend of Mark's. She expected him to be no ordinary man, and she was not mistaken. Berrand was much older than Mark. He looked about forty. He was thin, sallow, eager in manner, with shining eyes almost toad-like a yellowish-white complexion, and coal-black hair.
Catherine was terribly grieved, and was for a time so much engaged with her mother that she scarcely heeded what was going on in the world around. Incessantly immured in the sick-room she did not trace the progress of the snake through Society until as Berrand had foretold the cries of the Journalists rose to Heaven like cries from a burning city.
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