Esther had made the deadliest resolution to let no
trace of her unhappiness appear before her uncle, and Mr. Murray, who
saw no deeper than other men into the heart-problem, was delighted with
the gayety of the table, and proud of his own success as a physician for
heart complaints. Mrs. Murray, who knew more about her own sex, kept her
eye on the two girls with more anxiety than she cared to confess. If any
new disaster should happen, the prospect would be desperate, and it was
useless to deny that she had taken risks heavy enough to stagger a
professional gambler. The breakfast table looked gay and happy enough,
and so did the rapids which sparkled and laughed in the distance.
After breakfast the two young women, with much preparation of boots,
veils and wraps, went off with Strong and Wharton for a stroll down to
the banks of the river. The two older members of the party remained
quietly in their parlor, thinking that the young people would get on
better by themselves. As the four wandered down the road, Mr. Murray
watched them, and noticed the natural way in which Esther joined Strong,
while Catherine fell to Wharton. Standing with his hands in his
trousers' pockets and his nose close to the window-pane, Mr. Murray
looked after them as they disappeared down the bank, and then, without
turning round, he made a remark as husbands do, addressed to the
universe and intended for his wife.
"I suppose that is what you are driving at.
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