"I cannot believe that Mr. Newton could be rude or unkind!" exclaimed Katherine, much startled.
"I do not say he was," returned Mrs. Fred, snappishly. "But either he is a stupid old idiot, or he has been telling me abominable stories. I don't—I can't believe them! Do you know he says he, they, all the old rogues together, believe that wretched miser had destroyed his will and died intestate, and that every penny will be yours; not a sou comes to the widow and children of the nephew. It is preposterous. It is the most monstrous injustice. If it is law, an act of Parliament ought to be passed to—to do away with it. Fancy your having everything, and me, my boys and myself, dependent onyou!"—scornful emphasis on "you."
"Is this possible?" exclaimed Katherine, dropping her duster in dismay. "I thought that the property would be divided between the boys and myself."
"Why, that is only common-sense! If youdoget everything you will be well rewarded for your three months' penal servitude. You knew what you were about, though youdodespise rank and riches."
"But, Ada, I suppose my uncle would have destroyed his will whether I had been there or not."
"No. Mr. Newton's idea is that he intended to make a new will, probably leaving you a large sum, and so destroyed the old one. Mr. Newton thinks he grew to like you. Oh! you played your cards well! But it is too hard to think you cut out my dar-arling boys," she ended, with a sob.
Katherine grew very white; this outburst of fury roused her conscience. She pulled herself together in an instant of quick thought, however. "This is folly. What I have done will benefit the boys more than myself," she reflected.
"I do not wonder at your being vexed, Ada," she said, gently. "But fortunately one is not compelled to act according to law. If the whole of the fortune, whatever it may be, becomes mine, do you think I would keep it all to myself?"
"I am sure I don't know" said Mrs. Frederic, who had now subsided into the sulks. "When people get hold of money they seldom like to part with it; and I know you do not likeme?"
"Why should you think so, Ada? We may not agree in our tastes, but that is no reason for dislike; and you know how glad I am to be of use to you, both for your own sake and poor Fred's."
"Well, I would rather not be dependent on you or any one. But there! I do not believe what that stupid old man says—I do not believe such a horrible law exists. I shall write and consult Colonel Ormonde, and find out if I could not dispute the will—no, not the will—the property. I should not like to give up my rights."
"Please, Ada, do not speak so loudly. My mother had just fallen asleep before you came in; and she had such a bad night!"
"Loud? I am not talking loudly. You mean to insinuate I am in a passion? I am nothing of the kind. I am perfectly cool, but determined—determined to have justice, and my fair share of this man's wealth!"
"It may not be wealth; it may be only competence, and it is not ours to share yet."
"Not yours, you mean; that is what youthought, Katherine. And as to wealth, I believe that cruel old miser wasenormously rich! Where are the boys?"
"Out walking with Lottie. I amsoglad they were not in to hear all this! Do not talk to them of being rich, dear Ada; it puts unhealthy ideas into their minds, and—"
"Upon my word! I like to hearyou, a mere girl, not quite nineteen yet, advising me, a mother, a married woman, about my own children. You need not presume on your expected riches.I'llnever play the part of a poor relation, and submit to be lectured byyou."
Her sister-in-law's stings and passing fits of ill-humor never irritated Katherine unless they worried her mother, nor did this most unwonted outburst of irrepressible indignation, but it distressed her. "Come, Ada, don't be cross," she said. "It was perhaps want of tact in me to suggest anything, though my idea is right enough. It is quite natural that you should be awfully vexed. Perhaps Mr. Newtoniswrong; at all events, if the law is unjust,Ineed not act unjustly, and believe me, Iwillnot."
"I hope not," returned the young widow, a little mollified. "I always believe you haven't a bad heart, Katherine, though you have a disagreeble sullen temper. NowIam too open; you see the worst of me at once; but I do not remember unkindness; and if you do what is right in this, I—I shall always speak of you as you deserve. Do get me something to eat; I am awfully hungry, and though I hate beer, I will take some; it is better than nothing. Howyougo on on water I cannot imagine; it will ruin your digestion."
So they went amicably enough into the dining-room together, one to be ministered to, the other to minister.
Here the boys joined them; but for a wonder their mother was silent respecting her visit to the lawyer, and soon went away to write to Colonel Ormonde, on whom she had conferred, unasked, the office of prime counsellor and referee. This opened up a splendid field for letters full of flattering appeals to his wisdom and judgment, and touching little confessions of her own weakness, folly, and need for guidance.
"Dear Miss Liddell,—I should be glad if you could call on Tuesday next about one o'clock. I have various documents to showyou, or I should not give you the trouble to come here. If Mrs. Liddell is disengaged and could come also it would be well. I am yours faithfully,A. Newton."
Such was the letter which the first post brought to Katherine about six weeks after the death of John Liddell.
Katherine, who always rose and dressed first, found it on the table when she went down to give the boys their breakfast, to coax the fire to burn brightly if it was inclined to be sulky, and to make the coffee for her mother and Mrs. Fred.
As soon as she had seen the two little men at work on their bread and milk she flew back to her mother.
"Do read this! Do you think that Mr. Newton wants me because I am to have my uncle's money at last?"
"Yes, I do. There can be no other reason for his wishing to see you, dearest child. What a wonderful change it will make if this is the case! I can then cease, to mourn the failure of my poor powers, and let the publishers go free. My love, I did not think anything could affect you so much. You are white and trembling."
"I have been more anxious than you knew," returned Katherine, who felt strangely overcome, curiously terrified, at the near approach of success—the success she had ventured on so daring an act to secure. "I greatly feared some other claimant—some other will, I mean—might be found."
"Yes, I feared too. Yet there could be no claimant, apart from another will. Poor George, your uncle's only son, was killed, I remember. Take a little water, dear, and sit down. No, I did not fear another claimant when I thought, but I feared to hope too much."
"I feel all right now, mother. Such a prospect does not kill. Suppose we say nothing to Ada—she will worry our lives out—not at least till we know our fate certainly?"
"Perhaps it will be better not."
"And whatever I get we will share with the dear children, and give Ada some too. Oh, darling mother, think of our being alone together again, and tolerably at ease!"
It would be wearisome to the reader were the details of the interview with Mr. Newton minutely recorded.
He was evidently relieved and delighted to announce that all attempts to find the will had failed, and explained at some length to his very attentive listeners the steps to be taken and the particulars of the property bequeathed; how it devolved on Katherine to take out letters of administration; how at her age she had the power of choosing her own guardian for the two years which must elapse before she was of age; and finally that the large amount of which she had become mistress was so judiciously invested that he (Mr. Newton) could advise no change save the transference of stock to her name.
As it dawned upon Katherine that the sum she inherited amounted to something over eighty thousand pounds, she felt dizzy with surprise and fear. She had no idea she had been playing for such stakes. The sense of sudden responsibility pressed upon her; her hands trembled and her cheek paled.
"My dear young lady, you look as if you had met a loss instead of gaining a fortune," said Mr. Newton, looking kindly at her. "I have no doubt you will make a good use of your money, and I trust will enjoy many happy days."
"But my nephews, my sister-in-law, do they get nothing?"
"Not a penny. Of course you can, when of age, settle some portion upon them."
"I certainly will; but in the mean time—"
"In the mean time I will take care that you have a proper allowance."
"Thank you, dear Mr. Newton. Do get me something big enough to make us all comfortable, and I can share with Ada—with Mrs. Frederic. I do so want to take my mother abroad, and I could not leave Ada and the boys unless they were well provided for."
"Make your mind easy; the court will allow you a handsome income. So you must cheer up, in spite of the infliction of a large fortune," added Mr. Newton, with unwonted jocularity.
"Both Katherine and myself are warmly grateful for your kind sympathy," said Mrs. Liddell, softly. Then, after a short pause, she asked, "Do you know what became of Mr. Liddell's unfortunate wife?"
"She died eleven or twelve years ago. The family of—of the man she lived with had the audacity to apply for money, on account of her funeral, I think, and so I came to know she was dead. It was a sad business. The poor woman had a wretched life, but I don't think she was in any want."
"I only asked, because if she was in poverty—"
"Oh," interrupted the lawyer, "if she were alive, she would have her share of the estate, as her marriage was never dissolved."
A short pause ensued, and then Newton asked if Miss Liddell would like some money, as he would be happy to draw a check for any sum she required. Then, indeed, Katherine felt that her days of difficulty were over.
Mrs. Liddell and her daughter were in no hurry to leave their humble home. In truth Katherine was more frightened than elated at the amount of property she had inherited, and would have felt a little less guilty had she only succeeded in obtaining a moderate competence.
A curious stunned feeling made her incapable of her usual activity for the first few days, and averse even to plan for the future.
She kept her sister-in-law quiet by a handsome present of money wherewith to buy a fresh outfit for herself and her boys. Finally she roused up sufficiently to persuade Mrs. Liddell to see an eminent physician, for she did not seem to gather strength as rapidly as her daughter expected.
The great man, after a careful examination, said there was nothing very wrong; the nervous system seemed to be a good deal exhausted, and the bronchial attack of the previous year had left the lungs delicate, but that with care she might live to old age.
He directed, however, that Mrs. Liddell should go as soon as possible to a southern climate. He recommended Cannes or San Remo—indeed it would be advisable that several winters in future should be spent in a more genial atmosphere than that of England.
This advice exactly suited the wishes both of Katherine and her mother.
How easy it was to make arrangements in their altered circumstances! How magical are the effects of money! How quickly Katherine grew accustomed to the unwonted ease of her present lot!If—oh, if—she were ever found out, how should she bear it? How could she endure the pinch of poverty, added to the poison of shame? But the idea that all this wealth was reallyhersgained on her, while her fears were lulled to sleep by a pleasant sense of comfort and security.
Mrs. Frederic Liddell was a good deal disturbed on hearing that her mother-in-law was ordered abroad.
"Pray what is to become ofme?" was her first question when Katherine announced the doctor's verdict. They were sitting over the fire in the drawing-room, after the boys had said good-night.
"Would you prefer staying in England?" asked Mrs. Liddell.
"For some reasons I should, but you know Imusthave something to live on."
"I know that," returned Katherine. "As I cannot execute any any deed of gift for two years, I think I had better give you an allowance for yourself and the boys, and let you do as you like. I have talked with Mr. Newton about it."
"Well, dear, I think itwouldbe the best plan," said Mrs. Frederic, amiably. "I have not the least scruple in taking the money, because you know it ought really to be ours."
"Exactly," returned Katherine, with a slight smile, and she named so liberal a sum that even Mrs. Fred was satisfied.
"Well, I am sure that is very nice, dear," she said; "and when you are of age will you settle it on my precious boys?"
"I will," replied Katherine, deliberately; "and I hope always to see a great deal of them."
"Of course you will, but you will not long be Katherine Liddell. When Mr. Wright comes, my boys will get leave to stay with their mother as much as they like."
"I do not think I shall easily forget them, even if Mr. Wright appears," said Katherine, good-humoredly.
"What a strange girl Katie is!" pursued her sister-in-law. "Was she never in love, Mrs. Liddell? Had she never any admirers?"
"Not that I know of, Ada."
"Oh! I have been in love many times!" cried Katherine, laughing. "Don't you remember, mother, the Russian prince I used to dance with at Madame du Lac's juvenile parties?—I made quite a romance about him; and that young Austrian—I forget his name—whom we met at Stuttgart, Baron Holdenberg's nephew; he was charming, to say nothing of Lohengrin and Tannhauser. I have quite a long list of loves, Ada. Oh, Ishouldlike to dance again! To float round to the music of a delightful Austrian band would be charming."
"My dear Katherine, that is all nonsense, as you will find out one day." Then, after some moments of evidently severe reflection, her brows knit, and her soft baby-like lips pressed together she said: "I think I should like to move nearer town, and get a nice nursery governess for Cis and Charlie, and—Don't you think it would be a good plan?"
"The governess, yes, as they will lose their present one when Katherine goes. But why not stay on here till next autumn, when the lease or agreement expires? You will have it all to yourself in about ten days, and it will be quite large enough," said Mrs. Liddell.
"Stay on here!" began her daughter-in-law, in a high key, and with a look of great disgust. She stopped herself suddenly, however, smoothed her brow, and added, "Well, I will think about it," after which, with unusual self-control, she changed the subject, and talked gravely about governesses, their salaries and qualifications, till it was time to go to bed.
A few days after this conversation the house was invaded by a host of applicants for the post of instructress to the two little boys. Every shade of complexion, all possible accomplishments, the most varied and splendid testimonials, were presented to the bewildered little widow, in consequence of her application to a governesses' institution. She was fain to ask Katherine to help her in choosing, much to the latter's satisfaction, as she did not like to offer assistance, though she wished to influence the choice of a preceptress. Together they fixed on a quiet, kindly looking young woman, to whom both took rather a fancy, and Katherine felt very much relieved to know that this important point was settled.
But Mrs. Frederic did not seem at ease; there was a restlessness about her, a disinclination to leave the house, that attracted Katherine's notice, although she was much occupied with preparations for their departure. At last the mystery was solved.
One afternoon Mrs. Liddell and Katherine had been a good deal later than usual in returning home, having determined to finish their shopping and take a few days' complete rest before starting on their travels.
Mrs. Frederic met them with a heightened color and a curious embarrassed look. The drawing room was lit by a splendid fire, and sweet with the perfume of abundant hot-house flowers; there was something vaguely prophetic in the air.
"Do come to the fire, dear Mrs. Liddell; you must be so cold! I have been quite uneasy about you," she exclaimed, effusively.
"Have you had a visitor, Ada?" asked Katherine, whose suspicions were aroused.
"I have, and I want to tell you all about it. I am far too candid to keep anything from those I love. My visitor was Colonel Ormonde. He asked me to marry him, and—and, dear Mrs. Liddell—Katherine—I hope you will not be offended, but I—I said I would," burst forth Mrs. Frederic; and then she burst into tears.
There was a minute's silence. Katherine flushed crimson, and did not speak, but Mrs. Liddell said, kindly: "My dear Ada, if you think Colonel Ormonde will make you happy and be kind to theboys, you are quite right. I never expected a young creature like you to live alone for the rest of your existence, and I believe Colonel Ormonde is a man of character and position."
"He is indeed," cried Ada, falling on her mother-in-law's neck. "You are the wisest, kindest woman in the world. And you, Katherine?"
"Idohope you will bevery, veryhappy," responded Katherine; "but I must say I think he is rather too old for you. That, however, is your affair."
"Yes, of course it is"—leaving Mrs. Liddell to hug Katherine. "I am quite fond of him; that is, I esteem and like him. Of course I shall never love any one as I did my dear darling Fred; but I do want some one to help me with the boys, and Marmaduke (that's his name) is quite fond of them. So now, dear Mrs. Liddell, I will stay on here till—till I am married, if you don't mind."
"It is the best thing you can do, Ada. I wish we could stay and be present at your marriage."
"But that is impossible," cried Katherine.
"And not at all necessary," added Mrs. Frederic, hastily. "My friend Mrs. Burnett will help me in every way, and I have been trouble enough already."
"I do not think so," said Mrs. Liddell, quietly. "But I am very weary. I will go to my room. Katie dear, bring me some tea presently."
And the widow escaped to rest, perhaps to weep over the bright boy so dear to her, so soon forgotten by the wife of his bosom.
Not many days after, Katherine and her mother set forth upon their travels, leaving nothing they regretted save the two little boys, respecting whose fate Katherine felt anything but satisfied. Of this she said nothing to her mother. And so, with temporary forgetfulness of the deed which was destined to color her whole life, she saw the curtain fall on the first act of her story.
"An interval of three weeks—six months—ten years," as the case may be—"is supposed to have elapsed since the last act." This is a very commonly used expression in play-bills, and there seems no just cause or impediment why a story-teller should not avail himself of the same device to waft the patient reader over an uneventful period, during which the hero or heroine has been granted a "breathing space" between the ebb and flow of harrowing adventures and moving incidents.
It was, then, more than two years since the last chapter, and a still cold day at the end of February—still and somewhat damp—in one of the midland shires—say Clayshire. The dank hedges and sodden fields had a melancholy aspect, which seemed to affect a couple of horsemen who were walking their jaded, much-splashedhorses along a narrow road, or rather lane, which led between a stretch of pasture-land on one side and a ploughed field on the other. The red coats and top-boots of both were liberally besprinkled with mud; even their hats had not quite escaped. Their steeds hung their heads and moved languidly; both horses and riders had evidently had a hard day's work. Presently the road sloped somewhat steeply to a hollow sheltered at one side by a steep bank overgrown with brushwood and large trees. The country behind the huntsmen was rather flat and very open, but from this point it became broken and wooded, sloping gradually up toward a distant range of low blue hills.
"Ha, you blundering idiot!" exclaimed the elder of the two men, pulling up his horse, a powerful roan, as he stumbled at the beginning of the descent. He was a big, heavy man with a red face, thick gray mustache, and small, angry-looking eyes. "He'll break my neck some day."
"Don't take away his character," returned his companion, laughing. "Remember he has had a hard run, and you are not a feather-weight." The speaker was tall (judging from the length of the well-shaped leg which lay close against his horse's side), large-framed, and bony; his plain strong face was tanned to swarthiness by exposure to wind and weather; moreover, a pair of deep-set dark eyes and long, nearly black mustache showed that he had been no fair, ruddy youth to begin with.
"No, by Jove!" exclaimed the first speaker. "I don't understand how it is that I grow so infernally stout. I am sure I take exercise enough, and live most temperately."
"Exercise! Yes, for five or six months; the rest of the twelve you do nothing. And as to living temperately, what with a solid breakfast, a heavy luncheon, and a serious dinner, you manage to consume a great deal in the twenty-four hours."
"Come, De Burgh! Hang it, I rarely eat lunch."
"Only when you can get it. Say two hundred and ninety times out of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year."
"I admit nothing of the sort. The fact is, what I eat goes into a good skin. Now you mightcramthe year round and be a bag of bones at the end of it."
"Thank God for all his mercies," replied De Burgh. "The fact is, you are a spoiled favorite of fortune, and in addition to all the good things you have inherited you pick up a charming wife who spoils you and coddles you in a way to make the mouth of an unfortunate devil like myself water with envy."
"None of that nonsense, De Burgh," complacently. "The heart of a benedict knoweth its own bitterness, though I can't complain much. If you hadn't been the recklessroueyou are, you might have been as well off as myself."
De Burgh laughed. "You see, I never cared for domestic bliss. I hate fetters of every description, and I lay the ruin of my morals to the score of that immortal old relative of mine who persists in keeping me out of my heritage. The conviction that you are always sure of an estate, and possibly thirty thousand a year, has a terrible effect on one's character."
"If you had stuck to the Service you'd have been high up by this time, with the reputation you made in the Mutiny time, for you were little more than a boy then."
"Ay, or low down! Not that I should have much to regret if I were. I have had a lot of enjoyment out of life, however, but at present I am coming to the end of my tether. I am afraid I'll have to sell the few acres that are left to me, and if that gets to the Baron's ears, good-by to my chance of his bequeathing me the fortune he has managed to scrape together between windfalls and lucky investments. The late Baroness had a pot of money, you know."
"I know there's not much property to go with the title."
"A beggarly five thousand a year. I say, Ormonde, are you disposed for a good thing? Lend me three thousand on good security? Six per cent., old man!"
"I am not so disposed, my dear fellow! I have a wife and my boy to think of now."
"Exactly," returned the other, with a sneer. "You have a new edition of Colonel Ormonde's precious self."
"Oh, your sneers don't touch me! You always had your humors; still I am willing to help a kinsman, and I will give you a chance if you like. What do you say to a rich young wife—none of your crooked sticks?"
"It's an awful remedy for one's financial disease, to mortgage one's self instead of one's property; still I suppose I'll have to come to it. Who is the proposed mortgagee?"
"My wife's sister."
"Oh!"
The tone of this "Oh!" was in some unaccountable way offensive to Colonel Ormonde. "Miss Liddell comes of a very good old county family I can tell you," he said, quickly; "a branch of the Somerset Liddells; and when I saw her last she was the making of an uncommon fine woman."
"But your wife was a Mrs. Liddell, was she not?"
"Yes. This girl is her sister-in-law, really, but Mrs. Ormonde looks on her as a sister."
"Hum! Shehasthe cash? I suppose you know all about it?"
"Well, yes, you may be sure of sixty or seventy thousand, which would keep you going till Lord de Burgh joins the majority."
"Yes, that might do; so 'trot her out.'"
"She is coming to stay with us in a week or two, before the hunting is quite over, so you will be down here still."
"I suspect I shall. The lease of the lodge won't be out till next September, and I may as well stay there as anywhere."
"Katherine Liddell is quite unencumbered; she has neither father nor mother, nor near relation of any kind; in fact Mrs. Ormonde and myself are her next friends, and in a few weeks she will be of age."
"All very favorable for her," said De Burgh, in his careless, commanding way. His tones were deep and harsh, and though unmistakably one of the "upper ten," there was a degree of roughness in his style, which, however, did not prevent him from beingrather a favorite with women, who always seemed to find his attentions peculiarly flattering.
"Come," cried Ormonde, "let us push on. I am getting chilled to the bone, and we are late enough already."
He touched his horse with the spur, and both riders urged their steeds to a trot. Turning a bend of the road, they came suddenly upon a young lady accompanied by two little boys, in smart velvet suits. They were walking in the direction of Castleford—walking so smartly that the smaller of the two boys went at a trot. "Hullo!" cried Colonel Ormonde, pulling up for an instant. "What are you doing here? I hope the baby has not been out so late?"
"Baby has gone to drive with mother," chorussed the boys eagerly, as if a little awed.
"All right! Time you were home too," and he spurred after De Burgh.
"Mrs. Ormonde's boys?" asked the latter.
"Yes; have you never seen them?"
"I knew they existed, but I cannot say I ever beheld them before."
"Oh, Mrs. Ormonde never bores people with her brats."
"After they are out of infancy," returned the other, dryly.
A remark which helped to "rile" Colonel Ormonde, and he said little more till they reached their destination, and both retired to enjoy the luxury of a bath before dressing for dinner.
John de Burgh was a distant relation of Ormonde's, but having been thrown together a good deal, they seemed nearer of kin than they really were. De Burgh was somewhat overbearing, and dominated Colonel Ormonde considerably. He was also somewhat lawless by nature, hating restraint and intent upon his own pleasure. The discipline of military life, light as it is to an officer, became intolerable to him when the excitement and danger of real warfare were past, and he resigned his commission to follow his own sweet will.
Ultimately he became renowned as a crack rider, and one of the best steeple-chase jockeys on the turf in all competitions between gentlemen.
Mrs. Ormonde considered him quite an important personage, heir to an old title, and first or second cousin to a host of peers. It took many a day to accustom her to think of her husband's connections without a sense of pride and exultation, at which Ormonde laughed heartily whenever he perceived it. On his side De Burgh thought her a very pretty little toy, quite amusing with her small airs and graces and assumption of fine-ladyism, and he showed her a good deal of indolent attention, at which her husband was rather flattered.
The rector of the parish and one or two officers of Colonel Ormonde's old regiment, which happened to be quartered at a manufacturing town a few miles distant, made up the party at dinner that evening, and afterward they dropped off one by one to the billiard-room, till Mrs. Ormonde and De Burgh found themselvestete-a-tete.
"Do you wear black every night because it suits you down to the ground?" he asked, after very deliberately examining her fromhead to foot, when he had thrown down a newspaper he had been scanning.
"No; I am in mourning. Don't you see I have only black lace and jet, and a little crape?"
"Ah! and that constitutes mourning, eh? Well, there is very little mourning in your laughing eyes. Who is dead?"
"My mother-in-law."
"Your mother-in-law! I didn't know Ormonde——"
"I mean Mrs. Liddell; and I am quite sorry for her; she was wonderfully fond of me, and very kind."
"Why, what an angel you must be to fascinate abelle-mere! Then the dear departed must be the mother of that Miss Liddell whom Ormonde was recommending to me this afternoon?"
"Who—my husband? How silly! She would not suit you a bit."
"Well, Ormonde thought her fortune might."
"Oh, her fortune! that is another thing. But she will not be so very rich if she fulfils her promise to settle part of her fortune on my boys. You see, if their poor father had lived, he would have shared their uncle's money with his sister. Now it is too hideously unjust that my poor dear boys should have nothing, and Katherine is very properly going to make it up to them."
"A young woman with a very high sense of justice. A good deal under the influence of her charming sister-in-law, I presume."
"Well, rather," returned Mrs. Ormonde, with an air of superiority. "Katherine is a mere enthusiastic school-girl, easily imposed upon. Both Colonel Ormonde and myself feel bound to look after her."
"Will she let you?" asked De Burgh, dryly.
"Of course she will. She knows nothing of the world, or at least very little, for she did not go much into society while they were abroad."
"Has she been abroad?"
"Yes; Mrs. Liddell was out of health when Katherine came into this money, and they have been away in Italy and Germany and Paris for quite two years. They were on their way home when Mrs. Liddell was taken ill. She died in Paris, of typhoid fever, just before Christmas."
"Two years in Italy, Germany, and Paris," repeated De Burgh; "she can't be quite a novice, then."
"Oh, she thinks she knows a great deal; and sheisa nice girl, though curious and fanciful. I like her very much indeed, but I do not fancyyouwould. She is certainly obstinate. Instead of coming direct to us, and making her home here, as we were quite willing she should, she has gone to Miss Payne, a woman who, I believe, exists by acting chaperon to rich girls with no relations. Fancy, she has absolutely agreed to live with this Miss Payne for a year before consulting us, or asking our consent—or—or anything!"
"Is she not a minor?"
"She will be of age in a week or two, and it makes me quite nervous to think that other influences may prevent her keeping her promise to my boys. It is a mercy she did not marry some greedyforeigner while she was under age. Fortunately, men never seemed to take a fancy to Katherine."
"They will be pretty sure to take a fancy to her money."
"I think she lived so quietly people did not suspect her of having any. She is awfully cut up about the death of her mother, and does not go anywhere. I hope she will come down here next week. The only person I am afraid of is a horrid stiff old lawyer who seems to be her right hand man. He went over to Paris when Mrs. Liddell died, and did everything, instead of sending for Colonel Ormonde! I felt quite hurt about it."
"Ha! a shrewd old lawyer is bad to beat," said De Burgh, looking at his lively informant with half-closed eyes and an amused expression. "I wouldn't be too sure of your sister if I were you. Under such guidance the young lady may alter her generous intentions."
"Pray do not say such horrible things, Mr. De Burgh!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, growing very grave, even pathetic, and looking inclined to cry. "What would become of me—I mean us—if she changed her mind? 'Duke would be furious; he would never forgive me."
"Pooh! nonsense! a man would forgive a woman like you anything."
"A woman, perhaps, but not his wife," she returned, shaking her head. "But I won't think of anything so dreadful. I am quite sure Katie will never break her word; she is awfully true."
"That is rather an alarming character. You make me quite curious. What is she like—anything like you?"
"Not a bit. You know, she is only my sister-in-law. She is tall and large, and much more decided"—looking up in his face with a caressing smile.
"I understand. Not a delicate little darling, made for laughter and kisses, and sugar, and spice, and all that's nice, likeyou." This with an insolent, admiring look. "Not a woman to fall in love with, but useful as a wife to keep one's household up to the collar."
"Really, Mr. De Burgh, you are very shocking! You must not say such things to me."
"Mustn't I? How shall you prevent me? I am a relative, you know. You can't treat me as a stranger."
"You are quite too audacious—" she was beginning, when a slim young cornet came back from the billiard-room.
"The Colonel wants you, Mrs. Ormonde," he said; "and you too, De Burgh. We are not enough for pool, and you play a capital game, Mrs. Ormonde."
"What are the stakes?" asked De Burgh, rising readily enough.
"Oh, I can't play well at all," said Mrs. Ormonde, following him with evident reluctance. "Certainly not when Colonel Ormonde is looking on."
"Oh, never mind him. I'll screen you from his hypercritical eyes," returned De Burgh, as he held the door open for her to pass out.
So it was, after a spell of heavenly tranquility, as Katherine and her mother were on their way to England, intending to make a home in or near London, Mrs. Liddell had been struck down with fever, and Katherine was left unspeakably desolate. Then she turned to her old friend Mr. Newton, and found him of infinite use and comfort.
A short space of numb inaction followed, during which she fully realized the loneliness of her position, and from which she roused herself to plan her future.
At the time Mrs. Liddell was first attacked with fever they had just renewed their acquaintance with a Miss Payne, whom they had met in Rome and at Berlin. She was not unknown in society, for she came of a good old county family, and was half-sister of the Bertie whose name has already appeared in these pages.
Their father, with an old man's pride in a handsome only son, had left the bulk of his fortune to Bertie, while Hannah, who had ministered to his comfort and borne his ill-humor, inherited only a paltry couple of hundred a year, with a fairly well furnished house in Wilton Street, Hyde Park. Her brother would have willingly added to this pittance, but she sternly refused to accept what did not of right belong to her. Bertie went with his regiment to India, whence he returned a wiser, a poorer, and a physically weaker man.
His sister, whose business instincts were much too strong to permit her wrapping up such a "talent" as a freehold house in the napkin of unfruitful occupation, looked round to see how she could best turn it to account. Accident threw in her way a girl of large fortune with no relations, whose guardians, thankful to find a respectable home for her, readily agreed to pay Miss Payne handsomely for taking charge of the orphan. Her firstprotegeemarried well, under her auspices, and from henceforth her house was rarely empty. Sometimes she accepted a roving commission and travelled with her charge, meanwhile letting her house in town, so making a double profit. It was on one of these expeditions that she was introduced to Mrs. and Miss Liddell. There was an air of sincerity and common-sense about the composed elderly gentlewoman which rather attracted the former, and, when they met again in Paris, Miss Payne came to Katie in her trouble and proved a brave and capable nurse; nor was she unsympathetic, though far from effusive. So, finding that Miss Payne's last young lady had left her, Katherine, with the approval of Mr. Newton, proposed to become her inmate for a year—an arrangement entirely in accordance with Miss Payne's wishes.
"I did not know you were acquainted with Miss Liddell," she said one evening when she was sitting with her brother, Katherine having retired early, as she often did. "It is quite a surprise to me."
"I can hardly say I am acquainted with her; I happened to be of some slight use to her once, and I met her after by accident, when we spoke; that is all."
"I wonder she did not mention it to me."
"I imagine she hardly knew my name." Miss Payne uttered an inarticulate sound between a h'm and a groan, by which she generally expressed indefinite dissent and disapprobation. Then she roseand walked to the dwarf bookcase at the end of the room to fetch her tatting. She was tall and slight. Following her, you might imagine her young, for her figure was good and her step brisk. Meeting her face to face, her pale, slightly puckered cheeks, closely compressed lips, keen light eyes, and crisp pepper-and-salt hair—Cayenne pepper, for it had once been red—suggested at least twenty or twenty-five additional years as compared with the back view.
Returning to her seat, she began to tat, slowing drawing each knot home with a reflective air.
"That woman is hunting her up," she exclaimed suddenly, after a few minutes' silence, during which Bertie looked thoughtfully at the fire—his quiet face, with its look of unutterable peace, the strongest possible contrast to his sister's hard, shrewd aspect.
"What woman?" asked, as if recalled from a dream.
"Mrs. Ormonde. There was a telegram from her this afternoon. She has been worrying Miss Liddell to go to them ever since she set foot in England; and as that won't do, she is coming up to-morrow to see what personal persuasion will do."
"I dare say Mrs. Ormonde is fond of her sister-in-law. She is too well off to have any mercenary designs."
"Is that all your experience has taught you?" (contemptuously). "If there is any truth in hand-writing, that Mrs. Ormonde is a fool. Her letter after Mrs. Liddell's death, which Katherine showed me because it touched her, was the production of an effusive idiot. I don't trust sentimentalists; they seldom have much honesty or justice. Katherine Liddell is a little soft too, but she is by no means so asinine as the others I have had. Wait, however—wait till some man takes her fancy; that is the divining-rod to show where the springs of folly lie."
"Miss Liddell is a good deal changed," returned Bertie, slowly. "She looks considerably older. No, that is not the right expression: I mean she seems more mature than when I saw her before. What she says is said deliberately; what she does is with the full consciousness of what she is doing; but she looks as if she had suffered."
"She has," said Miss Payne, with an air of conviction. "Her grief for her mother was, is, deep and real. I don't believe in floods of tears—they are a relief."
"Yes; and though she looks so pale and sad, she is not a whit less beautiful than she was."
"Beautiful!" repeated Miss Payne. "I rather admire her myself, but I don't think any one could call her beautiful."
"Perhaps not. There is so much expression in her face, such feeling in her eyes, that not many really beautiful women would stand comparison with her."
Miss Payne sniffed, and then she smiled. "She is not a commonplace young woman, though I fear she is easily imposed upon. I am afraid she may be snapped up by some plausible fortune-hunter."
Bertie frowned slightly. "I trust she may be guided to happiness with some good, God-fearing man," he said, and then, he bid his sister good-night somewhat abruptly.
Meantime, Katherine sat plunged in thought beside the fire in her bedroom. She was not given to weeping, but she was profoundly sad. To find herself again in London without her mother seemed to renew the intense grief which had indeed lost but little of its keenness. Never had a mother been more terribly missed. They had been such sympathetic friends, such close companions; they had had such a hearty respect for and appreciation of each other's qualities, such a pleasant comprehension of each other's different tastes, that it would be hard to fill the place of the dear, lost comrade with whom she had hitherto walked hand in hand. It soothed her to think of the delightful tranquility Mrs. Liddell had enjoyed for the last two years, of the untroubled sweetness of their intercourse, of her mother's last contented words: "I am quite happy, dear. Your future is secure, and you have never given me a moment's pain. We have had such delightful days together!"
How could she have borne to have seen a pained, anxious look—such a look as was once familiar to them—in those dear eyes, as they closed forever on this mortal scene! Oh, thank God for the heavenly security of those last days whatever the price she had paid for them!
Motherless, she was utterly desolate. It would be long, long before she could find any one to fill her mother's place, if she ever did. For the present she was satisfied to stay with Miss Payne, but she did not think she could ever love her. The idea of residing with Colonel Ormonde and his wife was distasteful. The most attractive scheme was to beg her little nephews from their mother, and take them to live with her. She was almost of age, andfeltold enough to set up for herself. As she pondered on these things she felt bitterly that, rich or poor, a homeless woman is a wretched creature.
At last she went to bed, and lay for a while watching the fire-light as it cast flickering shadows, thinking of the tender, watchful love which had dropped away out of her life; and with the murmured words, "Dear, dear mother!" on her lips she fell asleep.
The next day broke bright and clear, though cold, and having kept Katherine at home all day, Mrs. Ormonde made her appearance in time for afternoon tea.
"My dear, dearest Katherine!" cried the little woman, fluttering in, all fur and feathers, in the richest and most becoming morning toilette, looking prettier and younger than ever, "I amsodelighted to see you once more! Why have you staid in town, instead of coming straight to us?" and she embraced her tall sister-in-law effusively.
Katherine returned her embrace. For a moment or two she could not command her voice; the sight of the known childish face, the sound of the shrill familiar voice, brought a flood of sudden sorrow over her heart; but Mrs. Ormonde was not the sort of woman to whom she could express it.
"AndIam very glad to seeyou, Ada! How well you are looking—even younger and fairer than you used!"
"Yes, I am uncommonly well; and you, dear, you are looking pale and ill and older! You will forgive me, but I am quite distressed. You must come down to Castleford at once."
"Thank you. Where are the boys? I hoped you would bring them."
"Oh, Colonel Ormonde thought they would be too troublesome for me in a hotel, so I left them behind. They were awfully disappointed, poor dears; but it is betteryoushould come down and see them. Cecil is going to school after Easter, and I believe Charlie must go soon."
"I long to see them," said Katherine, assisting her visitor to take off her cloak.
"AndIlong to show you my new little boy," cried Mrs. Ormonde, drawing a chair to the fire, and putting her small, daintily shod feet on the fender. "He is a splendid child, amazingly forward for six months."
"I am glad you are so happy, Ada; I shall be pleased to make the acquaintance of my new nephew. I suppose I may consider him a sort of nephew?"
"My dear, ofcourse! Colonel Ormonde, as well as myself, is proud to consider you his aunt. Yes, I am very happy—though Ormondeisrather provoking sometimes; still, he is not half bad, and I know how to manage him. You aresucha favorite with my husband, Katie. He admires you so much, I sometimes threaten to be jealous—why, what is the matter, dear?"
Katherine had suddenly covered her face with her handkerchief and burst into tears.
"Do not mind me, Ada!" she said, when she could speak. "It was just that name; no one has called me Katie except my mother and you, and the idea that I should never hear her speak again overpowered me for a moment."
Mrs. Ormonde was puzzled. Not knowing what to do in face of a great grief, she took out her own pocket-handkerchief politely.
"Of course, dear," she said; "it is quite natural. I was awfully cut up when I heard of your sad loss—and mine too, for I am sure Mrs. Liddell loved me like her own child; it was quite wonderful for a mother-in-law. I was afraid to speak to you about her, but I am sure she would like you to live with us; it is your natural home. And—and she would, I am sure, be pleased if she can know what is going on here below, to see that you fulfilled your kind intentions to her poor little grandsons." These last words with some hesitation.
Katherine kept silence, and still held her handkerchief to her eyes. So Mrs. Ormonde resumed: "A good, religious girl like you, Katherine, must feel that it is right to submit to the will of—"
"Yes, yes; I know all about that," interrupted Katherine, who was rather irritated than soothed by her sister-in-law's attempt at preaching; and recovering herself, she added: "I will not worry you with my tears. Tell me how the boys get on with Colonel Ormonde."
"Very well indeed, especially Cecil. 'Duke is very kind. They have a pony, and quite enjoy the country; but now that we have a boy of our own, we feel doubly anxious that Cis and Charlie should be permanently provided for; so do, dear, come back with me, and talk it all over with my husband. He issucha good man of business."
Katherine smiled faintly; she had not seen the drift of Mrs. Ormonde's remarks at first; there was no mistaking them now. A slightly mischievous sense of power kept her from setting her sister-in-law's mind at rest immediately.
"I do not think it necessary to consult with Colonel Ormonde, Ada, for I have quite made up my mind what to do. I think you may trust your boys to me. I must see Mr. Newton and arrange many matters, so I do not think I can go to you just yet. Then, I do not like to be in the way, and I couldnotmix in society just yet. Oh, I am not morbid or sentimental, but some months of seclusion Imusthave."
Mrs. Ormonde played with the tassel of the screen with which she sheltered her face from the fire while she thought: "What can she really mean to do? I wonder if she is engaged to any one, and waiting for him here? Once she is married, good-by to a settlement. She is awfully deep!" Then she said aloud, coaxingly, "Oh, we are very quiet home-staying people. We have a few men to stay now and again, but we never give big dinners. Tell me the truth, dear, are you not engaged? It would be but natural. A charming girl like you, with a large fortune, could not escape a multitude of lovers."
"You are wrong, Ada. I am not engaged, and I have no lovers. Of course a prince or two and a German graf did me the honor of proposing to annex my property, taking myself with it. Any well-dowered girl may expect such offers in Continental society; but they did not affect me."
"No, no; certainly not! It will be an Englishman. Quite right. And 'Duke must find out all about him. You know, dear, you would marry ever so much better frommyhouse than you possibly couldhere, with a person who, after all, merely keeps apension."
"If Miss Payne could hear you!" said Katherine.
"Oh, I should never say it to her. But, Katherine, now is your time, when you are of age, and before you marry—now is the time to settle whatever you intend to settle on my poor little boys. I am sure you will excuse me for mentioning it, won't you? Between you and me, I don't think 'Duke would have married if he had not believed you would provide for Cis and Charlie. I don't know what would become of us if they were thrown on his hands."
"You need not fear," cried Katherine, quickly. "My nephews shall never cost Colonel Ormonde a sou."
"No, I was sure you wouldn't, dear, you are such a kind, generous creature, so unselfish. I do hate selfishness, and though the allowance you now give is very handsome—"
"I am to make it a little larger," put in Katherine, good-humoredly, as Mrs. Ormonde paused, not knowing how to finish her sentence. "Be content, Ada; you shall have due notice when I have made all my plans. I have a good deal to do, for I ought to make my will too."
"Your will! Oh yes, to be sure. I never thought of that. But if you marry it will be of no use."
"Until Iammarried it will be of use."
"And when do you intend to come to us?"
"Oh, some time next month."
"I hope so. I want to come up for a while after Easter, and am trying to get the Colonel to take a house;thatdepends on you a good deal. If you would join me in taking a house for three months he would agree at once."
"But I have just agreed to stay with Miss Payne for a year."
"How foolish! how short-sighted!" cried Mrs. Ormonde. "You will be just lost in a second-rate place like this."
"It will suit me perfectly. I only want rest and peace at present. I dare say it will not be so always."
"Well, I know there is no use in talking to you. You will go your own way. Only, as I am in town,docome to my dressmaker's. Though you had your mourning in Paris, do you know, you look quite dowdy. You'll not mind my saying so?"
"I dare say I do. Miss Payne got everything for me."
"Oh, are you going to give yourself into her hands blindfold? I am afraid she is a designing woman. You really must get some stylish dresses. You must do yourself justice."
"I have as many as I want, and there is no need of wasting money, even if you have a good deal. How many poor souls need food and clothes!"
"Oh, Katherine, if you begin to talk in that way, you will be robbed and plundered to no end."
"I hope not. Here is tea, and Miss Payne. I will come and see you to-morrow early, and bring some little presents for the boys."
Mrs. Ormonde lingered as long as she could. Bond Street was paradise to her, Regent Street an Elysian Field. While she staid she gave her sister-in-law little peace, and until she had departed Katherine did not attempt to go into business matters with Mr. Newton. She was half amused, half disgusted, at Mrs. Ormonde's perpetual reminders, hints, and innuendoes touching the settlement on her boys. Ada was the same as ever, yet Katherine liked her for the sake of the memories she evoked and shared.
It was quite a relief when she left town, and Katherine felt once more her own mistress. Her heart yearned for her little nephews, but she felt it was wiser to wait and see them at home rather than send for them at present. She greatly feared that the new baby, the son of a living, prosperous father, was pushing the sons of the first husband—who had taken his unlucky self out of the world, where he had been anything but a success—from their place in her affections.
Meantime she held frequent consultations with Mr. Newton, who was very devoted to her service, and anxious to do his best for her. He remonstrated earnestly with her on her over-generosity to her nephews. "Provide for them if you will, my dear young lady, butbelieve me you are by no means called upon todivideyour property with them. Do not make them too independent of you; hold something in your hand. Besides, you do not know what considerations may arise to make you regret too great liberality."
"I have very little use for money now," said Katherine, sadly.
"You have always been remarkably moderate in your expenditure," returned the lawyer, who had the entire management of her affairs. "But now you will probably like to establish yourself in London, say, for headquarters."
"Not for the present. I shall stay where I am until some plan of life suggests itself."
"Perhaps you are right, and certainly you are a very prudent young lady."
This conversation took place in Mr. Newton's office, and after some further discussion Katherine was persuaded to settle a third instead of the half of her property on her nephews, out of which a jointure was to be paid to Mrs. Ormonde.
"I wish I could have the boys with me," said Katherine, as she rose to leave Mr. Newton.
"My dear Miss Liddell, take care how you saddle yourself with the difficult task of standingin loco parentis; leave the very serious responsibilities of bringing up boys to the mother whose they are. At your age, and with the almost certainty of forming new ties, such a step would be very imprudent."
"At all events I shall see how they all get on at Castleford before I commit myself to anything. You will lose no time, dear Mr. Newton, in getting this deed ready for my signature. I do not want to say anything about it till it is 'signed, sealed, and delivered.'"
"It shall be put in hand at once. When shall you be going out of town?"
"Not for ten days or a fortnight."
"The sooner the better. I do not like to see you look so pale and sad. Excuse me if I presume in saying so. Well, I don't think your uncle ever did a wiser act than in destroying that will of his before he made another. The extraordinary instinct he had about money must have warned him that his precious fortune would be best bestowed on so prudent yet so generous a young lady as yourself."
"Don't praise me, Mr. Newton," said Katherine, sharply. "Could you see me as I see myself, you would know how little I deserve it."
"I am sure I should know nothing of the kind," returned the old lawyer, smiling. Katherine was a prime favorite with him—quite his ideal of a charming and admirable woman. All he hoped was that when the sharp edge of her grief had worn off she would mix in society and marry some highly placed man worthy of her, a Q.C., if one young enough could be found, who was on the direct road to the woolsack.
The evening of this day Bertie Payne came in, as he often did after dinner. Katherine was always pleased to see him. He brought a breath of genial life into the rather glacial atmosphere of Miss Payne's drawing-room. Yet there was something soothing to Katherine in the orderly quiet of the house, in the conviction,springing from she knew not what, that Miss Payne liked her heartily in her steady, undemonstrative fashion. She never interfered with Katherine in any way; she was ready to go with her when asked, or to let her young guest go on her own business alone and unquestioned, while she saw to her comfort, and proved much more companionable than Katherine expected.
On this particular evening which marked a new mental epoch for Katherine Liddell, the two companions were sitting by the fire in Miss Payne's comfortable though rather old-fashioned drawing-room, the curtains drawn, the hearth aglow, Miss Payne engaged on a large piece of patchwork which she had been employed upon for years, while Katherine read aloud to her. This was a favorite mode of passing the evening; it saved the trouble of inventing conversation—for Miss Payne was not loquacious—and it was more sympathetic than reading to one's self. Miss Payne, it need scarcely be said, had no patience with novels; biography and travels were her favorite studies; nor did she disdain history, though given to be sceptical concerning accounts of what had happened long ago. She had never been so happy and comfortable with any of herprotegeesas with Katherine, though, as she observed to her brother, she did not expect it to last. "Stay till she is a little known, and the mothers of marriageable sons get about her; then it will be the old thing over again—dress, drive, dance, hurry-scurry from morning till night. However, I'll make the most of the present."
Miss Payne, then, and her "favored guest" were cozily settled for the evening when Bertie entered.
"May I present myself in a frock coat?" he asked, as he shook hands with Katherine. "I have had rather a busy day, and found myself in your neighborhood just now, so could not resist looking in."
"At your usual work, I suppose," said Miss Payne, severely. "Pray have you had anything to eat?"
"Yes, I assure you. I dined quite luxuriously at Bethnal Green about an hour and a half ago."
"Ha! at a coffee-stall, I suppose; a cup of coffee and a ha'p'orth of bread. I must insist on your having some proper food." Miss Payne put forth her hand toward the bell as she spoke.
"Do not give yourself the trouble; I really do not want anything, nor will I take anything beyond a cup of tea." Bertie drew a chair beside Katherine, asked what she was reading, and talked a little about the news of the day. Then he fell into silence, his eyes fixed on the fire, a very grave expression stilling his face.
"What are you thinking of?" asked his sister. "What misery have you been steeping yourself in to-day?"
"Misery indeed," he echoed. Then, meeting Katherine's eyes fixed upon him, he smiled. "Of course I see misery every day," he continued, "but I don't like to trouble you with too much of it. To-day I met with an unusually hard case, and I am going to ask you for some help toward righting it."
"Tell me what you want," said Katherine.
"Are you sure the story is genuine?" asked Miss Payne.
"I am quite sure. I went into Bow Street Police Court to-day,intending to speak to the sitting magistrate about some children respecting whom he had asked for information, when I was attracted by the face of a woman who was being examined; she was poorly clad, but evidently respectable—like a better class of needle-woman. I never saw a face express such despair. It seemed she had been caught in the act of stealing two loaves from the shop of a baker. The poor creature did not deny it. Her story was that she had been for some years a widow; that she had supported herself and two children by needle-work and machine-work. Illness had impoverished her and diminished her connection, other workers having been taken on in her absence. In short she had been caught in that terrible maelstrom of misfortune from whichnoone can escape without a helping hand. Her sewing machine was seized for rent; one article after another of furniture and clothes went for food; at last nothing was left. She roamed the city, reduced to beg at last, and striving to make up her mind to go to the workhouse, the cry of the hungry children she had left in her ears. At several bakers' shops she had petitioned for food and had been refused. At last, entering one while the shop-girl's back was turned, she snatched a couple of small loaves and rushed out into the arms of a policeman, who had seen the theft through the window."
"And would the magistrate punish her for this?" asked Katherine, eagerly.
"He must. Theft is theft, whatever the circumstances that seem to extenuate it. Nothing, no need, gives a right to take what does not belong to you. But, for all that, I am certain the poor creature has been honest hitherto, and deserves help. She is committed to prison for stealing, and I promised her I would look to her children; so I have been to see them, and took them to the Children's Refuge that you were kind enough to subscribe to, Miss Liddell. To-morrow we must do what we can for the mother. I imagine it is worse than death to her to be put in prison."
"I do not wonder at it," ejaculated Miss Payne. "And in spite of what you say, Bertie, I should not like to give any materials to be made up by a woman who deliberately stole in broad daylight."
"I do not see that the light made any difference," returned Bertie; and they plunged into a warm discussion. Katherine soon lost the sense of what they were saying. Her heart was throbbing as if a sudden stunning blow had been dealt her, and the words, "Theft is theft, whatever the circumstances that seem to extenuate it," beat as if with a sledge-hammer on her brain.
If for a theft, value perhaps sixpence, this poor woman, who had been driven to it by the direst necessity, was exposed to trial, to the gaze of careless lookers-on, to loss of character, to the exposure of her sore want, to the degradation of imprisonment, what should be awarded to her, Katherine Liddell, an educated gentlewoman, for stealing a large fortune from its rightful owner, and that, too, under no pressure of immediate distress? True, she firmly believed that had her uncle not been struck down by death he would have left her a large portion of it; that she had a better right to it than a stranger.Still that did not alter the fact that she was a thief. If every one thus dared to infringe the rights of others, what law, what security would remain?
These ideas had never quite left her since the day she had written "Manuscript to be destroyed" on the fatal little parcel, which had been ever with her during her various journeyings since. More than once she had made up her mind to destroy it, but some influence—some terror of destroying this expression of what her uncle once wished—had stayed her hand; her courage stopped there. Perhaps a faint foreshadowing of some future act of restitution caused this reluctance, unknown to herself, but certainly at present no such possibility dawned upon her. She felt that she held her property chiefly in trust for others, especially her nephews. Often she had forgotten her secret during her mother's lifetime, but the consciousness of it always returned with a sense of being out of moral harmony, which made her somewhat fitful in her conduct, particularly as regarded her expenditure, being sometimes tempted to costly purchases, and anon shrinking from outlay as though not entitled to spend the money which was nominally hers. Nathan's parable did not strike more humiliating conviction to Israel's erring king than Bertie Payne's "ower true tale." At length she mastered these painful thoughts, and sought relief from them in speech.
"What do you think of doing for this poor woman?" she asked, taking a screen to shelter her face from the fire and observation.
"I have not settled details in my own mind yet," he said; "but as soon as she is released I must get her into a new neighborhood and redeem her sewing-machine. Then, if we can get her work and help her till she begins to earn a little, she may get on."
"Pray let me help in this," said Katherine, earnestly. "I live quite a selfish life, and I should be thankful if you will let me furnish what money you require."
"That I shall with great thankfulness. But, Miss Liddell, if you are anxious to find interesting work, why not come and see our Children's Refuge and the schools connected with it? Then there is an association for advancing small sums to workmen in time of sickness, or to redeem their tools, which is affiliated to a ladies' visiting club, the members of which make themselves acquainted personally with the men and their families."
"I shall be most delighted to go with you to both, but I do not think I could do any good myself. I am so reluctant to preach to poor people, who have so much more experience, so much more real knowledge of life, than I have, merely because theyarepoor."
"I do not want you to do so, but I think personal contact with the people you relieve is good both for those benefited and their benefactor."
"I suppose it is; and those poor old people who cannot read or are blind, I am quite willing to read to them if they like it."
"I can find plenty for you to do, Miss Liddell," Bertie was beginning when his sister broke in with:
"This is quite too bad, Bertie. You know I will not have you dragging my young friends to catch all sorts of disorders in the slums. You must be content with Miss Liddell's money."
"Miss Payne, I really do wish to see something of the work on which your brother is engaged, and—forgive me if I seem obstinate—I am resolved to help him if I can."
The result of the conversation was that the greater portion of the contents of Miss Liddell's purse was transferred to Bertie's, and he left them in high spirits, having arranged to call for Katherine the next day in order to escort her to the Children's Refuge and some other institutions in which he took an interest.
From this time for several weeks Katherine was greatly occupied in the benevolent undertakings of her new friend. The endless need, the degradations of extreme poverty, the hopeless condition of such masses of her fellow-creatures, depressed her beyond description. She would gladly have given to her uttermost farthing, but it would be a mere drop in the ocean of misery around.
"Even if we could supply their every want, and give each family a decent home," she said to Bertie one evening as she walked back with him, "they would not know how to keep it or to enjoy it. If the men, and the women too, have not the tremendous necessity to labor that they may live, they relax and become mere brutes. We must, above all things, educate them."
"Yes, education is certainly necessary; but the most ignorant being who has laid hold on the Rock of Ages, who has received the spirit of adoption whereby he can cry, 'Abba, Father!' has a means of elevation and refinement beyond all that books and art can teach," cried Bertie, with more warmth than he usually allowed himself to show.
"You believe that? I cannot say I do. We need other means of moral and intellectual life besides spiritualism. At least I have tried to be religious, but I always get weary."
"That is only because you have not found the straight and true road," said Bertie, earnestly. "Pray, my dear Miss Liddell—pray, and light will be given you."
"Thank you—you are very good," murmured Katherine "At all events, though we can do but little, it is a comfort to help some of these poor creatures, especially the children and old people."