"It is," he returned. "And if it be consolatory to minister to their physical wants, how much more to feed their immortal souls!"
Katherine was silent for a few minutes, and then said: "It is impossible they can think much about their souls when they suffer so keenly in their bodies. Poverty and privation which destroy self-respect cannot allow of spiritual aspiration. Is it to be always like this—one class steeped in luxury, the other grovelling in cruel want?"
"Our Lord says, 'Ye have the poor always with you,'" returned Bertie. "Nor can we hope to see the curse of original sin lifted from life here below until the great manifestation; in short, till Shiloh come."
"Do you think so? I do not like to think that Satan is too strong for God," said Katherine, thoughtfully.
Bertie replied by exhorting her earnestly not to trust to mere human reason, to accept the infallible word of God, "and so find safety and rest." Katherine did not reply.
"I think you could help me in a difficult case," said Bertie, a few days after this conversation.
"Indeed!" said Katherine, looking up from the book she was reading by the fire after dinner. "What help can I possibly give?"
"Hear my story, and you will see."
"I shall be most happy if I can help you. Pray go on."
"You know Dodd, the porter and factotum at the Children's Refuge? Well, Dodd has a mother, a very respectable old dame, who keeps a very mild sweety shop, and also sells newspapers, etc. Mrs. Dodd, besides these sources of wealth, lets lodgings, and seems to get on pretty well. Now Dodd came to me in some distress, and said, 'Would you be so good, sir, as to see mother? she wants a word with you bad, very bad.' I of course said I was very ready to hear what she had to say. So I called at the little shop, which I often pass. I found the old lady in great trouble about a young woman who had been lodging with her for some time. She, Mrs. Dodd, did not know that her lodger was absolutely ill, but she scarcely eats anything, she never went out, she sometimes sat up half the night. Hitherto she had paid her rent regularly, but on last rent-day she had said she could only pay two weeks more, after which she supposed she had better go to the workhouse. When first she came she used to go out looking for work, but that ceased, and she seemed in a half-conscious state. As I was a charitable gentleman, would I go and speak to her? Well, rather reluctantly, I did. I went upstairs to a dreary back room, and found a decidedly lady-like young woman, neatly dressed enough, but ghastly white with dull eyes. She seemed to be dusting some books, but looked too weary to do much. She was not surprised or moved in any way at seeing me. When I apologized for intruding upon her, she murmured that I was very good. Then I asked if I could help her in any way. She thanked me, but suggested nothing. When I pressed her to express her needs, she said that life was not worth working for, but that she supposed they would give her something to do in the workhouse, and she would do it. As for seeking work, she could not, that she was a failure, and only cared not to trouble others. I was quite baffled. She was so quiet and gentle, and spoke with such refinement, that I was deeply interested. I called again this morning, and she would hardly answer me. As she is young (not a great deal older than yourself), perhaps a lady—a woman—might win her confidence. She seems to have been a dressmaker. Could you not offer her some employment, and draw her from the extraordinary lethargy which seems to dull her faculties? No mind can hold out against it; she will die or become insane."
"It is very strange. I should be very glad to help her, but I feel afraid to attempt anything. I shall be so awkward. What can I say to begin with?"
"Your offering her work would make an opening. Do try. I am sure her case needs a woman's delicate touch."
"I will do my best," said Katherine. "It all sounds terribly interesting. Shall I go to-morrow?"
"Yes, by all means. I am so very much obliged to you. I feel you will succeed."
"Don't be too sure."
The next day, a drizzling damp morning, Katherine, feeling unusually nervous, was quite ready when Bertie called for her. The drive to Camden Town seemed very long, but it came to an end at last, all the sooner because Bertie stopped the cab some little way way from the sweety shop.
"I have brought a young lady to see your invalid," said Bertie, introducing Katherine to Mrs. Dodd, a short broad old lady, with a shawl neatly pinned over her shoulders, a snowy white cap with black ribbons, and a huge pair of spectacles, over which she seemed always trying to look.
"I'm sure it's that kind of you, sir. And Iamglad you have come. The poor thing has been offering me a nice black dress this morning to let her stay on. It's the last decent thing she has. I expect she has been just living on her clothes. I'll go and tell her. Maybe miss will come after me, so as not to give her time to say no?"
Katherine cast a troubled look at Bertie. "Don't wait for me," she said; "your time is always so precious. I dare say I can get a cab for myself." And she followed Mrs. Dodd up a steep narrow dark stair.
"Here is a nice lady come to see you," said Mrs. Dodd, in a soothing tone suited to an infant or a lunatic.
"No, no; I don't want any lady; I would rather not see any lady," cried a voice naturally sweet-toned, but now touched with shrill terror. Curiously enough, this token of fear gave Katherine courage. Here was some poor soul wanting comfort sorely.
"Do not forbid me to come in," she said, walking boldly into the room, and addressing the inmate with a kind bright smile. "I very much want some needle-work done, and I shall be glad if you will undertake it." While she spoke, Mrs. Dodd retired and softly closed the door. Katherine found herself face to face with a ladylike-looking young woman, small and slight—slight even to extreme thinness—fair-skinned, with large blue eyes, delicate features, a quantity of fair hair carelessly coiled up, and with white cheeks. The strange pallor of her trembling lips, the despair in her eyes, the shrinking, hunted look of face and figure, almost frightened her visitor. "I hope you are not vexed with me for coming in," faltered Katherine, deferentially; "but they said you wanted employment, and I should like to give you some. You must be ill, you look so pale. Can I not be of some use to you?"
The girl's pale cheek flushed as, partially recovering herself, she stood up holding the back of her chair, her eyes fixed on the floor; she seemed endeavoring to speak, but the words did not come. At last, in a low, hesitating voice: "You are too good. I have tried to find work vainly; now I do not think I have the force to do any." The color faded away from the poor sunken cheeks, and the eyes hid themselves persistently under the downcast lids.
"I am sure you are very weak," returned Katherine, tenderly, for there was something inexpressibly touching in the hopelessness of the stranger's aspect. "But some good food and the prospect of employment will set you up, When you are a little stronger andknow me better you will perhaps tell me how Mr. Payne and I can best help you. We all want each other's help at times; and life must not be thrown away, you know. I do not wish to intrude upon you, but you see we are nearly of an age, and we ought to understand and help each other. It is my turn now; it may be yours by-and-by."
"Mine!" with unspeakable bitterness.
"Do sit down," said Katherine, who felt her tears very near her eyes, "and I will sit by you for a little while. Why, you are unfit to stand, and you are so cold!" She pulled off her gloves, and taking one of the poor girl's hands in both her own soft warm ones, chafed it gently. No doubt practically charitable people would smile indulgently at Katherine's enthusiastic sympathy; but she was new to such work, and felt that she had to deal with no common subject. Whether it was the tender tone or the kindly touch, but the hard desperate look softened, and big tears began to roll down, and soon she was weeping freely, quietly, while she left her hand in Katherine's, who held it in silence, feeling how the whole slight frame shook with the effort to control herself.
At length Katherine rose and went downstairs to take counsel with Mrs. Dodd. "She seems quite unable to recover herself. Ought she not to have a little wine or something?"
"Yes, miss; it's justthatshe wants. She is nigh starved to death."
"Have you any wine?"
"Well, no, miss; but there's a tavern round the corner where you can get very good port from the wood. I'll send the girl for a pint."
"Pray do, and quickly, and some biscuits or something; here is some money. What is her name?"
"Trant—Miss Trant," returned Mrs. Dodd, knowing who her interrogator meant. "Leastways we always called her miss, for she is quite the lady."
Katherine hurried back, and found Miss Trant lying back in her chair greatly exhausted. With instinctive tact Katherine assumed an air of authority, and insisted on her patient eating some biscuits soaked in wine.
Presently Miss Trant sat up, and, as if with an effort raised her eyes to Katherine's. "I am not worth so much trouble," she said. "You deserve that I should obey you. It is all I can do to show gratitude. If, then, you will be content with very slow work, I will thankfully do what you wish; but I must have time."
"So you shall," cried Katherine, delightedly. "You shall have plenty of time to make me a dress; that will be more amusing than plain work. I will bring you the material to-morrow, and if you fit me well, you know, it may lead to a great business;" and she smiled pleasantly.
"What is your name?" asked the patient, feebly. Katherine told her. "You are so good, you make me resigned to live."
"Do you care to read?"
"I used to love it; but I have no books, nor could I attend to the sense of a page if I had."
"If you sit here without book or work, I do not wonder at your being half dead."
"Not nearly half dead yet; dying by inches is a terribly long process. I am dreadfully strong."
"I will not listen to you if you talk like that. Well, I will bring you some books—indeed, I will send you some at once if you will promise to read and divert your thoughts. To-morrow afternoon I will come, you shall take my measure (I like to be made to look nice), and you shall begin again."
"Begin again! Me! That would be a miracle."
"Now try and get a little sleep," said Katherine, "your eyes look so weary. You want to stop thinking, and only sleep can still thought. When you wake you shall find some of the new magazines, and you must try and attend to them."
"I will, for your sake."
"Good-by, then, till to-morrow;" and having pressed her hand kindly, Katherine departed.
It was quite a triumph for Katherine to report her success to Bertie that evening. Miss Payne rather shook her head over the whole affair.
"I must say it puts me on edge altogether to hear you two rejoicing over this young woman's condescension in accepting the work you lay at her feet, while such crowds of starving wretches are begging and praying for something to do; and here is a mysterious young woman with lady-like manners and remarkable eyes, taken up all at once because she won't eat and refuses to speak. It isn't just. I suspect there is something in her past she does not like to tell."
"Yourresumeof the facts makes Mr. Payne and me seem rather foolish," said Katherine. "Yet I am convinced she is worth helping, and that no common methods will do to restore to her any relish for life. She interests me. I may be throwing away my time and money, but I will risk it."
"It is hard to say, of course, whether she is a deserving object or not," added Bertie, thoughtfully; "and I have been taken in more than once."
"More than once?" echoed his sister in a peculiar tone.
"Still, I feel with Miss Liddell that this girl's, Rachel Trant's, is not a common case," continued Bertie.
"Her very name is suggestive of grief," said Katherine, "and she, too, refuses to be comforted. I am sure she will tell me her story later. Her landlady says she never receives or sends a letter, and does not seem to have a creature belonging to her. Such desolation is appalling."
"And shows there is something radically wrong," added Miss Payne.
"I acknowledge that it has a dubious appearance," said Bertie, and turned the conversation.
Katherine was completely taken out of herself by the interest and curiosity excited by her meeting with Rachel Trant. She visited her daily, and saw that she was slowly reviving. She took a wonderful interest in the dress which Katherine had given herto make, and, moreover, succeeded in fitting her admirably. She was evidently weak and unequal to exertion, yet she worked with surprising diligence. Her manner was very grave and collected—respectful, yet always ready to respond to Katherine's effort to draw her out.
The subject on which she spoke most readily was the books Katherine lent her. Her taste was decidedly intelligent and rather solid. To the surprise of her young benefactress, she expressed a distaste for novels—stories, as she called them. "I used to care for nothing else," she said; "but they pain me now." She expressed herself like an educated, even refined, woman; and though she said very little about gratitude, it showed in every glance, in the very tone of her voice, and in her ready obedience to whatever wish Katherine expressed. The greatest sacrifice was evidently compliance with her new friend's suggestion that she should take exercise and breathe fresh air.
Miss Payne, after critically examining Katherine's new garment, declared it really well made, inquired the cost, and finally decided that she would have an every-day dress for herself, and that "Miss Trant" should make it up. Then Katherine presented the elegant young woman who waited on her with a gown, promising to pay for the making if she employed her protegee.
"Miss Trant" could not conceal her reluctance to come so far from the wilds of Camden Town; but she came, closely muffled in a thick gauze veil, doubtless to guard against cold in the chill March evening. Katherine was immensely pleased to find that both gowns gave satisfaction, though the "elegant young woman's" praise was cautious and qualified.
"After all, life is inexhaustible," said Katherine.
She was speaking to Rachel Trant, who had laid aside her work to speak with the good friend who had come, as she often did, to see how she was going on and to cheer her.
"Life is very cruel," she returned. "Neither sorrow nor repentance can alter its pitiless law.
"Still, there are compensations." Katherine did not exactly think what she was saying; her mind was filled with the desire of knowing her interlocutor's story.
"Compensations!" echoed Rachel. "Not for those who deserve to suffer, nor, indeed, often for the innocent. I don't think we often find vice punished and virtue rewarded in history and lives—true stories, I mean—as we do in novels."
Katherine did not reply at once; she thought for a moment, and then, looking full into Rachel's eyes, said: "I wonder how you came to be a dressmaker? You have read a great deal for a girl who must have had her hands full all day. I am not asking this from idle curiosity, but from real interest."
"I may well believe you. I should like to tell you much; but—" She paused and grew very white for a second, her lips trembling, and a troubled look coming into her eyes. "I always loved reading," she resumed; "it has been almost my only pleasure, though I was apprenticed to a milliner and dressmaker when little more than sixteen. Then I went to work with another, a very great person in her way, and I like the work. Still I used to think I was a sort of lady; my poor mother certainly was."
"I am sure of it," cried Katherine, impulsively. "I quite feel thatyouare."
"Thank you," said Rachel, in a very low voice, the color rising to her pale cheek. "My mother was so sweet and pretty," she continued, "but so sad! I was an orphan at ten years old, and then a very stiff, severe-looking woman, the sister of my father, had charge of me. I was sent to a school, a kind of institution, not exactly a charity school, for I know something was paid for me. It was a very cold sort of place, but I was not unhappy there. I had playfellows—some kind, some spiteful. One of the governesses was very good to me, and used to give me books to read. Had she remained, things might have been very different; but she left long before I did. The rare holidays when I was permitted to visit my father's sister were terrible days to me. She could not bear to see me. I felt it. She seemed to think my very existence was an offence. I was ashamed of living inherpresence. Of my father I have a very faint recollection. He died abroad, and I remember being on board ship for a long time with my mother. When I was sixteen my father's sister sent for me, and told me that the money my mother left was nearly exhausted, and what remained ought to provide me with some trade or calling by which I could earn my own bread; that she did not think I was clever enough to be a governess, so she advised my to apprentice myself to a dressmaker. I had seen enough of teaching in school, so I took her advice. At the same time she gave me some papers my mother had left for me.Theyfully explained why my existence was an offence—why I belonged to nobody. It was a bitter hour when I read my dear mother's miserable story. I felt old from that day. Well, I thanked my father's sister—mind you, she was not my aunt—for what she had done, and promised she should never more be troubled with me. I have kept my word."
Katherine, infinitely touched by the picture of sorrow and loneliness this brief story conjured up, took and pressed the thin quivering hand that played nervously with a thimble. Rachel glanced at her quickly, compressed her lips for an instant, and went on:
"I will try and tell you all. You ought to know. As far as work went, I did very well. I loved to handle and drape beautiful stuffs—I enjoy color—and it pleased me to fit the pretty girls and fine ladies who came to our show-rooms. It was even a satisfaction to make the plain ones look better. I should have made friends more easily with my companions but for the knowledge of what I was. Even this I might have got over—I am not naturally morbid—but I could not share their chatter and jests, or care for their love affairs. They were not bad, poor things! but simply ordinary girls of a classto which it would have been, perhaps, better for me to belong. With my employers I did fairly well. They were sometimes just, sometimes very unjust; but when I was out of my time, and receiving a salary, I found I was a valuedemployee. Then it came into my mind that I should like to found a business—a great business. It seemed rather a 'vaulting ambition' for so humble a waif as myself. But I began to save even shillings and sixpences. I tried to kill my heart with these duller, lower aims, it ached so always for what it could not find. I began to think I was growing so useful to madame that she might make me a partner; for even in millinery mental training is of use." She stopped, and clasping her hands, she rested them on her knee for a few moments of silence, while her brow contracted as if with pain. "It is dreadfully hard to go on!" she exclaimed at length, and her voice sounded as if her mouth were parched.
"Then do not mind now; some other time," said Katherine, softly.
"No," cried Rachel, with almost fierce energy; "Imustfinish. I cannot leaveyouignorant of my true story." She paused again, and then went on quickly, in a low tone: "I don't think I was exactly popular—certainly not with the men employed in the same house. I was thought cold and hard, and to me they were all utterly uninteresting. One or two of the girls I liked, and they were fond of me." Another pause. Then she pushed on again: "One evening I went out with another girl and her brother—at least she said he was her brother—to see the illuminations for the Queen's birthday. In Pall Mall we got into a crowd caused by a quarrel between two drunken men. I was separated from my companions, and one of the crowd, also tipsy, reeled against me. I should have been knocked down but for a gentleman who caught me; he had just come down the steps from one of the clubs. I thanked him. He kindly helped me to find my companions. He came on with us almost to the door of Madame Celine's house. He talked frankly and pleasantly. Two days after I was going to the City on madame's business. He met me. He said he had watched for me. There! I cannot go into details. We met repeatedly. For the first time in my life I was sought, and, as I believed, warmly loved. I knew the unspeakable gulf that opened for me, but I loved him. At last there was light and color in my poverty-stricken existence." She stopped, and a glow came into her sad eyes. "I was bewildered, distracted, between the passion of my heart and the resistance of my reason. I ceased to be the efficient assistant I had been. I was rebuked, and looked upon coldly. Six months after I had methimfirst, I gave madame warning. I said I was going into the country. So I was, but not alone. No one asked me any questions; no one had a right. I belonged to no one, was responsible to no one, could wound no one. I was quite alone, and, oh, so hungry for a little love and joy!" She paused, and then resumed rapidly, "I was that man's unwedded wife for nearly two years." She rested her arm on the table, and hid her face with her hand.
Katherine listened with unspeakable emotion. The eloquent blood flushed cheek and throat with a keen sense of shame. She had readand heard of such painful stories, but to be face to face with a creature who had crossed the Rubicon, overpassed the great gulf, which separates the sheep from the goats was something so unexpected, so terrible, that she could not restrain a passionate burst of tears. "Ah," she murmured at last, "you were cruelly deceived, no doubt. You are too hard upon yourself. You——"
"No, Miss Liddell; I am trying to tell you the whole truth. The man I loved never deceived me—never held put any hope that we could marry. He was not rich; there were impediments—what, I never knew. But I thought such love as he professed, and at the time felt for me, would last; and so long as he was mine, I wanted nothing more. Have you patience to hear more, or have I fallen too low to retain your interest?"
"Ah, no! tell me everything."
"I was very happy—oh, intensely happy for a while. Then a tiny cloud of indifference, thin and shifting like morning mist, rose between us. It darkened and lowered. He was a hasty, masterful man, but he was never rough to me. Gradually I came to see that time had changed me from a joy to a burden. How was it I lived? How was it I shut my eyes and hoped? At last he told me he was obliged to go abroad, but that he could not take me with him; and then proposed to establish me in some such undertaking as my late employer's. When he saidthat,I knew all was over; that nothing I could do or say would avail; that I had been but a toy; that he could not conceive what my nature was, nor the agony of shame, the torture of rejected love, he was inflicting. I contrived to keep silent and composed. I knew I had no right to complain: I had risked all and lost. I managed to say we might arrange things later, and he praised me for being a sensible, capital girl. I had seen this coming, or I don't suppose I could have so controlled myself. But I could not accept his terms. I had a little money and some jewels; I thought I might take these. So I wrote a few lines, saying that I needed nothing, that he should hear of me no more, and I went away out into the dark. If I could only have died then! I was too great a coward to put an end to my life. Why do I try to speak of what cannot be put into words? Despair is a grim thing, and all life had turned to dust and ashes for me. I could not even love him, though I pined for the creature Ihadloved, who once understood me, but from whose heart and mind I had vanished when time dulled his first impression, and to whom I became even as other women were. But as I could not die, I was obliged to work, and there was but one way. I dreaded to be found starving and unable to give an account of myself, so I applied to one of those large general shops where they neither give nor expect references. There I staid for some months, so silent, so steeled against everything, that no one cared to speak to me. I dare not even think of that time. I do not understand how I managed to do anything. At last I grew dazed, made blunders, and was dismissed. I wandered here. I failed to find employment, and felt I could do no more. Still death wouldnotcome, I think my mind was givingway whenyoucame. Now am I worth helping, now that you know all?"
"Yes. I will do my best for you. Suffering such as yours must be expiation enough," cried Katherine, her eyes still wet. "Put the past behind you, and hope for the better days whichwillcome if you strive for them. But, oh! tell me, didhenever try to find you?"
"Yes. I saw advertisements in the paper which were meant for me; but after a while they ceased, and no doubt I was forgotten. I reaped what I had sown. Few men, I imagine, can understand that there are hearts as true, as strong, as tenacious, among women such as I am as among the irreproachable, the really good. I have no real right to complain; only it issohard to live on without hope or—" She stopped abruptly.
"Hope will come," said Katherine, gently; "and time will restore your self-respect. I should be so glad to see you build up a new and better life on the ruins of the past! I am sure there is independence and repose before you, if you will but fold down this terrible page of your life and never open it again."
"And can you endure to touch me—to be to me as you have been?" asked Rachel, her voice broken and trembling.
Katherine's answer was to stretch out her hand and take that of herprotegee, which she held tenderly. "Let us never speak of this again," she said. "Bury your dead out of sight. All you have told me is sacred; none shall ever know anything from me. Let us begin anew. I am certain you are good and true; and how can one who has never known temptation judge you?"
Rachel bent her head to kiss the fair firm hand which held hers; then she wept silently, quietly, and said, softly, in an altered voice, "I will dowhateveryou bid me; and while you are so wonderfully good to me I will not despair."
There was an expressive silence of a few moments. Then Katherine began to draw on her gloves, and trying to steady her voice and speak in her ordinary tone, said:
"Mr. Payne is going to make you known to a lady who may be of great use to you in obtaining customers. I have not met her myself, but should you receive a note from Mrs. Needham, pray go to her at once. There is no reason why you should not make a great business yet. I should be quite proud of it. Now I must leave you. Promise me to resist unhappy thoughts. Try to regain strength, both mental and physical. Should you see Mrs. Needham before I come again, pray ask quite two-thirds more for making a dress than I paid, for both your work and your fit are excellent."
With these practical words Katherine rose to depart. Rachel followed her to the door, and timidly took her hand. "Do you understand," she said, "all you have done for me? You have given me back my human heart, instead of the iron vise that was pressing my soul to death. I will live to be worthy of you, of your infinite pity."
Katherine had hardly recovered composure when she reached home. The sad and shameful story to which she had listened had not arrested the flow of her sympathy to Rachel. There was something striking in the strength that enabled her to tell such a talewith stern justice toward herself, without any whining self-exculpation. What a long agony she must have endured! Katherine's tears were ready to flow afresh at the picture her warm imagination conjured up. Weak and guilty as Rachel was to yield to such a temptation, what was her wrong-doing to that of the man who, knowing what would be the end thereof, tempted her?
Castleford was an ordinary comfortable country house, standing in not very extensive grounds. The scenery immediately around it was flat and uninteresting, but a few miles to the south it became undulating, and broken with pretty wooded hollows, but north of it was a rich level district, and as a hunting country second only to Leicestershire.
Colonel Ormonde was a keen sportsman, and when he had reached his present grade had gladly taken up his abode in the old place, which had been let at a high rent during his term of military service. Castleford was an old place, though the house was comparatively new. It had been bought by Ormonde's grandfather, a rich manufacturer, who had built the house and made many improvements, and his representative of the third generation was considered quite one of the country gentry.
Colonel Ormonde was fairly popular. He was not obtrusively hard about money matters, but he never neglected his own interests. Then he appreciated a good glass of wine, and above all he rode straight. Mrs. Ormonde was adored by the men and liked by the women of Clayshire society, Colonel Ormonde being considered a lucky man to have picked up a charming woman whose children were provided for.
That fortunate individual was sitting at breakfasttete-a-tetewith his wife one dull foggy morning about a month after Katherine Liddell had returned to England. "Another cup, please," he said, handing his in. Mrs. Ormonde was deep in her letters. "What an infernal nuisance it is!" he continued, looking out of the window nearest him. "The off days are always soft and the 'meet' days hard and frosty. The scent would be breast-high to-day." Mrs. Ormonde made no reply. "Your correspondence seems uncommonly interesting!" he exclaimed, surprised at her silence.
"It is indeed," she cried, looking up with a joyful and exultant expression of countenance. "Katherine writes that she has signed a deed settling twenty thousand on Cis and Charlie, the income of which is to be paid to me until they attain the age of twenty-one, for their maintenance, education, and so forth; after which any sum necessary for their establishment in life can be raised or taken from their capital, the whole coming into their own hands at the age of twenty-five. Dear me! I hope they will make me a handsome allowance when they are twenty-five. I really think Katherine might have rememberedme." She handed the letter to her husband.
"Well, little woman, you have your innings now, and you must save a pot of money," he returned, in high glee. "What a trump that girl is! and, by Jove! what lucky little beggars your boys are! I can tell you I was desperately uneasy for fear she might marrysome fellow before she fulfilled her promise to you. Then you might have whistled for any provision for your boys; no man would agree to give up such a slice of his wife's fortune as this. I know I would not. Women never have any real sense of the value of money; they are either stingy or extravagant. I am deuced glad I haven't to pay allyourmilliner's bills, my dear. I am exceedingly glad Katherine has been so generous, but I'll be hanged if it is the act of a sensible woman."
"Never mind; there is quite a load off my heart. I think I'll have a new habit from Woolmerhausen now."
"Why, I gave you one only two years ago."
"Two years ago! Why, that is an age. Andyouneed not pay for this one."
"I see she says she will pay us a visit if convenient. Of course it is convenient. I'll run up to town on Sunday, and escort her down next day. The meet is for Tuesday. And mind you make things pleasant and comfortable for her, Ada. She would be an important addition to our family. A handsome, spirited girl with a good fortune to dispose of would be a feather in one's cap, I can tell you."
"You'll find her awfully fallen off, Ormonde, and her spirits seem quite gone. Still I shall be very glad to have her here. But I do not see why you should go fetch her. You know Lady Alice Mordaunt is coming on Saturday."
"What does that matter? I shall only be away one evening; and between you and me, though Lady Alice is everything that is nice and correct, she is enough to put the liveliest fellow on earth to sleep in half an hour."
"How strange men are!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, gathering up her letters and putting them into the pocket of her dainty lace and muslin apron. "Nice, gentle, good women never attract you; you only care for bold——"
"Vivacious, coquettish, attractive little widows, like one I once knew," said the Colonel, laughing, as he carefully wiped his gray moustache.
"You are really too absurd!" she exclaimed, sharply. "Do you mean to say I was ever bold?"
"No; I only mean to say you are an angel, and a deuced lucky angel in every sense into the bargain! Now, have you any commissions? I am going to Monckton this morning, and I fancy the dog-cart will be at the door. Where's the boy? I'll take him and nurse down to the gate with me if they'll wrap up. The little fellow is so fond of a drive."
"My dear 'Duke!—such a morning as this! Do you think I would let the precious child out?"
"Nonsense! Do not make a molly-coddle of him. He is as strong as a horse. Send for him anyway. I haven't seen him this morning. And be sure you write a proper letter to Katherine Liddell; you had better let me see it before it goes."
"Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind. Do you think I never wrote a letter in my life before I knew you?"
"Oh, go your own way," retorted the Colonel, beating a retreat to save a total rout.
In due course Katherine received an effusive letter of thanks, and a pressing invitation to come down to Castleford on the following Monday, and saying that as the hunting season was almost over, they would be very quiet till after Easter, when Mrs. Ormonde was going to town for a couple of months, ending with an assurance that the dear boys were dying to see her, and that Colonel Ormonde was going to London for the express purpose of escorting her on her journey.
"It is certainly not necessary," observed Katherine, with a smile, "considering how accustomed I am to take care of myself. Still it is kindly meant, and I shall accept the offer." This to Miss Payne, as they rose from luncheon where Katherine had told her the contents of her letter.
"Ahem! No doubt they are anxious to show you every attention. Would you like to take Turner with you? I could spare her very well." Turner was the maid expressly engaged to wait upon Miss Liddell.
"Oh no, thank you, I want so little waiting on. Lady Alice Mordaunt will be with Mrs. Ormonde, and will be sure to have a maid, so another might be inconvenient."
"My dear Miss Liddell, if you will excuse me for thrusting advice upon you, I would say that 'considering' people is the very best way to prevent their showing you consideration."
"Do you really think so? Well, it is really no great matter."
"Then you shall not want Turner? Then I shall give her a holiday. Her mother or her brother is ill, and she wants to go home. Servants' relations always seem to be ill. It must cost them a good deal."
"No doubt. Will you come out with me? I have some shopping to do, and your advice is always valuable."
"I shall be very pleased, and I will say I shall miss you when you leave—miss you very much."
"Thank you," said Katherine, gently. "I believe you will as you say so."
Without fully believing Ada's rather exaggerated expressions of gratitude and affection, Katherine was soothed and pleased by them. She was so truthful herself that she was disposed to trust others, and the hearty welcome offered her took off from the sense of loneliness which had long oppressed her. Hers was too healthy a nature to encourage morbid grief. To the last day of her life she remembered her mother with tender, loving-regret; but the consolation of knowing that her later days had been so happy, that she had passed away so peacefully, did much toward healing the wounds which were still bleeding.
On the appointed Monday Colonel Ormonde made his appearance in the early afternoon, and found Katherine quite ready to start. He was stouter, louder, bluffer, than ever. When Miss Payne was introduced to him he honored her with an almost imperceptible bow and a very perceptible stare. Turning at once to Katherine, he exclaimed:
"What! in complete marching order already? I protest I neverknew a woman punctual before. But I always saw you were a sensible girl. No nonsense about you. Why, my wife told me you were looking ill. I don't see it. At any rate Castleford air will soon bring back your roses."
"I am feeling and looking better than when I came over, and Miss Payne has taken such good care of me," said Katherine, who did not like to see the lady of the house so completely over-looked.
"Ah! that's well. You know you are too precious a piece of goods to be tampered with. I believe Bertie Payne is a nephew of yours," he added, addressing Miss Payne—"a young fellow who was in my regiment three or four years ago, the Twenty-first Dragoon Guards?"
"He is my brother," returned Miss Payne, stiffly.
"Ah! Hope he is all right. Have scarcely seen him since he has gone, not to the dogs, but to the saints, which is much the same thing. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Indeed it is not, Colonel Ormonde!" cried Katherine. "If every one was as good as Mr. Payne, the world would be a different and a better place."
"Hey! Have you constituted yourself his champion? Lucky dog! Come, my dear girl, we must be going. Are you well wrapped up? It is deuced cold, and we have nearly three miles to drive from the station."
He himself looked liked a mountain in a huge fur-lined coat.
"Good-by, then, dear Miss Payne. I suppose I shall not see you again for a fortnight or three weeks."
"By George! we sha'n't let you off with so short a visit as that! Say three years. Come, march; we haven't too much time." Throwing a brief "good-morning" at the "old maid" of uncertain position, the Colonel walked heavily downstairs in the wake of his admired young guest.
Monckton was scarcely four hours from London, but when the drive to Castleford was accomplished there was not too much time left to dress for dinner.
Mrs. Ormonde was awaiting Katherine in the hall, which was bright with lamps and fire-light; behind her were her two boys.
When Katherine had been duly welcomed. Mrs. Ormonde stood aside, and the children hesitated a moment. Cecil was so much grown, Katherine hardly knew him. He came forward with his natural assurance, and said, confidently: "How d'ye do, auntie? You have been a long time coming."
Charlie was more like what he had been, and less grown. He hesitated a moment, then darted to Katherine, and throwing his arms round her neck, clung to her lovingly. She was infinitely touched and delighted. How vividly the past came back to her!—the little dusty house at Bayswater, the homely establishment kept afloat by her dear mother's industry, the small study, and the dear weary face associated with it. How ardently she held the child to her heart! How thankfully she recognized that here was something to cherish and to live for!
"They may come with me to my room?" she said to her hostess.
"Oh, certainly!—only if you begin that sort of thing you will never be able to get rid of them."
"I will risk it," said Katherine, as she followed Mrs. Ormonde upstairs to a very comfortable room, where a cheerful fire blazed on the hearth.
"I am afraid you find it rather small, but I was obliged to give the best bedroom to Lady Alice—noblesse oblige, you know. I am sure you will like her, she is so gentle; I think her father was very glad to let her come, as she can see more of herfiance. They are not to be married till the autumn, so—Oh dear! there is the second bell. Cis, run away and tell Madeline to come and help your auntie to dress; and you too, Charlie; you had better go too."
"He may stay and help me to unpack."
"Why did you not bring your maid, dear? It is just like you to leave her behind; but we could have put her up; and you will miss her dreadfully."
"I do not think either of us has been so accustomed to the attentions of a maid as not to be able to do without one," returned Katherine, smiling.
"You knowIalways had a maid in India," said Mrs. Ormonde, with an air of superiority. "Don't be long over your toilet; Ormonde's cardinal virtue is punctuality."
In spite of the hindrance of her nephew's help, Katherine managed to reach the drawing-room before Lady Alice or the master of the house. Mrs. Ormonde was talking to an elderly gentleman in clerical attire beside the fireplace, and at some distance a tall, dignified-looking man was reading a newspaper. Mrs. Ormonde was most becomingly dressed in black satin, richly trimmed with lace and jet—a brilliant contrast to Katherine, in thick dull silk and crape, her snowy neck looking all the more softly white for its dark setting: the only relief to her general blackness was the glinting light on her glossy, wavy, chestnut brown hair.
"You have been very quick, dear," said the hostess. "I am going to send you in to dinner," she added, in a low tone, "with Mr. Errington, our neighbor. He is the head of the great house of Errington in Calcutta, and thefiance, of Lady Alice; but Colonel Ormonde must take her in. Mr. Errington!" raising her voice. The gentleman thus summoned laid down his paper and came forward. "Let me introduce you to my sister, Miss Liddell." Mr. Errington bowed, rather a stately bow, as he gazed with surprised interest at the large soft eyes suddenly raised to his, then quickly averted, the swift blush which swept over the speaking face turned toward him, the indescribable shrinking of the graceful figure, as if this stranger dreaded and would fain avoid him. It was but for a moment; then she was herself again, and the door opening to admit Lady Alice, Errington hastened to greet her with chivalrous respect, and remained beside her chair until Colonel Ormonde entered with the butler, who announced that dinner was ready.
The drawing and dining rooms at Castleford were at opposite sides of a large square hall, and even in the short transit between them Errington felt instinctively that Miss Liddell shrank from him. The tips merely of her black-gloved fingers rested on his arm, while she kept as far from him as the length of her own permitted. At table her host was on her right, and Lady Alice opposite, next to the rector, who was the only invited guest; Errington was always expected, and had returned from a distant canvassing expedition, for the present member for West Clayshire was believed to be on the point of retiring on account of ill health, and Mr. Errington of Garston Hall, intended to offer himself for election to the free and independent.
He had had a fatiguing day, but scarcely admitted to himself how much more restful a solitary dinner would have been, with a cigar and some keen-edged article or luminous pamphlet in his own comfortable library afterward, than making conversation at Colonel Ormonde's table. However, to slight the lady who had promised to be his wife was impossible, so he exerted himself to be agreeable.
The rector discussed some parish difficulties with his hostess, while Colonel Ormonde, though profoundly occupied with his dinner, managed to throw an observation from time to time to his young neighbors.
"Rode round by Brinkworth Heath in two hours and a half," he was saying to Lady Alice, when Katherine listened. "That was fair going. I did not think you would have got Mrs. Ormonde to start without an escort."
"We had an escort. Lord Francis Carew and Mr. De Burgh came over to luncheon, and they rode with us."
"Ha, Errington! you see the result of leaving this fair lady's side all unguarded! These fellows come and usurp your duties."
"Do you think I should wish Lady Alice to forego any amusement because I am so unlucky as to be prevented from joining her?" returned Errington, in a deep mellow voice.
Katherine looked across the table to see how Lady Alice took the remark, but she was rearranging some geraniums and a spray of fern in her waistband, and did not seem to hear. She was a slight colorless girl of nineteen, with regular features, an unformed though rather graceful figure, and a distinguished air.
Errington caught the expression of his neighbor's face as she glanced at hisfiancee, a sympathetic smile parting her lips. It was rarely that a countenance had struck him so much, which was probably due to his odd but strong impression that his new acquaintance, was both startled and displeased at being introduced to him—an impression very strange to Errington, as he was generally welcomed by all sorts and conditions of men, and especially of women.
The silence of Lady Alice did not seem to disturb her lover; he turned to Katherine and asked, "Were you of the riding party to-day!"
"No," she replied, meeting his eyes fully for an instant, and then averting her own, while the color came and went on her cheek; "I only arrived in time for dinner."
"Have I ever met this young lady before?" thought Errington, much puzzled. "Have I ever unconsciously offended or annoyed her? I don't think so; yet her face is not quite strange to me." And he applied himself to his dinner.
"I fancy you have had rather a dull time of it in town?" said Colonel Ormonde, leaning back, while the servants removed the dishes.
"No, I was not dull," replied Katherine, glad to turn to him. "I was very comfortable, and of course not in a mood to see many strangers or to go anywhere. Then I was interested in Mr. Payne's undertakings; they are quite as amusing as amusements."
"Bertie Payne! to be sure; the nephew or brother of your doughty chaperon. He is always up to some benevolent games. Queer fellow."
"He is very,verygood," said Katherine, warmly, "and hedoesso much good; only the amount of evil is overpowering."
"Yes," said Errington; "I am afraid such efforts as Payne's are mere scratching of the surface, and will never touch the root of the evil."
"I suspect he is a prey to impostors of every description," said Colonel Ormonde, with a fat laugh. "He is always worrying for subscriptions and God knows what. But I turn a deaf ear to him."
"I cannot say I do always," remarked Errington. "While we devise schemes of more scientific amelioration, hundreds die of sharp starvation or misery long drawn out. Payne is a good fellow, and enthusiasts have their uses."
"You are so liberal yourself, Mr. Errington," cried Mrs. Ormonde, "I dare say you are often imposed upon in spite of your wisdom."
"My wisdom!" repeated Errington, laughing. "What an original idea, Mrs. Ormonde! Did you ever know I was accused of wisdom?" he added, addressing Lady Alice.
"Papa says you are very sensible," she returned, seriously.
"Of course," cried Mrs. Ormonde. "Why, he has written a pamphlet on 'Our Colonies,' and something wonderful about the state of Europe—didn't he, Mr. Heywood?"
"Yes," returned the rector. "I suspect our future member will be a cabinet minister before the world is many years older."
Lady Alice looked up with more of pleasure and animation than she had yet shown. Errington bent his head.
"Many thanks for your prophecy;" and he immediately turned the conversation to the ever-genial topics of hunting and horses. Then Mrs. Ormonde gave the signal of retreat to the drawing-room.
Here Katherine looked in vain for her nephews.
"I suppose the boys have gone to bed, Ada?"
"To bed! oh yes, of course. Why, it is more than half past eight; it would never do to keep them up so late. Would you like to see baby boy asleep? he looks quite beautiful."
"Yes, I should, very much," returned Katherine, anxious to gratify the mother.
"Come, then," cried Mrs. Ormonde, starting up with alacrity. As the invitation was general, Lady Alice said, in her gentle way.
"Thank you; I saw the baby yesterday."
"She has really very little feeling," observed Mrs. Ormonde, as she went upstairs with her sister-in-law. "She never notices baby."
"I am afraid I should not notice children much if they did not belong to me."
"My dear Katherine, you are quite different. Of course Lady Alice is sweet and elegant, but not clever. Indeed, I cannot see the use of cleverness to women. There is a fine aristocratic air about her. After all, there is nothing like high birth. I assure you it is a high compliment her being allowed to stay here. Her aunt, Lady Mary Vincent, is a very fine lady indeed, and chaperons Lady Alice. But her father, Lord Melford, is a curious, reckless sort of man, always wandering about—yachting and that kind of thing; he is rather in difficulties too. They are glad enough to send her down here to see something of Errington. You know Errington is a very good match; he has bought a great deal of the Melford property, and when old Errington dies he will be immensely rich. The poor old man is in miserable health; he has not been down here all the winter. I believe the wedding is to take place in June; we will be invited, of course; you see Colonel Ormonde is so highly connected that I am in a very different position from what I was accustomed to. And you, dear, youmustmarry some person of rank; there is nothing like it."
"Yes," said Katherine, with a sigh, "everything is changed."
"Fortunately!" cried the exultant Mrs. Ormonde, opening the door of a luxuriously appointed nursery.
"Here, nurse, I have brought Miss Liddell to see Master Ormonde."
A middle-aged woman, well dressed, and of authoritative aspect, rose from where she sat at needle-work, and came forward.
"I have only just got him to sleep, ma'am," she said, almost in a whisper, "and if he is awoke now, I'll not get him off again before midnight."
"We'll be very careful, nurse. Is he not a fine little fellow, Katherine?" and she softly turned back the bedclothes from the sturdy, chubby child, who had a somewhat bull dog style of countenance and a beautifully fair skin.
"How ridiculously like Colonel Ormonde he is!" whispered Katherine. "I do not see any trace of you."
"No; he is quite an Ormonde. He is twice as big as either Cis or Charlie was at his age."
After a few civil comments Katherine suggested their visiting the other children.
"Perhaps it would be wiser not to go," said the mother; "they will not be so sound asleep as baby, and——"
"You must indulge me this once, Ada. I long to look at them."
"Oh! of course, dear; ring for Eliza, nurse; she will show Miss Liddell the way. I must go back; it would never do to leave Lady Alice so long alone."
"Do not apologize," said Katherine, with a curious jealous pang, as she noted Mrs. Ormonde's indifference to the children of her first poor love-match.
A demure, flat-faced girl answered the bell, and led Katherine down passages and up a crooked stair to another part of the house.
Here she was shown into a room sparsely supplied with old furniture. There was a good fire, and a shaded lamp stood on a large table, where a girl sat writing.
"Here is a lady to see the young gentlemen," said the nurse-maid. The young scribe started up, looking confused.
"If it would not disturb them," said Katherine, gently, "I should like to see my nephews in their sleep."
"Oh, Miss Liddell!" exclaimed the governess, a younger, commoner-looking person than Katherine had chosen before she left England. "This is their bedroom," and she led Katherine through a door opposite the fireplace into an inner room. There in their little beds lay the boys who were all of kith or kin left to Katherine Liddell.
How lovingly she bent over and gazed at them!
Cecil had grown much. He looked sunburnt and healthy. One arm was thrown up behind his head, the other stretched straight and stiff beside him, ending in a closely clinched little brown fist. His lips, slightly apart, emitted the softly drawn regular breath of profound slumber, and the smile which some pleasant thought had conjured up before he closed his eyes still lingered round his mouth. Katherine longed to kiss him, but feared to break his profound and restful slumbers. She passed to Charlie. His attitude was quite different. He had thrown the clothes from his chest, and his pinky white throat was bare; one little hand lay open on the page of a picture-book at which he had been looking when sleep overtook him; the other was under his soft round cheek; his sweet and still baby face was grave if not sad. He looked like a little angel who had brought a message to earth, and was grieved and wearied by the sin and sorrow here below. Katherine's heart swelled with tenderest love as she gazed upon him, and unconsciously she bent closer till her lips touched his brow. Then a little hand stole into hers, and, without moving, as though he had expected her, he opened his eyes and whispered, "Will you come and kiss me every night, as grannie did?"
"I will, my darling, every night."
"Will grannienevercome and kiss me again?"
"Never, Charlie! She will never come to either of us in this life." A big tear fell on the boy's forehead.
"Don't cry, auntie; she loves us all the same." And he kissed the fair cheek which now lay against his own as his aunt knelt beside his bed.
"Go to sleep, dear love; to-morrow you shall take me to see your garden and the pony."
"You will be sure to come?"
"Yes, quite sure."
In a few minutes the clasp of the warm little hand relaxed, and Katherine gently disengaged herself.
"The boys are no longer first in their mother's heart," thought Katherine, as she returned to the drawing-room. "Were they ever first? They are—they might become all the world to me. They might fill my life and give it a fresh aspect. The new ties at which Mr. Newton hinted can never exist for me. Could I accept an honorable man and live with a perpetual secret between us? Could I ever confess? No. My most hopeful scheme is to be a mother to these children. And oh! I do want to be happy, to feel the joy in life that used to lift up my spirit in the old days when we were struggling with poverty! Iwillthrow off this load of self-contempt. I have not really injured any one."
In the drawing-room Colonel Ormonde was seated beside Lady Alice, making conversation to the best of his ability. She looked serenely content, and held a piece of crochet, the kind of fancy-work which occupied the young ladies in the "sixties." The rector and Mr. Errington were in deep conversation on the hearth-rug, and Mrs. Ormonde was reading the paper.
"So you have been visiting the nursery?" said the Colonel, rising and offering Katherine a chair. "Your first introduction to our young man, I suppose?"
"Yes. What a great boy he is!—the picture of health!"
"Ay, he is a Trojan," complacently. "The other little fellows are looking well, eh?"
"Very well indeed. Cis is wonderfully grown; but Charlie is much what he was."
"He'll overtake his brother, though, before long," said Colonel Ormonde, encouragingly, as he rang and ordered the card-table to be set.
"You play whist, I suppose? We want a fourth."
"I am quite ignorant of that fascinating game," returned Katherine, "and very sorry to be so useless."
"Itislamentable ignorance! Lady Alice, will you take compassion on us? No?—then wemusthave Errington."
Errington did not seem at all reluctant, and the two young ladies were left to entertain each other.
Katherine, who had gone to the other end of the room to look at some water-color drawings, came back and sat down beside her. Lady Alice looked amiable, but did not speak, and Katherine felt greatly at a loss what to say.
"What very fine work!" she said at length, watching the small, weak-looking hands so steadily employed.
"Yes, it is a very difficult pattern. My aunt, Lady Mary, never could manage it, and she does a great deal of crochet, and is very clever."
"It seems most complicated. I am sure I could never do it."
"Do you crochet much?"
"Not at all."
"Then," with some appearance of interest, "whatdoyou do?"
"Oh! various things; but I am afraid I am not industrious. I would rather mend my clothes than do fancy work."
"Mend your clothes!" repeated Lady Alice, in unfeigned amazement.
"Yes. I assure you there is great pleasure in a symmetrical patch."
"But does not your maid do that?"
"Now that I have one, she does. However, you must show me how to crochet, if you will be so kind; my only approach to fancy-work is knitting. I can knit stockings. Isn't that an achievement?"
"But is it not tiresome?"
"Oh! I can knit like the Germans, and talk or read."
"Is it possible?" A long pause.
"Mrs. Ormonde says you are very learned and studious," said Lady Alice, languidly.
"How cruel of her to malign me!" returned Katherine, laughing. "Learned I certainly am not; but I am fond of indiscriminate reading, though not studious."
"I like a nice novel, with dreadful people in it, like Miss St. Maur's. Have you read any of hers?"
"I don't think so. I do not know the name."
"The St. Maurs are Devonshire people—a very old country family, I believe. Still, when she writes about the season in London, I don't think it is very like." Another pause.
"You have been in Italy, I think, Lady Alice?" recommenced Katherine.
"Oh yes, often. Papa is always cruising about, you know, and we stop at places. But I have never been in Rome."
"Yachting must be delightful."
"I do not like it; I am always ill. Aunt Mary took me to Florence for a winter."
"Then you enjoyed that, I dare say," said Katherine.
"I got tired of it. I do not care for living abroad; there is nothing to do but to go to picture-galleries and theatres."
"Well, that is a good deal," returned Katherine, smiling. "Where do you like to live, Lady Alice?"
"Oh, in the country. I am almost sorry Mr. Errington has a house in town. I am so fond of a garden, and riding on quiet roads! I am afraid to ride in London. The country is so peaceful! no one is in a hurry."
"What a happy, tranquil life she will lead under the ægis of such a man as Mr. Errington!" thought Katherine.
"Do you play or sing?" asked Lady Alice, for once taking the initiative.
"Yes, in a very amateur fashion."
"Then," with more animation, "perhaps you would play my accompaniments for me; I always like to stand when I sing. Mrs. Ormonde says she forgets her music. Is it not odd?"
"Well, people in India do as little as possible. I shall be very pleased to play for you. Shall we practice to-morrow?"
"Oh yes; immediately after breakfast. There is really nothing to do here."
"Immediately after breakfast I am going out with the boys—Mrs. Ormonde's boys. Have you seen them? But we shall have plenty of time before luncheon."
"Are you fond of children?" slowly, while her busy needle paused and she undid a stitch or two.
"I am fond of these children; I do not know much about any other."
"Beverley's children (my eldest brother's) are very troublesome; they annoy me very much." Silence while she took up her stitches again. "The worst of this pattern is that if you talk you are sure to go wrong."
"Then I will find a book and not disturb you," said Katherine, good-humoredly. She felt kindly and indulgent toward this gentle helpless creature, who seemed so many years younger than herself, though barely two, in fact. That she was Errington'sfianceegave her a curious interest in Katherine's eyes. She would willingly have done him all possible good; she was strangely attracted to the man she had cheated. There was a simple natural dignity about him that pleased her imagination, yet she almost dreaded to speak to him, lest the very tones of her voice, the encounter of their eyes, should betray her.
At last Errington, looking at his watch, declared that as the rubber was over, he must say good-night.
"What, are you not staying here to-night?" said Colonel Ormonde.
"No; I have a good deal of letter-writing to get through to-morrow, so did not accept Mrs. Ormonde's kind invitation."
"You'll have a deuced cold drive. Come over on Thursday, will you? Old Wray, the banker, is to dine here, and one or two Monckton worthies. Stay till Tuesday or Wednesday. The next meets are Friday and Monday, on this side of the county. There will not be many more this season."
"Thank you; I shall be very happy." He crossed to where Lady Alice still sat placidly at work, and made his adieux in a low tone, holding her hand for a moment longer than mere acquaintanceship warranted, and having exchanged good-nights, left the room, followed by his host.
There was a good fire in Katherine's bedroom, and having declined the assistance of Mrs. Ormonde's maid, she put on her dressing-gown and sat down beside it to think. She was still quivering with the nervous excitement she had striven so hard and so successfully to conceal.
When Mrs. Ormonde had given her rapid explanation of who Errington was, and without a pause presented him, Katherine felt as if she must drop at his feet. Indeed, she would have been thankful if a merciful insensibility had made her impervious to his questioning eyes.Shewell knew who he was.
He was the real owner of the property she now possessed. The will she had suppressed bequeathed all John Liddell's real and personal property to Miles Errington, only son of his old friend Arthur Errington, of Calton Buildings, London, E. C., and Calcutta. She, the robber, stood in the presence of the robbed. Did he know by intuition that she was guilty? How grave and questioning his eyes were! Why did he look at her like that? How he would despise her and forbid his affianced wife to be outraged by her presence if he knew!
He looked like a high-minded gentleman. If he seemed almost sternly grave, his smile was kind and frank, and she had made herself unworthy to associate with such men as he.
But he was rich. He did not need the money she wanted so sorely. What of that? Did his abundance alter the everlasting conditions of right and wrong? Perhaps if she had not attempted to play Providence for the sake of her family, and let things follow their natural course, Mr. Errington might have spared a few crumbs from his rich table—a reasonable dole—to patch up the ragged edges of their frayed fortunes. Then she would not be oppressed with the sense of shame, this weight of riches she shrank from using. She had murdered her own happiness; she had killed her own youth. Never again could she know the joyousness of light-hearted girlhood, while nothing the world might give her could atone for the terrible trespass which had broken the harmony of her moral nature by the perpetual sense of unatoned wrong-doing. How she wished she had never come to Castleford! True, her seeing Mr. Errington did not make her guilt a shade darker, but oh, how much more keenly she felt it under his eyes! And now she could not rush away. She must avoid all eccentricities lest they might possibly arouse suspicion. Suspicion? What was there to suspect? No one would dream of suspicion. Then that will! She would try and nerve herself to destroy it, though it seemed sacrilege to do so. Whatever she did, however, she must think of Cis and Charlie. Having committed such an act, her only course was to bear the consequences, and do her duty by the innocent children, whose fate would be cruel enough should she indulge in any weak repentance or seek relief in confession. She had burdened herself with a disgraceful secret, and she must bear it her life long. It gave her infinite pain to face Miles Errington, yet while at one moment she longed to fly from him, the next she felt an extraordinary desire to hear him speak, to learn the prevailing tone of his mind, to know his opinions. There was an earnestness in his look and manner that appealed to her sympathies. He was a just, upright gentleman. What would he think of the dastardly deed by which she had robbed him?
"I must not think of it. I must try and forget I ever did it, and be as good and true as I can in all else. And the will! I must destroy it. I am sure my poor old uncle meant to do away with it. Perhaps if it were clean gone I might feel more at rest. How strange it is that instead of growing accustomed to the contemplation of my own dishonesty I become more keenly alive to the shame of my act as time rolls on! Perhaps if I am brave and resolute I may conquer the scorpion stings of self-reproach. How dear those two sweet peaceful years have cost me! Would I undo it all to save myself these pangs? No. Then I suppose to bear is to conquer one's fate."