"I shall not want help," he returned, quietly. "But though it is not likely we shall meet again, believe me I shall always be glad to know you are well and happy. Let this painful conversation be the last we have on this subject. For my part, I grant you plenary absolution."
"You are good and generous; you are wise too; your judgment constrains me. Yet I hope I shallneversee you again. It is too humiliating to meet your eyes." She spoke brokenly as she tied the white veil closely over her face.
"Nevertheless we part friends," said Errington, and held out his hand. She put hers in it. He felt how it trembled, and held it an instant with a friendly pressure. Then he opened the door and followed her to the entrance, where he bowed low as she passed out.
Errington returned at once to his writing-table and his calculations. He took up his pen, but he did not begin to write. He leaned back in his chair and fell into an interesting train of thought. What an extraordinary mad proceeding it was of that girl to conceal the will! It was strangely unprincipled. "How impossible it is to trust a person who acts from impulse! The difference between masculine and feminine character is immense. No man with a grain of honor in him would have done what she did; only some dastardly hound who could cheat at cards. And she—somehow she seems a pure good woman in spite of all. I suppose in a woman's sensitive and weaker nature good and evil are less distinct, more shaded into each other. After all, I think I would trust my life to the word of this daring law-breaker." And Errington recalled the expressive tones of her voice, surprised to feel again the strange thrill which shivered through him when she had looked straight into his eyes, her own aglow with momentary defiance, and said, "Had it to be done again, I'd do it!" He had never been brought face to face with real emotion before. He knew such a thing existed; that it led like most things to good and to evil; that it was exceedingly useful to poets, who often touched him, and to actors, who did not; but in real every-day life he had rarely, if ever, seen it. The people with whom he associated were rich, well born, well trained; a crumpled rose leaf here and there was the worst trouble in their easy, conventional, luxurious lives. Of course he had met men on the road to ruin who swore and drank and gambled and generally disgraced themselves. Such cases, however, did not affect him much; he only touched such characters with moral tongs. Now this delicate, refined girl had humbled herself before him. Her sweet varying tones, her moist glowing eyes, the indescribable tremulous earnestness which was the undertone of all she said, her determined efforts for self-command, made a deep impression on him. Was she right when she said that from him "wisdom by one entrance was quite shut out?" At all events he felt, though he did not consciously acknowledge it even to himself, that this impulsive, inexperienced girl, whom he strove to look down upon from the unsullied heights of his own integrity, had revealed to him something of life's inner core which had hitherto been hidden from his sight.
But all this dreaming was unpardonable waste of time when so much serious work lay before him. So Errington resolutely turned from his unusual and disturbing reverie, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write steadily.
Katherine never could distinctly remember what she did after leaving Errington. She was humbled in the dust—crushed, dazed. She felt that every one must perceive the stamp of "felon" upon her.
The passionate desire to restore his rightful possessions to Errington, to confess all, had carried her through the dreadful interview. She was infinitely grateful to him for the kind tact with which he concealed the profound contempt her confession must have evoked, but no doubt that sentiment was now in full possession of his mind. It showed in his unhesitating, even scornful, rejection of her offered restitution. She almost regretted having made the attempt, and yet she had a kind of miserable satisfaction in having told the truth, the whole truth, to Errington; anything was better than wearing false colors in his sight.
It was this sense of deception that had embittered her intercourse with him at Castleford; otherwise she would have been gratified by his grave friendly preference.
How calm, how unmoved, he seemed amid the wreck of his fortunes. Yes, his was true strength—the strength of self-mastery. How different, how far nobler than the vehemence of De Burgh's will, which was too strong for his guidance! But Lady Alice could never have loved Errington—never—or she would have loved on and waited for him till the time came when union might be possible. Hadshebeen in her place! But at the thought her heart throbbed wildly with the sudden perception thatshecould have loved him well, with all her soul, and rested on him, confident in his superior wisdom and strength—a woman's ideal love. And before this man she had been obliged to lay down her self-respect, to confess she had cheated him basely, to resign his esteem for ever! It was a bitter punishment, but even had she been stainless and he a free man, she, Katherine, was not the sort of girlhewould like. She was too impulsive, too much at the mercy of her emotions, too quick in forming and expressing opinions. No; the feminine reserve and tranquility of Lady Alice were much more likely to attract his affections and call forth his respect. This was an additional ingredient of bitterness, and Katherine felt herself an outcast, undeserving of tenderness or esteem.
The weather was oppressively warm and sunless. A dim instinctive recollection of her excuse for coming to town forced Katherine to visit some of the shops where she was in the habit of dealing, and then she sat for more than a weary hour in the Ladies' Room at Waterloo Station, affecting to read a newspaper which she did not see, waiting for the train that would take her home to the darkness and stillness in which friendly night would hide her for a while. The journey back was a continuation of the same tormenting dream-like semi-consciousness, and by the time she reached Cliff Cottage she felt physically ill.
"It was dreadfully foolish to go up to town in this heat," saidMiss Payne, severely, when she brought up some tea to Katherine's room, where she retreated on her arrival. "I dare say you could have written for what you wanted."
"Not exactly"—with a faint smile.
"I never saw you look so ill. You must take some sal volatile, and lie down. If there had been much sun, I should have said you had had a sunstroke. I hope, however, a good night's rest will set you up."
"No doubt it will; so I will try and sleep now."
"Quite right. I will leave you, and tell the boys you cannot see them till to-morrow." So Miss Payne, who had a grand power of minding her own affairs and abstaining from troublesome questions, softly closed the door behind her.
It took some time to rally from the overwhelming humiliation of this crisis. Katherine came slowly back to herself, yet not quite herself. Miss Payne had been so much disturbed by her loss of appetite, of energy, of color, that she had insisted on consulting the local doctor, who pronounced her to be suffering from low fever and nervous depression. He prescribed tonics and warm sea-water baths, which advice Katherine meekly followed. Soon, to the pride of the Sandbourne Æsculapius, a young practitioner, she showed signs of improvement, and declared herself perfectly well.
Perhaps the tonic which had assisted her to complete recovery was a letter which reached her about a week after the interview that had affected her so deeply. It was addressed in large, firm, clear writing, which was strange to her.
"I venture to trouble you with a few words," (it ran) "because when last I saw you I was profoundly impressed by the suffering you could not hide. I cannot refrain from writing to entreat you will accept the position in which you are placed. Having done your best to rectify what is now irrevocable, be at peace with your conscience. I am the only individual entitled to complain or interfere with your succession, and I fully, freely make over to you any rights I possess. Had your uncle's fortune passed to me, it would have been an injustice for which I should have felt bound to atone: nor would you have refused my proposition to this effect. Consider this page of your life blotted out, casting it from your mind. Use and enjoy your future as a woman of your nature, so far as I understand it, can do. It will probably be long before I see you again—which I regret the less because it might pain you to meet me before time has blunted the keen edge of your self-reproach. Absent or present, however, I shall always be glad to know that you are well and happy.
"Will you let me have a line in reply?"Yours faithfully,Miles Errington."
The perusal of this letter brought Katherine the infinite relief of tears. How good and generous he was! How heartily she admired him! How gladly she confessed her own inferiority to him! Forgiven by him, she could face life again with a sort of humble courage. But oh! it would be impossible to meet his eyes. No; years would not suffice to blunt the keen self-reproach which the thought of him must always call up—the shame, the pride, the dread, the tender gratitude. Long and passionately she wept before she could recover sufficiently to write him the reply he asked. Then it seemed to her that the bitterness and cruel remorse had been melted and washed away by these warm grateful tears. He forgave her, and she could endure the pressure of her shameful secret more easily in future. At last she took her pen, and feeling that the lines she was about to trace would be a final farewell, wrote:
"My words must be few, for none I can find will express my sense of the serviceyourshave done me. I accept your gift. I will try and follow your advice. Shall the day ever come when you will honor me by accepting part of what is your own? Thank you for your kind suggestion not to meet me; it would be more than I could bear. Yours,Katherine."
Then with deepest regret she tore up his precious letter into tiny morsels, and striking a match, consumed them. It would not do to incur the possibility of such a letter being read by any third pair of eyes. Moreover, she was careful to post her reply herself. And so, as Errington said, that page of her story was blotted out, at least, from the exterior world, but to her own mind it would be ever present: round this crisis her deepest, most painful, ay, and sweetest memories would cling. It was past, however, and she must take up her life again.
She felt something of the weakness, the softness, which convalescents experience when first they begin to go about after a long illness, the dreamy, quiet pleasure of coming back to life. The boys continued to be her deepest interest. So time went on, and no one seemed to perceive the subtle change which had sobered her spirit.
The season was over, and Mrs. Ormonde descended on Cliff Cottage for a parting visit. She had only given notice of her approach by a telegram.
"You know you are quite too obstinate, Katherine," she said, as the sisters-in-law sat together in the drawing-room, waiting for the cool of the evening before venturing out. "You never came to me all through the season except once, when you wanted to shop, and now you refuse to join us at Castleford in September, when we are to have really quite a nice party: Mr. De Burgh and Lord Riversdale and—oh! several really good men."
"I dare say I do seem stupid to you, but then, you see, I know what I want. You are very good to wish for me. Next year I shall be very pleased to pay you a visit."
"Then what in the world will you do in the winter?"
"Remain where I am—I mean with Miss Payne—and look out for a house for myself."
"But, my dear, you are much too young to live alone."
"I am twenty-one now; I shall be twenty-two by the time I am settled in a house of my own. And, Ada, I am going to ask you a favor. Lend me your boys to complete my respectability."
"What! for altogether? Why, Katherine, you will marry, and—"
"Well, suppose I do, that need not prevent my having the comfort of my nephews' company until the fatal knot is tied."
"Now, dear Katherine,dotell me—areyou engaged to any one? Not a foreigner?—anything but a foreigner!"
"At present," said Katherine, with some solemnity, "I am engaged to two young men."
"My dear! You of all young girls! I am astonished. There is nothing so deep, after all, as a demure young woman. I suppose you are in a scrape, and want Colonel Ormonde to help you out of it?"
"I think I can manage my own affairs."
"Don't be too sure. A girl with money like you is just the subject for a breach-of-promise case. Do I know either of these men?"
"Yes, both."
"Who are they?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, with deepening interest.
"Cis and Charlie," returned Katherine, laughing.
"I really cannot see anything amusing in this sort of stupid mystification," cried Mrs. Ormonde, in a huff.
"Pray forgive me; but your determination to marry me out of hand tempts me to such naughtiness. However, be forgiving, and lend me the boys till next spring. They might go to Castleford for Christmas."
"Oh no," interrupted Mrs. Ormonde, hastily. "I forgot to mention that Ormonde has almost promised to spend next Christmas in Paris. It is such a nuisance to be in one's own place at Christmas; there is such work distributing blankets and coals and things. If one is away, a check to the rector settles everything. I assure you the life of a country gentleman is not all pleasure."
"Then you will let me have the boys?"
"Well, dear, if you really like it, I do not see, when you have such a fancy, why you should not be indulged."
"Thank you. And I may choose a school for Cis?"
"I am sure the neither Ormonde nor I would interfere; just now it is of no great importance. But—of course—that is—I should like some allowance for myself out of their money."
"Of course you should have whatever you are in the habit of receiving."
After this, Mrs. Ormonde was most cordial in her approbation of everything suggested by her sister-in-law. The friendly conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Cecil with his satchel over his shoulder. He went straight to his young aunt and hugged her.
"Well, Cis, I see you don't care for mother now," exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, easily moved to jealousy, as she always was.
"Oh yes, I do! only you don't like me to jump on you, and auntie doesn't mind about her clothes." And he kissed her heartily.
"Do you want to come back to Castleford?"
"What, now? when the holidays begin next week?"—this with a rueful expression. "Why, we were to have a sailing boat, and old Norris the sailor and his boy are to come out every evening."
"Then you don't want to come?"
"Oh, mayn't we stay a little longer, mother? Itisso nice here!"
"You may stay as long as your aunt cares to keep you, for all I care," cried Mrs. Ormonde, somewhat spitefully.
"Oh, thank you, mother dear—thank you!" throwing his arms round her neck. "I'll be such a good boy when I come back; but itisnice here. Then you have baby, and he does not worry you as much as we do." Katherine thought this a very significant reply.
"There! there!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, disengaging herself from the warm clinging arms. "Go and wash your hands; they are frightfully dirty."
"It's clean dirt, mother. I stopped on the beach to help Tom Damer to build up a sand fort."
"Why did Miss North let you?"
"Oh, I was by myself! I don't wantanyone to take care of me," said Cecil, proudly.
"Good heavens! do you let the child walk about alone?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, with an air of surprise and indignation.
"Run away to Miss North," said Katherine, and as Cecil left the room she replied: "As Cecil is nine years old, Ada, and a very bright boy, I think he may very well be let to take care of himself. The school is not far, and he cannot learn independence too soon."
"Perhaps so. But of course you know better than I do. You were always more learned, and all that; besides, you are not over anxious, as a mother would be."
"Nor careless either," said Katherine thinking of the nights at Castleford when she used to steal to the bedside, of little feverish, restless Charlie, while his mother kept within the bounds of her own luxurious chamber.
"No, no; certainly not," returned Mrs. Ormonde, remembering it was as well not to offend so strong a person as she felt Katherine to be. "Only Cecil is a tiresome, self-willed boy, and very likely to get into mischief."
"If you wish it, Ada, I shall, of course, have him escorted to and fro to school."
"Oh, just as you like. I suppose you know the place better than I do."
"Colonel Ormonde has never come down to see me," resumed Katherine, after a pause. "You must tell him I am quite hurt."
"Well, dear, you must know that Duke is rather vexed with you."
"Vexed with me! Why?" asked Katherine, opening her eyes.
"You see, he thinks you ought to have come to us for a while; and then De Burgh came back from this last time in such a bad temper that my husband thought you were not behaving well to him—making a fool of him, in short; inviting him down here to amuse yourself, and then refusing him, if youdidrefuse."
"No, I did not; for Mr. De Burgh never gave me an opportunity," cried Katherine, indignantly. "Nor did I ever ask him here. I cannot prevent his coming and lodging at the hotel. I am quite ready to talk to him, because he amuses me, but I am not boundto marry every man who does. Tell Colonel Ormonde so, with my compliments."
"I am sureIdon't want you to marry De Burgh! Indeed, I am surprised at Duke; but you see, being chums and relations (and men stick together so), that he only thinks of De Burgh, who,entre nous, has been awfully fast. Heisamusing, and verydistingue, but I am afraid he only cares for your money, dear."
"Very likely," returned Katherine, with much composure.
"Then another reason why the Colonel does not care to come down is that he has a great dislike to that Miss Payne.Sheis really hostess here, and it worries Duke to have to be civil to her."
"Why?" asked Katherine. "I can imagine her being an object of perfect indifference; but dislike—no!"
"Well, dear, men never like that sort of women;—people, you know, who eke out their living by—doing things, when they are plain and old. Handsome adventuresses are quite another affair—they are amusing and attractive."
"How absurd and unreasonable!"
"Yes, of course; they are all like that. Then he thinks Miss Payne has a bad and dangerous influence on you. He disapproves of your living on with her, for you don't take the position you ought, and—"
Katherine laughed good-humoredly as Mrs. Ormonde paused, not knowing very well how to finish her speech. "Colonel Ormonde will hide the light of his countenance from me, then, I am afraid, for a long time; for I like Miss Payne, and I am going to stay with her for the period agreed upon; and I willnotmarry Mr. De Burgh, nor will I let him ask me to do so, for there is a degree of honesty about him which I like. You may repeat all this to your husband, Ada, and add that but for a lucky chance his wife and myself would have been among the sort of women who eke out their living by doing things. I don't think I should be afraid of attempting self-support if all my money were swept away."
"Don't talk of such a thing!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, turning pale. "Thank God what you have settled on the boys is safe!"
Katherine's half-contemptuous good humor carried her serenely through this rather irritating visit, but the totally different train of thought which it evoked assisted her to recover her ordinary mental tone. It was, however, touched by a minor key of sadness, of humility (save when roused by any moving cause to indignation), which gave the charm of soft pensiveness to her manner.
Mrs. Ormonde was rather in a hurry to go back to town, as she had important interviews impending with milliner and dressmaker prior to a visit to Lady Mary Vincent at Cowes, from which she expected the most brilliant results, for the little woman's social ambition grew with what it fed upon. Nor did the rational repose of Katherine's life suit her. Books, music, out-door existence, were a weariness, and in spite of her loudly declared affection for her sister-in-law she found a curious restraint in conversing with her.
They parted, therefore, with many kind expressions and much satisfaction.
"I will write you an account of all our doings at Cowes. Iexpect it will be very gay and pleasant there. How I wish you were to be of the party, instead of moping here!" said Mrs. Ormonde.
"Thank you. I should like it all, no doubt, but not just now. I will keep you informed of our small doings."
So Mrs. Ormonde steamed on her way rejoicing, and Katherine re-entered a pretty low pony-carriage in which she drove a pair of quiet, well-broken ponies, selected for her by Bertie Payne, whose conversion had not obliterated his carnal knowledge of horseflesh. A small groom always accompanied her, for though improved by the practice of driving, she did not like to be alone with her steeds.
She had nearly reached the chief street of Sandbourne, when a tall gentleman in yachting dress strolled slowly round the corner of a lane which led to the beach. He paused and raised his hat. She recognized De Burgh and drew up.
"And so you are driving in capital style," was his greeting; "all by yourself, too. Will you give me a lift back?"
"Certainly. Where have you come from?"
"Melford's yacht. I escorted my revered relative, old De Burgh, down to Cowes. He has a little villa there. As he has grown quite civil of late, I think it right to encourage him. Melford was there, and invited me to take a short cruise. So I made him land me here just now. The yacht is still in the offing. Lady Alice was on board."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Katherine, with much interest. "How is she?"
"So far as one can judge from the exterior, remarkably well, and exactly the same as ever. It is rather funny, but they had Renshaw on board too, the son of the big brewer who has bought, or is going to buy, Errington's house in Berkeley Square. I fancy it is not impossible he may come in for Errington's ex-fianceeas well as his ex-residence."
"It cannot be, surely!" cried Katherine, flushing with a curious feeling.
"Why not? I don't say immediately. I have no doubt everything will be done decently and in order."
"Well, it is incomprehensible."
"Not to me. What can—(Make that little brute on the off side keep up to the collar. You want a few lessons from me still.) What can a girl like Lady Alice do? She is an earl's daughter. She cannot dig; to beg she is ashamed; she must therefore take to herself a husband from the mammon of unaristocratic money-grubbers."
"I should like to meet her again—poor Lady Alice!" said Katherine, more to herself than to her companion.
"I think you are wasting your commiseration," he returned. "She seems quite happy."
"She may be successful in hiding her feelings."
De Burgh laughed. "Tell me," he asked, "do you really think Errington is the sort of fellow women break their hearts about?"
"I cannot tell. He seems to me very good and very nice."
"That is a goody-goody description. Well done!"—as Katherineguided her ponies successfully through the gate of her abode and turned them round the gravel sweep. "I must say you have a pretty little nook here."
"Had you arrived an hour sooner you would have seen Mrs. Ormonde. I have just seen her off by the 12.30 train. She has been paying us a farewell visit, and is gone to Lady Mary Vincent."
"Indeed! She will have her cup of pleasure running over there; they live in a flutter of gayety all day long."
Here De Burgh sprang to the ground and assisted Katherine to alight.
"Will you lunch with us?" she asked, an additional tinge of color mounting to her cheek; for she knew De Burgh was no favorite of Miss Payne, who was no doubt rejoicing at the prospect of repose and deliverance from their late guest, who generally managed to rub her hostess the wrong way.
"You are very kind. I shall be delighted."
While Katherine went ostensibly to put aside her hat—really to warn Miss Payne—De Burgh strolled into the drawing-room. How cool and fresh and sweet with abundant flowers it was! An air of refined homeliness about it, the work and books and music on the open piano, spoke of well-occupied repose. Its simplicity was graceful, and indicated the presence of a cultured woman.
De Burgh wandered to the window—a wide bay—and took from a table which stood in it a cabinet photograph of Katherine, taken about a year before. He was absorbed in contemplating it when she came in, and he made a step to meet her. "This is very good," he said. "Where was it taken?"
"In Florence."
"It is like"—looking intently at her, and then at the picture. "But you are changed in some indescribable way, changed since I saw you last, years ago—that is, a month—isn't it a month since you drove me from paradise?—butyoudon't remember."
"But, Mr. De Burgh, I did not drive you away. You got bored, and went away of your own free-will."
"I shall not argue the point with you—not now; but tell me," with a very steady gaze into her eyes, "has anything happened since I left to waken up your soul? It was by no means asleep when I saw you last, but it has met with an eye-opener of some kind, I am convinced."
"I should not have given you credit for so much imagination, Mr. De Burgh."
Here Miss Payne made her appearance, and the boys followed. They were treated with unusual good-humor andbonhomieby De Burgh, who actually took Charlie on his knee and asked him some questions about boating, which occupied them till lunch was announced.
Miss Payne was too much accustomed to yield to circumstances not to accept De Burgh's attempts to be amiable and agreeable. He could be amusing when he chose; there was an odd abruptness, a candid avowal of his views and opinions, when he was in the mood, that attracted Katherine.
"Youarea funny man!" said Cecil, after gazing at him in silenceas he finished his repast. "I wish you would come out in the boat with us. Auntie said we might go."
"Very well; ask her if I may come."
"He may, mayn't he?"—chorus from both boys.
"Yes, if you really care to come: but do not let the children tease you."
"Do you give me credit for being ready to do what I don't like?"
"I can't say I do."
"When do you start on this expedition?"
"About seven, which will interfere with your dinner, for Miss Payne and I have adopted primitive habits, and do not dine late; we indulge in high tea instead."
"Nevertheless, I shall meet you at the jetty. Till then adieu."
"May we come with you?" cried the boys together—"just as far as the hotel?"
"No, dears; you must stay at home," said Katherine, decidedly.
"Then do let him come and see how the puppy is. He has grown quite big."
"Yes, I'll come round to the kennel if you'll show me the way," replied De Burgh, with a smiling glance at Katherine. "Till this evening, then," he added, and bowing to Miss Payne, left the room, the boys capering beside him.
"I should say that man has breakfasted on honey this morning," observed Miss Payne, with a sardonic smile. "Does he think that he has only to come, to see, and to conquer?"
"He has been quite pleasant," said Katherine. "I wonder why he is not always nice? He used to be almost rude at Castleford sometimes." She paused, while Miss Payne rose from the table and began to lock away the wine. "I wonder what has become of Mr. Payne? He has not been here for a long time."
"What made you think of him?" asked his sister, sharply.
"I suppose the force of contrast reminded me of him. What a difference between Bertie and Mr. De Burgh!—your brother living only to help others, and utterly forgetful of self; he regardless of everything but the gratification of his own fancies—at least so far as we can see."
"Yes; Mr. De Burgh can hardly be termed a true Christian. Still, Gilbert is rather too weak and credulous. I suspect he is very often taken in."
"Is it not better he should be sometimes, dear Miss Payne, than that some poor deserving creature should perish for want of help?"
"Well, I don't know. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if that law were more carefully obeyed, fewer would need help."
"Life is an unsolvable problem," said Katherine, and the remark reminded her of her humble friend Rachel. She therefore sat down and wrote her a kind, sympathetic letter, feeling some compunction for having allowed so long an interval to elapse since her last.
Her own troubles had occupied her too much. Now that time wasbeginning to accustom her to their weight, her deep interest in Rachel revived even with more than its original force. Katherine did not make intimates readily. Let there be ever so small a nook in the mind, ever so tiny an incident in the past, which must be hidden from all eyes, and there can be no free pass for outsiders, however dear or valued, to the sanctum of the heart, which must remain sealed, a whispering gallery for its own memories and aspirations. But Rachel Trant never dreamed of receiving confidence, nor, after once having strung herself up to tell her sad story, did she allude to her bitter past, save by an occasional word expressing her profound sense of the new life she owed to Katherine; nor did the latter, when talking with her face to face, ever realize that there was any social difference between them. Rachel's voice, manner, diction, and natural refinement were what might be expected from a gentlewoman, only that through all sounded a strain of harsh strength, the echo of that fierce despair from whose grip the tender consideration of her new friend had delivered her. The evening's sail was very tranquil and soothing. De Burgh was agreeable in the best way; that is, he was sympathetically silent, except when Katherine spoke to him. The boys and their governess sat together in the bow of the boat, where they talked merrily together, occasionally running aft to ask more profound questions of De Burgh and auntie. Fear of rheumatism and discomfort generally kept Miss Payne at home on these occasions.
De Burgh walked with Miss Liddell to her own door, but wisely refused to enter. "No," he mused, as he proceeded to his hotel; "I have had enough of asolitude a trois. It's an uncomfortable, tantalizing thing, and though I have been positively angelic for the last seven or eight hours, I can't stand any more intercourse under Miss Payne's paralyzing optics. I wonder if any fellow can keep up a heavenly calm for more than twenty-four hours? Depends on the circulation of the blood. I wonder still more if it is possible that Katherine is more disposed to like me than she was? She is somehow different than when I was here last. So divinely soft and kind! I have known a score or two of fascinating women, and gone wild about a good many, butthisis different, why the deuce should shenotlove me? Most of the others did. Why? God knows. I'll try my luck; she seems in a propitious mood."
Next morning's post brought a letter from Bertie, which was a kind of complement to Katherine's reflections of the night before. After explaining that he had hitherto been unable to take a holiday from his various avocations, he promised to spend the following week with his sister and Miss Liddell. He then described the success of Mrs. Needham's bazar, and proceeded thus:
"Meeting my old friend Mrs. Dodd a few days ago, I was sorry tofind from her that your favorite, Rachel Trant, had been very unwell. She had had a great deal of work, thanks to your kind efforts on her behalf, and sat at it early and late; then she took cold. I went to see her, and found her in a state of extreme depression, like that from which you succeeded in rousing her. I think it would be well if she could have a little change. Are there any cheap, humble lodgings at Sandbourne, where she might pass a week or two? I shall pass this matter in your hands."
"I am sure old Norris's wife would take her in. They have a nice cottage, almost on the beach, close to the point."
"No doubt. Really that Rachel of yours is in great luck. I wonder how many poor girls in London are dying for a breath of sea-air?"
"Ah, hundreds, I fear. But then, you see, they have not been brought under my notice, and Rachel has; so I will do the best I can for her. I am sure she is no common woman."
"At all events she has no common luck."
Katherine lost no time in visiting Mrs. Norris, and found that she was in the habit of letting a large, low, but comfortable room upstairs, where the bed was gorgeous with a patchwork quilt of many colors, and permitting her lodgers to dine in a small parlor, which was her own sitting-room.
The old woman had not had any "chance" that season, as she termed it, and gladly agreed to take the young person recommended by her husband's liberal employer. So Katherine walked back to write both to Bertie and theirprotegee.
During her absence De Burgh had called, but left no message. And Katherine felt a little sorry to have missed him, as she thought it probable he would go on to town that afternoon, and she wanted to hear some tidings of Errington, yet could hardly nerve herself to ask.
The evening was gloriously fine, and as Miss Payne did not like boating, the pony-carriage was given up to her, the boys, and Miss North the governess, for a long drive to a farm-house where the boys enjoyed rambling about, and Miss Payne bought new-laid eggs.
When they had set out, Katherine took a white woolen shawl over her arm—for even in July the breeze was sometimes chill at sundown—and strolled along the road, or rather cart track, which led between the cliffs and the sea to the boatman's cottage. She passed this, nodding pleasantly to the sturdy old man, who was busy in his cabbage garden, and pursued a path which led as far as a footing could be found, to where the sea washed against the point. It was a favorite spot with Katherine, who was tolerably sure of being undisturbed here. The view across the bay was tranquilly beautiful; the older part of Sandbourne only, with the pretty old inn, was visible from her rocky seat among the bowlders and debris which had fallen from above, while the old tower at the opposite point of the bay stood out black and solid against the flood of golden light behind it. She sat there very still, enjoying the air, the scene, the sweet salt breath of the sea, thinking intently of Rachel Trant's experience, of her fatal weakness, of the unpitying severity of thatrule of law under which we social atoms are constrained to live; of the evident fact that were we but wise and good we might always be the beneficent arbiters of our own fate; that there are few pleasures which have not their price; and after all, though she, Katherine, had paid high for hers, it had not cost too much, considering she had been groping in the dimness of imperfect knowledge. Oh, hew she wished she had never attempted to act providence to her mother and herself, but trusted to Errington's sense of generosity and justice! Of course it would have been humiliating to beg from a stranger, yet before that stranger she had been compelled to lower herself to the dust, and—
The unwonted sound of approaching feet startled her. She turned, to see De Burgh within speaking distance. "I am like Robinson Crusoe in my solitude here," she said, smiling. "I turn pale at the sound of an unexpected step, as he did at the print of Friday's foot."
"And to continue the smile," he returned, leaning against a rock near her, "the footprint or step, as in Crusoe's case, only announces the advent of a devoted slave." He spoke lightly, and Katherine scarce noticed what seemed to her an idle compliment.
"I fancied you had gone to town," she said.
"No; I am not going to town; I don't know or care where I am going. Some kind friends might say I am on my way to the dogs."
"I hope not," said Katherine, gravely. "I imagine, Mr. De Burgh, that if you had some object of ambition—"
"I should become an Admirable Crichton? I don't think so. There are such dreary pauses in the current of all careers!"
"Of course. You would not live in a tornado!"
"I am not so sure"—laughing. "At all events I shall never be satisfied with still life like our friend Errington."
"Do you know anything of him? Mrs. Ormonde never mentions his name."
"Of course not; when a fellow can't keep pace with his peers, away with him, crucify him."
"As long as a few special friends are true——"
"If they are," interrupted De Burgh; and Katherine did not resume, hoping he would continue the theme, which he did, saying: "He has left his big house, gone into chambers somewhere, and has I believe, taken up literature, politics, and social subjects. So Lady Mary Vincent says. I fancy he is a clever fellow in a cast-iron style."
"What a change for him!"
"I believe there was something coming to him out of the wreck, and I think he is a sort of man who will float. I never liked him myself, chiefly, I fancy, because I know he doesn't like me. Indeed, I don't care for people in general." There was a pause, during which Katherine glanced at her companion, and was struck by his sombre expression, the stern compression of his lips.
"Did you call at the cottage?" she asked.
"No; you were out this morning, and I did not like to intrude again," he laughed. "Growing modest in my sere and yellow days,you see; so I thought I should perhaps find you here, as I saw your numerous party drive past the hotel."
"I like this corner, and often come here. But, Mr. De Burgh, you look as if the times were out of joint."
"So they are"—suddenly seating himself on a flat stone nearly at Katherine's feet, leaning his elbow on another, and resting his head on his hand, so as to look up easily in her face.
"What gloomy dark eyes he has!" she thought.
"I should like to tell you why," he went on.
"Very well," returned Katherine, who felt a little uneasy.
"I am pretty considerably in debt, to begin with. If I paid up I should have about three half-pence a year to live on. Besides my debts I have an unconscionably ancient relative whose title and a beggarly five thousand a year must come to me when he dies, if he ever dies. This venerable impediment has some hundred or more thousands which he can bequeath to whom he likes. Hitherto he has not considered me a credit to the family. Well, I went to him the other day, on his own invitation, and to my amazement he offered to pay my debts—on one condition."
"I do hope he will," cried Katherine, as De Burgh paused. She was quite interested and relieved by the tone of his narrative.
"Ay, but there's the rub. I can't fulfil the condition, I fear. It is that I should marry a woman rich enough to replace the money my debts will absorb; a particular woman who doesn't care for me, and whom, knowing the hideous tangle of motives that hangs round the central idea of winning her, I am almost ashamed to ask; but a woman that any man might court; a woman I have loved from the first moment my eyes met hers, who has haunted and distracted me ever since, and who is, I dare say, a great deal too good for me; but a creature I will strive to win, no matter what the cost of success. This girl or rather (for there is a richness and ripeness of nature about her which deserves the term) this fair, sweet woman—I need not name her to you." He stopped, and his passionate pleading eyes held hers. Katherine grew white, half with fear, half with sincere compassion. She tried to speak. At last the words came.
"You make me terribly sad, Mr. De Burgh," she said, with trembling lips. "You make mesosorry that I cannot marry you; but I cannot—indeed I cannot. Will Lord De Burgh not pay your debts if he knows you have done your best to persuade me to marry you?"
De Burgh laughed a cynical laugh. "You are infinitely practical, Katherine. (I am going to call you Katherine for the next few minutes. Because I think of you as Katherine, I love to speak your name to yourself; it seems to bring me a little nearer to you.) Listen to me. Don't you think you could endure me as a husband? I am a better fellow than I seem, and mine is no foolish boy's fancy. I am a better man when I am near you. Then this old cousin of mine will leave me all he possesses if you are my wife, and the Baroness de Burgh, with money enough to keep her place among her peers, would have no mean position; nor is a husband passionately devoted to you unworthy of consideration."
"It is not indeed. But, Mr. De Burgh, do you honestly think that devotion would last? These violent feelings often work their own destruction."
"Ay: God knows they do, amazingly fast," he returned, with a sigh and a far-away look. "But what you say applies to all men. If you ever marry you must run the risk of inconstancy in the man you accept. I am at least old enough and experienced enough to value a good woman when I have found one, especially when she does not make her goodness a bore. And you—you have inspired me with something different from anything I have ever felt before. Yes, yes," he went on, angrily, as he noticed a slight smile on her lips. "I see you try to treat this as only the stereotype talk of a lover who wants your money more than yourself; but if you listen to the judgment of your own heart, it is true and honest enough to recognize truth in another, and it will tell you that, whatever my faults (and they are legion), sneaking and duplicity are not among them. It is quite true that when first I heard of you I thought your fortune would be just the thing to put me right, as I have no doubt my dear friend Mrs. Ormonde has impressed upon you, but from the moment I first spoke to you I felt, I knew, there was something about you different from other women. I also knew that in the effort to win the heiress I was heavily handicapped by the sudden strong passion for the woman which seized me."
"That surely ought to have been a means of success?" said Katherine, a good deal interested in his account of himself.
"No: it made me, for the first time in my life, hesitating, self-distrustful, and awfully disgusted at having to take your money into consideration. Had you been an ordinary woman, ready to exchange your fortune for the social position I could give my wife, and perhaps with a certain degree of liking for the kind of free-lance reputation I am told I possess, I should have carried my point, and presented the future Baroness de Burgh to my venerable kinsman months ago."
"And suppose the unfortunate heiress had been a soft-hearted, simple girl?" said Katherine, with a slight faltering in her tones. "Suppose she were credulous, loving, attracted by you—you are probably attractive to some women—and married you believing in your disinterested affection?"
De Burgh, who had risen from half-recumbent position, and stood leaning against a larger fragment of rock, paused before he replied: "I think that I am a gentleman enough not to be a brute, but I rather believe a woman of the type you describe would not have a blissful existence with me."
"I am sure of it. You are quite capable of making the life of such a woman too dreadful to think of." She shuddered slightly.
De Burgh looked curiously at her. "If you will have the goodness to undertake my punishment," he said, "by marrying me without love, and letting me prove how earnestly I could serve you and strive to win it, I'll strike the bargain this moment. I have been reckless and unfortunate. Now give me a chance; for Idolove you, Katherine. I'd love you if you were the humblest of undowered women."
The tears stood in her eyes, for the passion and feeling in his voice struck home to her.
"I believe it," she said, softly, "and I am almost sorry I cannot love you. But I do not, nor do I think I ever could. You will find others quite as likely to draw forth your affection as I am. But there are some natural barriers of disposition, and—oh, I cannot define what—which hold us apart. Yet I am interested in you, and would like to know you were happy. Yet, Mr. De Burgh, I must not sacrifice my life to you. If I did, the result might not be satisfactory even to yourself."
"Sacrifice your life! What an unflattering expression!" cried De Burgh, with a hard laugh. "So there is no hope for me?"
Katherine shook her head.
"I felt there was but little when I began," he said, as if to himself. "Tell me, are you free? Has some more fortunate fellow than myself touched that impregnable heart of yours? I know I have no right to ask such a question."
"You have not indeed, Mr. De Burgh. And if I could not with truth say 'no,' I should be vexed with you for asking it. Weighted as I am with money enough to excite the greed of ordinary struggling men, I shall not be in a hurry to renounce my comfortable independence."
De Burgh's eyes again held hers with a look of entreaty. "That independence will last just as long as your heart escapes the influence of the man whom you will love one day; for though love lies sleeping, it is in you, and will spring to life some time, all the stronger and more irresistible because his birth has not come early.Thenyou will feel more formethan you do now."
"I do feel for you, Mr. De Burgh"—raising her moist eyes to his.
"Thank you"—taking her hand and kissing it. "Will you, then be my friend, and promise not to banish me? I'll be sensible, and give you no trouble."
"Oh yes, certainly," said Katherine, glad to be able to comfort him in any way; and she withdrew her hand.
"I am not going to worry you with my presence now," he continued. "I shall say good-by for the present. I am going away north. I have entered a horse for a big steeple-chase at Barton Towers, and will ride him myself. If I win I can hold out awhile longer. You must wish me success."
"I am sure I do, heartily. After this,dogive up racing."
"Very well. But"—pressing her hand hard—"I'll tell you what I willnotgive up, my hope of winningyou, until you are married to some one else and out of my reach."
He kissed her hand again, and then, without any further adieu, turned away, walking with long swift steps toward the town, not once looking back.
"Thank God he is gone!" was Katherine's mental exclamation as the sound of his foot-fall died away. She was troubled by his intensity and determination, and touched by his unmistakable sincerity. "If I loved him I should not be afraid to marry him. I think he might possibly make a good husband to a woman he wasreally attached to; but I have not the least spark of affection for him, though there is something very distinguished in his figure and bearing; even his ruggedness is perfectly free from vulgarity. Yes, he is a sort of man who might fascinate some women; but he is terribly wrong-headed. If he keeps hoping on until I marry, he has a long spell of celibacy before him. I dare say he will be married himself before two years are over."
She sat awhile longer thinking, her face growing softer and sadder. Then she rose, wrapped her shawl round her, and walked slowly back to the cottage, where she found the rest of the party just returned, joyous and hungry.
Bertie came down late on the following Saturday, and brought a note from Rachel Trant to Katherine, accepting her offer of quarters at Sandbourne with grateful readiness. Katherine was always pleased with her letters; they expressed so much in a few words; a spirit of affectionate gratitude breathed through their quiet diction.
Katherine was very glad to receive it, for Bertie's accounts of theirprotegeemade her uneasy. She had at first refused to move, saying it was really of no use spending money upon her, and seemed to be sinking back into the lethargic condition from which Katherine had woke her.
Her kind protectress therefore set off early on Monday to tell Mrs. Norris she was coming, and to make her room look pretty and cheerful. By her orders the boatman's son was despatched to meet their expected tenant on her arrival. Miss Payne having arranged a picnic for that day, at which Katherine's company could not be dispensed with.
When they returned it was already evening; still Katherine could not refrain from visiting her friend. "She will be so strange and lonely with people she has never seen before," she said to Bertie. "As soon as tea is over I shall go and see her."
"It will be rather late, yet it will be a great kindness. I will go with you, and wait for you among the rocks on the beach."
Miss Payne expressed her opinion that it was unwise to set beggars on horseback, but offered no further opposition.
The sun had not quite sunk as Katherine and her companion walked leisurely by the road which skirted the beach toward the boatman's dwelling.
"I wish we could find some occupation that could so fill Rachel Trant's mind as to prevent these dreadful fits of depression," began Katherine.
"She had plenty of work, and seemed successful in her performance of it," he returned; "but it does not seem to have kept her from a recurrence of these morbid moods. Loneliness does not appear to suit her."
"Sitting from morning till night, unremittingly at work, in silence, alone with memories which must be very sad, is not the best method of recovering cheerfulness, and unfortunately, Rachel is too much above her station to make many friends in it. She wants movement as well as work," remarked Katherine.
"As you consider her so good a dressmaker, it might be well to establish her on a larger scale, and give her some of the older girls from our Home as apprentices. Looking after and teaching them would amuse as well as occupy her."
"It is an idea worth developing!" exclaimed Katherine; and they walked on a few paces in silence.
"So De Burgh has been paying you a visit?" said Bertie at length.
"He has been paying Sandbourne a visit. He did not stay with us."
"It is wonderful that he could tame his energies even to stay here a few days."
"He was here only two days the last time."
"Youcannot have much in common with such a man."
"Not much, certainly; still, he interests me. He has had such a narrow escape of being agoodman."
"Narrow escape! I should say he never was in much danger ofthatdestiny."
"Perhaps if the door of every heart were opened to us we should see more good in all than we could expect." A few words more brought them to the boatman's house, where they parted.
Miss Trant was at home, Mrs. Norris said. Katherine ascended the steep ladder-like stair, and having knocked at the door, entered the room. Rachel was seated in the window, which was wide open. Her elbows rested on a small table, and her chin on her clasped hands, while her large blue eyes looked steadily out over the bay, which slept blue and peaceful below; the lines of her slightly bent figure looked graceful and refined, but there was infinite sadness in her pose.
"I am very glad to see you again," said Katherine. Rachel, who was too deep in thought to hear her enter, started up to clasp her offered hand. Her pale thin face was lit with pleasure, and her grave, almost stern eyes softened.
"And so am I. You do not knowhowglad. Do you know, I began to think I never should see you again," and she kissed the hand she held.
"Do not!" said Katherine, bending forward to kiss her brow. "Were you so ill, then?"
"Not physically ill, except for my cough; but for all that I felt dying, and really I often wonder why you try to keep me alive. I am a trouble to you, and I do very little good. Had I not been a coward I should have left the world, where I have no particular place, long ago."
"Well, you see, I have a sort of superstition that life is a goodly gift which must not be cast aside for a whim; and why should you despair of finding peace? There is so much that is delightful in life!"
"And so much that is tragic!"
"Ah, yes! but if we only seek for the sorrowful we destroy our own lives, without helping any one. You must let the dead past bury its dead."
"How if the dead past comes and crosses your path, and looks you in the face?"
"What do you mean, Rachel?"
"You will think me weak and contemptible, but I must confess to you the cause of my late prostration."
"Yes, do; it may be a relief."
"About a month ago," said Rachel, sitting down by the table opposite Katherine, and again resting her elbow on it, while she half hid her face by placing her open hand over her eyes, "I was walking to Mrs. Needham's with some work I had finished, when, turning into Lowndes Square, I came face to face with—him. It is true I had a thick veil on, and my large parcel must have partially disguised me, but he did not recognize me. He passed me with the most unconscious composure, and he was looking better, brighter, than I had ever seen him. The sight of him brought back all the torturing pangs of helpless sorrow for the sweetness, the intense happiness I can never know again; the stinging shame, the poison of crushed hopes, the profound contempt for myself, the sense of being of no value to any one on earth. I think if I could have spoken toyou, I might have shaken off these fiends of thought; but I was alone, always alone: why should I live?"
"Rachel, youmustput this cruel man out of your mind. He has been the destroyer of your life. Try and cast the idea of the past from you. Life is too abundant to be exhausted by one sorrow. You have years before you in which to build up a new existence and find consolation. I will not listen to another word about your former life; let us only look forward. I have a plan for you—at least Mr. Payne has suggested the idea—in which you can help us and others, and which will need all your time and energy. But I will not even talk of this business. We must try lighter and pleasanter topics. Not another word about by-gone days will I speak. You have started afresh under my auspices, and I mean you to float. Now that you are here, Rachel, you must read amusing books, and be out in the open air all day. You will be a new creature in a week. You must come and see my cottage and my nephews; they are dear little fellows. Are you fond of children?"
"I don't think I am. I never had anything to do with them. But I would rather not go to your house, dear Miss Liddell. I feel as if I could not brave Miss Payne's eyes."
"That is mere morbidness. There is no reason why you should fear any one. You must discount your future rights. A few years hence, when you are a new woman, you will, I am sure, look back with wonder and pity as if reading the memoir of another. Iknowthat spells of self-forgiveness come to us mercifully."
"When I listen to you, and hear in the tones of your voice more even than in your words that you are my friend, that you really care for me, that it will be a real joy to you to see me rise above myself, I feel that I can live and strive and be something more than a galvanized corpse. You give me strength. I wonder if I shall ever be able to prove to you what you have done for me. Stand by me, and Iwilltry to put the past under my feet. I do not wish to presume on the great goodness you have shown me nor to forget the difference between us socially, but oh! let me believe you love me—even me—with the kindly affection that can forgive even while it blames."
"Be assured of that, Rachel," cried Katherine, her eyes moist and beautiful with the divine light of kindness and sympathy, as she stretched out her hand to clasp Rachel's. "I have from the first been drawn to you strangely—it is something instinctive—and I have firm belief in your future, if you will but believe in yourself. You are a strong, brave woman, who can dare to look truth in the face. You will be useful and successful yet."
Rachel held her hand tightly for a minute in silence; then she said, in a low but firm voice: "I will try to realize your belief. I should be too unworthy if I failed to do my very best. There! I have discarded the past; you shall hear of it no more."
They were silent for a while; then a solemn old eight-day clock with a fine tone struck loudly and deliberatedly in the room below. Katherine, with a smile, counted each stroke. "Nine!" she exclaimed, when the last had sounded; "and though it is 9 P.M., let it be the first hour of your new life." She rose, and passing her arm over Rachel's shoulder, kissed her once more with sisterly warmth. "Mr. Payne is waiting for me, so I must leave you. I have sent you some books; I have but few here. One will amuse you, I am sure, though it is old enough—a translation of theMemoirs of Madam d'Abrantes. It is full of such quaint pictures of the great Napoleon's court, and does not display much dignity or nobility, yet it is an honest sort of book."
"Thank you. I don't want novels now; they generally pain me. But my greatest solace is to forget myself in a book."
Bertie Payne's visit was a very happy one. The boys adored him, and subjects of discussion and difference of opinion never failed between Katherine and himself. She consulted him as to what school would be best for Cecil, and he advised that he should be left as a boarder at the one which he now attended, and where he had made fair progress, when Miss Payne and Katherine returned to town.
Bertie looked a new man when he bade them good-by, promising to come again soon.
Beyond sending a newspaper which recorded his victory in the Barton Towers steeple-chase De Burgh made no sign, and life ran smoothly in its ordinary grooves at Sandbourne.
Rachel Trant revived marvellously. The change of scene, the fresh salt-air, above all the society of Katherine, who frequently visited and walked with her, all combined to give her new life—even emboldening her to look at the future. Her manner, always grave and respectful, won reluctant approval from Miss Payne. And the boys were always pleased to run to the boatman's cottage with flowers or fruit, and talk to, or rather question, their new friend. Rachel seemed always glad to see them, though she evidently shrank from returning their visits. She was never quite herself, or off guard, except when alone with Katherine. Then she spoke out of her heart, and uttered thoughts and opinions which often surprised Katherine, and set her thinking more seriously than she had ever done before. Finally, hearing from her good old landlady that some of her customers had returned to town and were inquiring for her, Rachel said it was time her holiday came to an end.
"I feel now that I can bear to live and try to be independent.Indeed my life is yours; you have given it back to me, and I will yet prove to you that I am not unworthy of your wonderful generosity," she said, the morning of the day she was to start for London, as she sat with Katherine among the rocks at the point. "The idea of an establishment such as Mr. Payne suggests is excellent. It ought to be your property, and good property—I need only be your steward—while it may be of great use to others."
"I feel quite impatient to carry out the project, and we will set about it as soon as I return to town," returned Katherine.
"Will you write to me sometimes?" asked Rachel, humbly. "I feel as if I dare not let you go: all of hope or promise that can come into my wrecked life centres in you. While you are my friend I can face the world."
"Yes, Rachel, write to me as often as you like, and I will answer your letters. Trust me: I will always be your true friend."