"I daresay I excited myself more than I need have done, but I think my little Charlie is safe for the future."
"Do you know that it makes me half mad to see that look of distress in your eyes, to see the color fading out of your cheeks! Katherine, I can't hold my tongue any longer. I thought I was far gone when I used to count the days between my visits to Sandbourne; I am a good deal worse now that you have let me be a sort of chum! Life without you is something I don't care to face, I don't indeed! Why don't you make up your mind to take me for better for worse? I'll try to be all better; just think how happy we might be! Those boys should have the best training money or care could get; and, Katherine, I'm not a bad fellow! Now you know me better, you must feel that I should never be a bad fellow toyou."
"You are a very good fellow, Lord de Burgh, that I quite believe; but (it pains me so much to say it) I really do not love you as I ought, and, unless I do love I dare not marry."
"Why not?—that is, if you don't love some other fellow. Will you tell me if any man stands in my way?"
"No, indeed, Lord de Burgh; who could I love?"
"That is impossible to say; however, your word is enough. If your heart is free, why not let me try to win it? and the opportunities afforded by matrimony are endless; you are the sort of woman who would be faithful to whatever you undertook, and when you saw me day by day living for you, and you only, you'd grow to love me! Just think of the boys running wild at Pont-y garvan inthe holidays, and——By heaven, my head reels with such a dream of happiness."
"I am a wretch, I know," said Katherine, the tears in her eyes, her voice breaking; "but I know myself. I am a very lawless individual, and—you had better not urge me."
"What is your objection to me? I haven't been a saint, but I have never done anything I am ashamed of. Why do you shrink from life with me? Come, cast your doubts to the winds, and give me your sweet self. There is no one to love you as I do, and I swear your life shall be a summer holiday."
His words struck her with sudden conviction. It was true there was no one to love her as he did, and what a tower of refuge he would be to the boys! Why should she not think of him? He had been very true to her. Why should she not drive out the haunting image of the man who did not love her by the living presence of the man who did? But, if she accepted him, she must confess her crime; she could not keep such an act hidden from the man who was ready to give his life to her. How awful this would be! And he might reject her; then her fate would be decided for her. Lord de Burgh saw that she hesitated, and pressed her eagerly for a decision.
"You deserve so much gratitude for your kindness, your faithfulness, that—ah! do let me think," covering up her face with her hands. "It is such a tremendous matter to decide."
"Yes, of course, you shall think as much as ever you like," cried De Burgh, rapturously, telling himself "that she who deliberates is lost." "Take your own time, only don't sayno," ferociously. "Reflect on the immense happiness you can bestow, the good you can do. Why do you shiver, my darling? If you wish it, I'll go now this moment, and I'll not show my face till—till the day after to-morrow, if you like."
"The day after to-morrow? that is but a short space to decide so momentous a question."
"If you can't make up your mind in twenty-four hours, neither can you in two hundred and forty. I don't want to hurry you, but you must have some consideration for me; imagine my state of mind. Why, I'll be on the rack till we meet again. I fancy a conscientious woman is about the cruellest creature that walks! However, I'll stick to my promise: I will not intrude on you till the day after to-morrow. Then I will come at eleven o'clock for your answer; and, Katherine, my love, my life, it must be 'yes.'"
He took and kissed her hand more than once, then he went swiftly away.
The hours which succeeded were painfully agitated. Katherine felt that De Burgh had every right to consider himself virtually accepted. She liked him—yes, certainly she liked him, and might have loved him, but for her irresistible, unreasonable, unmaidenly attachment to Errington. If she made up her mind to marry him, that would fill her heart and relieve it from the dull aching which had strained it so long; once a wife, she would never give a thought save to her own husband, but, before she reached the profound and death-like peace of such a position, she must tell her story to DeBurgh—and how would he take it? With all his ruggedness, he had a keen and delicate sense of honor; still she felt his passion for her would overcome all obstacles for the time, but how would it be afterwards, when they had settled down to the routine of every-day life? It would be a tremendous experiment, but she could not let him enter on that close union in ignorance of the blot on her scutcheon, and then the door would be closed on the earlier half of her life, which had been so bitter-sweet. How little peace she had known since her mother's death! how heavenly sweet her life had been when she knew no deeper care than to shield that dear mother from anxiety and trouble! and now there was no one belonging to her on whose wisdom and strength she had a right to rely. Perhaps, after all, it might be better to accept De Burgh, and end her uncertainties. Though by no means given to weeping, Katherine could not recover composure until after the relief of a copious flood of tears.
"Well, dear!" cried Mrs. Needham, when they were left together after dinner, "I am just bursting with curiosity. What news have you for me? and what have you been doing with yourself? You look ghastly, and I positively believe you have been crying. What have you done? I can't believe that you have refused Lord de Burgh—you couldn't be such a madwoman! Why you might lead——"
"How do you know he gave me an opportunity?" interrupted Katherine, with a faint smile.
"Don't talk like that, dear!" said Mrs. Needham, severely. "What would bring Lord de Burgh here day after day but trying to win you? I have been waiting for what I knew was inevitable; now, Katherine, tell me, have you rejected him?"
"No, Mrs. Needham, I have asked him for time to reflect."
"Oh, that is all right," in a tone of satisfaction, "and only means a turn of the rack while you can handle the screws; of course you'll accept him when he comes again. After all, though there are plenty of unhappy marriages, there is no joy so delightful as reciprocal affection. I am sure I never saw a creature so glorified by love as Angela Bradley; she told me at Mrs. Cochrane's she had a wonderful piece of news for me, and, when I said perhaps I knew it, she beamed all over and squeezed my hand as she whispered, "Perhaps you do!" I saw her driving Errington in her pony-carriage afterwards, and meeting old Captain Everard just then, he nodded after them and said, 'That's an excellent arrangement; the wedding, I hear, is fixed for the twenty-ninth of next month.' Now, I don't quite believethat; Angela would certainly have told me, but I am sure it will come off soon. I am glad for both their sakes."
"I am sure they will make a very happy couple, and I really believe I shall follow their example."
"Quite right! The double event will make a sensation, my dear child: to seeyouhappily and splendidly settled will be the greatest joy I have known for years, and what will Colonel Ormonde say?"
"I neither know nor care; and, Mrs. Needham, if you don't mind, I will go to bed. I havesucha headache."
The fateful morning found Katherine resolved and composed.
She would tell De Burgh everything, and, if her revelation did not frighten him away, she would try to make him happy and to be happy herself. It would be painful to tell him, but oh! nothing compared with the agony of humiliation it cost her to prostrate herself morally before Errington. Still she would be glad when the confession was over; afterwards, feeling her destiny decided, she would be calmer and more resigned. Resigned? what a term to apply to her acceptance of an honest man's hearty affection; for, whatever De Burgh's life may have been, he had said he had done nothing he was ashamed of. By some unconscious impulse she dressed herself in black, and went down to the drawing-room with her knitting, that she might be ready to receive the man who, an hour later, might be her affianced husband.
On the stairs she met Ford, who informed her that Miss Trant was waiting for her. Katherine felt glad of any interruption to her thoughts, especially as she knew that the arrival of a visitor would be the signal for Rachel's departure.
"I am so glad to see you," exclaimed Katherine, "but how is it you have escaped so early?"
"I have been to the City to buy goods, and came round here to have a peep at you, for Miss Payne told me yesterday of your trouble about the boys."
"How early you are! why, it is scarcely eleven. Yes, (sit down for a moment,) yes, I was dreadfully angry and upset;" and Katherine proceeded to describe Cecil's letter, and her visit to the school.
"I wish you could take them away," said Rachel, thoughtfully.
"Perhaps, later on, I may be able, but I do not think there is any chance that poor Charlie will be punished again. He is never really naughty, but he has had a great shock."
"So have you, I imagine, to judge from your looks."
"Do I look shocked? And how have you been? It is so long since I was able to go and see you."
"I have been, and am very well—very busy, and really succeeding. I have opened a banking account, and feel very proud of my cheque-book. Do you know that Mr. Newton has advanced me two hundred pounds? Just now it is worth a thousand, it lifts me over the waiting time. I have sent in my quarter's accounts, and in a month the payments will begin to come in. I'll make a good business yet."
"I believe you will."
"What a pretty room!" said Rachel, looking round. "How nice it is to know you are comfortable; by the time you are tired of your secretaryship, I hope to have a nice little sum laid by for you."
"What a wonderful woman of business you are, Rachel," said Katherine, admiringly.
"I ought to be! It is the only thing left to me, and I am thankful to say I get more and more—-" she stopped, for the door opened and Lord de Burgh was announced.
Rachel started from her seat and stood facing the door. Her cheek flushed crimson, then grew deadly white, her lips parted as if she breathed with difficulty.
De Burgh, the moment his eyes fell on her, stopped as if suddenly arrested by an invisible hand; his eyes expressed horror and surprise, his dark face grew darker. Rachel quickly recovered. "I will call again," she murmured, and passing him swiftly, noiselessly, left the room, closing the door behind her.
Like a flash of lightning, the meaning of this scene darted through Katherine's brain. Clasping her hands with interlaced fingers, she pressed them against her breast.
"Ah!" she exclaimed (there was infinite pain in that "ah!") "thenyouare the man?"
"What do you mean?" asked De Burgh, in a sullen tone, his thick brows almost meeting in a frown.
"The man she loved and lived with," returned Katherine, the words were low and clear.
"I am!" he replied, defiantly. Then a dreadful silence fell upon them.
Katherine dropped into a chair, and, resting her elbows on the table, covered her face with her hands.
"My God!" exclaimed De Burgh, advancing a step nearer. "How does she come here?"
Katherine could not speak for a moment; at last, and still covering her eyes and with a low quick utterance as if overwhelmed, she said,
"I have known her for some time. I found her dying of despair! I was able to befriend her, to win her back to life, to something like hope. She told me everything, except the name. We have ceased to speak of the past! I little knew, I could not have dreamed—I never suspected;" her voice broke, and she burst into tears, irresistible tears which she struggled vainly to repress.
"Why should younotsuspect me!" exclaimed De Burgh, harshly. "Did you suppose me above or below other men?"
"Ah! poor Rachel! what a flood of unspeakable bitterness must have overwhelmed her, to findyouhere!"
De Burgh paced to and fro, bewildered, furious, not knowing how to defend himself or what to say.
"I am the most unfortunate devil that ever breathed!" he exclaimed at last, pausing beside the table and resting one hand on it. "Look here, Katherine, how can a girl like you—for, in spite of your mature airs, you are a mere girl—how can you judge the—the temptations and ways of a world of which you know nothing?"
"Temptations!" she murmured; "did Rachel askyouto take her to live with you?"
"No, of course not," angrily, "she is rather a superior creature, I admit; but I deny that I ever deceived or deserted her! She wasperfectly aware I never Intended to marry her, and I was awfully put out when she disappeared. I did my best to find her. But the fact is, when she didnotreappear, I not unnaturally supposed she had gone off with some other man."
Katherine looked upon him suddenly with such tragic, horrified eyes that De Burgh was startled; then she slightly raised her hands with an expressive gesture, again covering her face.
"Yes, yes," De Burgh went on, impatiently, "I see you think me a brute for suspecting her capable of such a thing, but how was I to know she was different from others? It is too infernally provoking that such an affair should came to your notice! You are quite unable to judge fairly;" and he resumed his agitated walk. "I swear I am no worse than my neighbors. Ask any woman of the world, ask Mrs. Needham—they will tell you I am not an unpardonable sinner! I will do anything on earth for Rachel that you think right. Just remember her position and mine, it was not as if—It is impossible to explain to you, but there was no reason, had she been a little sensible, why such an episode should have spoiled her life! Lots of women—" he stopped, and with a muttered curse paused opposite her.
"Andcouldyou have been her companion so long, without perceiving the strength and pride and tenderness of the woman who gave up all hoping to keep the love you no doubt ardently expressed? Ah! if you could have seen her as she was when I found her!"
"How was I to know she was staking her gold against my counters?" returned De Burgh, obstinately, though a dark flush passed over his face at Katherine's words.
"Lord de Burgh! I did not think you could be so cruel," cried Katherine, rising. "I will not speak to you any longer."
"Cruel!" he exclaimed, placing himself between her and the door. "How can I be just or generous, when this most unfortunate encounter has put me in such a hopeless position? Katherine, will you let this miserable mistake of the past rob me of my best hopes, my most ardently cherished desires——"
"It is but two or three years since you spoke in the same tone, possibly the same words, to Rachel! At least, knowing her as I do, I feel sure she would have yielded to no common amount of persuasion. She was mad, weak to a degree to listen to you; but she was alone, and love is so sweet."
"It is," cried De Burgh, passionately. "Why will you turn from love as true, as intense as ever was offered to woman, merely because I let myself fall into an error but too common—"
"Is it not a mere accident of our respective positions that you happen to seek me as yourwife?" said Katherine, a slight curl on her lip; "and how can I feel sure that in time you will not weary of me as you did of her?"
"The cases are utterly unlike. So long as the world lasts, men and women too will act as Rachel Trant and I did; Nature is too strong for social laws and religious maxims."
"And you said you had never done anything to be ashamed of?" she exclaimed, bitterly.
"Nor have I!" said De Burgh, stoutly, "if I were tried by the standard of our world. How can you know—how can you judge?"
"I do not judge, I have no right to judge," said Katherine, brokenly. "I only know that, when I saw your eyes meet Rachel's I felt a great gulf had suddenly opened between us, a gulf that cannot be bridged. I do not understand and cannot judge, as you say, and I am sorry for you too; but if life is to be this miserable shuffling of chances, this jumble of injustice, I would rather die than live. No, Lord de Burgh, Iwillgo."
"Good Heavens! Katherine, you are trembling; you can hardly stand. I am a brute to keep you; but I cannot help clutching my only chance of happiness. You are an angel! Dispose of me as you will; but in mercy give me some hope. I'll wait; I'll do anything."
"Oh, no, no. It is impossible. I am so fond ofher; and you will find many to whom your past will be nothing; for me it is irrevocable. The world seems intolerable; let me go;" and she burst into such bitter sobs that her whole frame shook.
"I must not keep you now; but I shallnotgive you up. I will write. Oh, Katherine, you would not destroy me!" He seized and passionately kissed her hand, which she tore from him, and fled from the room.
When Rachel Trant escaped from the presence of her dearest friend and her ex-lover, she could scarcely see or stand. Thankful not to meet anyone, she hastily left the house, and, somewhat revived by the air, she made her way to a secluded part of the Kensington Gardens. Here she found a seat, and, still palpitating with the shock she had sustained, strove to reduce the chaotic whirl of her thoughts to something like order.
She divined by instinct why De Burgh was at Mrs. Needham's. She knew, how she could not tell, that he was seeking Katherine as eagerly as he had sought herself; but with what a different object! The sight of De Burgh was as the thrust of a poisoned dagger through the delicate veins and articulations of her moral system. To see the dark face and sombre eyes she had loved so passionately—had!—still loved!—was almost physical agony. It was as if some beloved form had been brought back from another world, but animated by a spirit that knew her not, regarded her not at all. Oh, the bitterness of such an estrangement, of this expulsion from the paradise of warmth and tenderness where she had been cherished for a while—a heavenly place which should know her no more.
"I brought it all upon myself," was the sentence of her strong stern sense. "Losing self-respect, what hold can any woman have upon a lover?—yet how many men are faithful even to death without the legal tie! I do not love him now, but how fondly, how intensely I loved the man I thought he was! Oh, fool, fool, fool, to believe that I could ever tighten my hold upon a man who had gained all he wished unconditionally! I have deserved all—all."
Yet she had no hatred against the real De Burgh, neither had she any angelic desire to forgive him, or to do him good or convert him; what he was now, he would ever be. He might even make a fairly good husband. The episode of his connection with herself would in no way interfere withhismoral harmony. But he was not worthy of Katherine; no unbreakable tie would make him more constant;and, though his faithlessness could not touch her social position, he might crush her heart all the same. Rachel was far too human, too passionate, not to shrink with unutterable pain from the idea of this man's entrancing love being lavished on another, yet her true, devoted affection for her benefactress remained untouched. Katherine stood before everything. Rachel did not wish to injure De Burgh—her heart had simply grown strong, and she would not hesitate for a moment to save Katherine from trouble at any cost to him.
What then should she do?—continue to withhold the name of the man of whom she had so often spoken, or let Katherine know the whole truth and judge for herself? If she decided on the latter, it would break up her friendship with Katherine, and De Burgh would attribute her action to revenge. Should that deter her? No; so long as she was sure of herself, what were opinions to her? The one thing in life to which she clung now was Katherine's affection and esteem; for her she would sacrifice much, but she would not flatter her into a fool's paradise of trust and wedded love with De Burgh by concealing anything, neither would she counsel her against the desperate experiment, should she be inclined to risk it. He might be a very different man to a wife.
A certain amount of composure came to her with decision, though a second death seemed to have laid its icy hand upon her heart; she rose and made her way towards her own abode, determining to await a visit or some communication from Katherine before she touched the poisoned tract which lay between them.
Rachel had scarcely reached the Broad Walk when she was accosted by a little girl, who ran towards her, calling loudly,
"Miss Trant, Miss Trant, don't you know me?"
She was a slight, willowy creature with black eyes, profuse dark hair, and sallow complexion. Her dress was costly, though simple, and she was followed at a more sober pace by a lady-like but foreign-looking girl, apparently her governess.
"Well, Miss Liddell, are you taking a morning walk?" asked Rachel, as the child took her hand.
"I am going to see papa. I am to have dinner with him. He has a bad cold, and he sent for me."
"Then you must cheer him up, and tell him what you have been learning."
"I haven't learnt much yet; it is so tiresome."
"Come, Mademoiselle Marie, you must not tease Miss Trant," said the foreign-looking lady, whom Rachel recognized as one of the governesses who sometimes escorted George Liddell's daughter "to be tried on."
"She does not tease me," returned Rachel, who had rather taken a fancy to the child.
"Won't you come and see papa with me?" continued the little heiress. "I wish you would, and he will tell you to make me another pretty frock—I love pretty frocks."
"Not to-day; I must go home and make frocks for other people."
"Then I will bring him to see you—I will, I will; he does whatever I like. Good-bye," springing up to kiss her. "I may come and see you soon?"
"Whenever you like, my dear," said Rachel, feeling strangely comforted by the child's warm kisses; and they parted, going in different directions, to meet again soon.
Mrs. Needham had been sorely tried on that fatal day when De Burgh had suddenly departed, after a comparatively short interval, and Katherine had disappeared into the depths of her own room.
She had anticipated entertaining the bridegroom-elect at luncheon, and had ordered lobster-cream and anepigramme d'agneau a la Russeas suitable delicacies; she expected confidential consultation and delightful plans; she had even speculated on so managing that the double event:—Angela Bradley's marriage with Errington and Katherine's with Lord de Burgh,—might come off on the same day, even in the same church: that would be a culmination of excitement! Now some mysterious blight had fallen on all her schemes. What had happened? What could they have quarrelled about? Then when Katherine emerged from her refuge she was hopelessly mysterious; there was no penetrating the reserve in which she wrapped herself.
"There is no one in whom I should more readily confide than in you, dear Mrs. Needham, but a serious differencehas arisenbetween Lord de Burgh and myself, respecting which I cannot speak toanyone. I regret being obliged to keep it to myself, but I must."
"My dear, if you adopt that tone I have nothing more to say, but it is horribly provoking and disappointing. I am quite sure people began to expect it—that you would marry Lord de Burgh, I mean, and what a position you have thrown away. You can't expect a man like him to be a saint. There is no use trying men by our standard; in short, it's not much matter what standard we have, we must always come down a step or two if we mean to make both ends meet; but you see, when a man has money and right principles, he can atone for a lot."
Katherine gazed at her astonished. How was it that she had found the scent which led so near the real track?
"No money," she said, gravely, "could in any way affect the matters in dispute between Lord de Burgh and myself, so I will not speak any more on the subject. It has all been very painful, and the worst part is that I cannot tell you."
"Well, it must be bad," observed Mrs. Needham, in a complaining tone, "but I suppose I must just hold my tongue."
So Katherine was left in comparative peace. But it was a hard passage to her; she could not shake off the sickening sense of wrong and sorrow, the painful consciousness of being humiliated which the revelation inflicted on her, the feeling that she was, in some inexplicable way, touched by the evil-doing of those who were so near her.
A slight cold, caught she knew not how, aggravated the fever induced by distress of mind, and next day Mrs. Needham thought her so unwell that she insisted on sending for the doctor, who condemned Katherine to her bed, a composing draught, and solitude.
The doctor, however, could not forbid letters, and Katherine's seclusion was much disturbed by a long, rambling, impassioned epistle from De Burgh, in which, though he promised not to intrudeupon her at present, he refused to give up all hope, as he could not believe that she would always maintain her present exaggerated and unreasonable frame of mind—a letter that did him no good in Katherine's estimation. Then she tried to resume her work. But Mrs. Needham, returning from one of her "rapid acts" of inspection and negotiation in and out divers and sundry warehouses, dismissed her peremptorily to lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room, in reality to get her out of the way, as she was expecting a visit from Miss Payne, with whom she wanted a little private conversation.
"Can you throw any light on this mysterious quarrel between Katherine and Lord de Burgh?" she asked, abruptly, as soon as Miss Payne was seated in the study.
"Quarrel? have they quarrelled? I know nothing about it. When did they quarrel?"
"About three days ago. He came here to propose for her, I know he did, they were talking together for—oh!—barely a quarter-of-an-hour in the drawing-room, when I heard her fly up stairs, and he rushed away, slamming the door as if he would take the front of the house out. Katherine has never been herself since. It is my firm belief she is strongly attached to him,—what do you think?"
"I don't know what to think; they were very good friends, but I do not think Katherine was in love with him. She is a curious girl. I often am tempted to fancy she has something on her mind."
"Nonsense, my dear Miss Payne. I never met a finer, truer nature than Katherine Liddell's," cried Mrs. Needham, an affectionate smile lighting up her handsome, kindly face. "The worst of it is, I do not know whom to blame, and Katherine has put me on honor not to ask her."
"I cannot help you," said Miss Payne; and she fell into a thoughtful silence, while Mrs. Needham watched her eagerly.
"I am going away for a few weeks," resumed Miss Payne. "I have let my house, and I shall go to Sandbourne; the weather seems settled, and it will be pleasant there. If you can spare her, I will ask Katherine to come with me, she liked the place, and perhaps in the intimacy of every-day life she may tell me what happened; but, remember,I'llnot tell you unless she gives me leave."
"No, no, of course not; but I am sure she would trustmeas soon as anyone.'
"Very likely. It will just depend upon who is near her when she is in a confidential mood."
"Perhaps. I am sure it would do her good; and Sandbourne is not far. If De Burgh wants to make it up, he can easily run down there."
"Yes, he knows his way. I am not sure that he is the right man, though," said Miss Payne, reflectively; "he is too ready to ride rough-shod over everyone and everything."
"Do you think so? I must say I thought him a delightful person, so natural and good-natured."
"Well, let me go and see Katherine. I am anxious to take her away with me."
Katherine was most willing to accept Miss Payne's proposition. She was soothed and gratified by the thoughtful kindness shown herby both her friends, and anxious to refresh her mind and recruit her strength before taking up her life again.
"You are so good to think of taking me with you," she cried, when Miss Payne ceased speaking. "I should like greatly to go, if Mrs. Needham can spare me."
"Of course I can. You will come back a better secretary than ever," exclaimed that lady, cheerfully. "I will try to run down and see you some Saturday. It is rather a new place, this Sandbourne, isn't it?"
"Yes; it is not crowded yet."
"When do you go down there?"
"On Saturday afternoon," returned Miss Payne. "I have taken rooms at Marine Cottage; you know, it is at the end of the parade, near an old house."
"Yes, quite well; it is a nice little place."
"I will write to secure another bedroom; and let us meet at the station on Saturday. I go by the 2.50 train." A few more preliminaries and the affair was settled.
Previous to leaving town, however, Katherine felt she must see Rachel Trant, though she half dreaded meeting her. It must have been an awful blow to meet De Burgh as she did. Would she divine what brought him there? Katherine felt she had been cold and remiss in having kept silence towards her friend so long, and, when Miss Payne left, she walked with her across the park to Rachel's abode, in spite of Mrs. Needham's assurances that it would be too much for her, and retard the recovery of her nervous forces, etc., etc.
Katherine was not kept long waiting in the neat little back parlor, which was Miss Trant's private room. Rachel came to her looking very white, while she breathed quickly. She paused just within the door, in a hesitating, uncertain way, which seemed to Katherine very pathetic.
"Oh! Rachel," she cried, her soft brown eyes suffused with tears as she tenderly kissed her brow, "I know everything, and—I will never see him again."
"He is not all bad," said Rachel, in a low tone, as she clasped Katherine's hand in both her own.
"No, I am sure he is not; but he has passed out of our lives; let us speak of him no more."
"I should be glad not to do so; but he has written me a letter I should like you to see. He seems grieved for the past and makes munificent offers."
"I should rather not see it, Rachel. I want to forget. Did you reply?"
"I did, very gravely, very shortly. I told him I wanted nothing, that the best friend I ever had had put me in the way perhaps to make my fortune, and—and, dearest Miss Liddell, if you care for——"
"But I do not, I did not," interrupted Katherine. "Oh! thank God I do not. How could I have borne what has come to my knowledge if I did? Now, let the past bury its dead."
"Is it not amazing that we should be so strangely linked together?" murmured Rachel.
Katherine made no reply. After a short silence, as if they stood by a still open grave, Katherine began to speak of her intended visit to Miss Payne, and before they parted, though both were hushed and grave, they had glided into their usual confidential, affectionate tone. Business, however, was not mentioned.
"I wish you could see your cousin's little daughter," said Rachel, rather abruptly, as Katherine rose to bid her good-bye. "She's an interesting, naughty little creature, small of her age, but in some ways precocious. I am fond of her, partly, I suppose, because she likes me. There is something familiar to me in her face, yet I cannot say that she actually resembles anyone."
"I should like to see her," returned Katherine; and soon after she left her friend, relieved and calmed by the feeling that the explanation was over.
"Well, my dear," cried Mrs. Needham, when they met at dinner. "I have a great piece of news for you: Mr. Errington is to be the new editor ofThe Cycle. A capital thing for him! and that accounts for the announcement of the marriage being held back, just to let people get accustomed to the first start. It shows what Bradley thinks of him. It is really a grand triumph to get such an appointment after so short an apprenticeship."
"I am glad of it, very glad," returned Katherine, thoughtfully. "I suppose he is considered very clever."
"A first-rate man, quite first-rate, for all serious tough subjects. I think, dear, if I could run down on Saturday week till Monday it would be an immense refreshment;" and Mrs. Needham wandered off into the discussion of a variety of schemes.
On the Saturday following, Katherine and her faithful chaperon set out for their holiday with mutual satisfaction and a hope that they left their troubles behind them.
The change to Sandbourne did Katherine good; she grew calmer, more resigned, though still profoundly sad. The sense of having been brought in touch with one of the most cruel problems of society affected her deeply, and the contrast between the present and past of a year ago, when she had the boys with her, forced her to review her mental conditions since the great change in her fortunes wrought by her own act.
She had ample time for thought. Miss Payne was suffering from touches of rheumatism, which made long walks impossible; so Katherine wandered about alone.
The weather was bright, but, although it was the beginning of May, not warm enough to sit amongst the rocks at the point. Katherine, however, often walked to and fro recalling De Burgh's looks and tones the day he had opened his heart to her there. He was not a bad fellow—no, far from it; indeed, she knew that, if herheart had not been filled with Errington, she could have loved De Burgh. How was it that a man of feeling, of so-called honor, with a certain degree of discrimination between right and wrong, could have broken the moral law and been so callous as he had shown himself?
There was no use in thinking about it; it was beyond her comprehension. All she hoped was that time might efface the cruel lines which sorrow and remorse had cut deep into Rachel's heart.
With Miss Payne, Katherine was cheerful and companionable. They spoke much of Bertie. His decision to take orders would have given his sister unqualified satisfaction had he also sought preferment in England.
"A clergyman's position is excellent," she said, confidentially, as they sat together in the drawing-room window one blustery afternoon, when Katherine was not tempted to go out. "Bertie is just the stuff to make a popular preacher of, and so long as he is properly ordained I don't care how he preaches, but I don't like him to be classed with ranting, roaring vagabonds! Then, you see, there are no men who have such opportunities as clergymen of picking up well-dowered wives. I believe women are ready to propose themselves rather than not catch what some of them are pleased to term "a priest." It's a weakness I never could understand. What induces him to run off among the heathen?—can't he find heathen enough at home? If he gets into these outlandish places, I shall never see him again, and, between you and me, he is the only creature I care for. He thinks he is inspired by the love of God, but I know he is driven by the love ofyou."
"Of me, Miss Payne?" exclaimed Katherine, startled and greatly pained.
"Yes, you; and I wish you could see your way to marry him. It would be no great match for either of you, but he would be another and a happier man; and, as for you, your rejection of Lord de Burgh (I suppose youdidrefuse him) shows you do not care for riches."
"But, Miss Payne, I have no right to think your brother ever wished to marry me."
"Then you must be very dull. I wonder he has not written before. Oh, here is the postman!"
Katherine stepped through the window and took the letters from him.
"Only one for you and two for me," she said, returning. "One, I see, is from Ada." Opening it, she read as follows:
"Dearest Katherine,
"I write in great anxiety and surprise, as I see among the fashionable intelligence of theMorning Postthat Lord de Burgh is on the point of leaving England for a tour in the Ural Mountains (of all places!) and will probably be absent for several months. Can this be true? and, if so, what is the reason of it? Is it possible that you have been so cruel, so insane, so wicked as to fly in the face of providence and refuse him? You should remember your ownpoverty-stricken existence, and think of the boys. Marriage with a man of De Burgh's rank and fortune would be the making of them. I have hidden away the paper, for, if the colonel saw it, it would drive him frantic. Do write and let me mediate between you and De Burgh, if you are so mad as to have quarrelled with him. I am feeling quite ill with all this excitement and worry. I don't think many women have been so sorely tried as myself. Ever yours,"Ada Ormonde."
Having glanced through this composition, she handed it with a smile to Miss Payne, and opened the other letter, which was from Rachel. This was very short and very mysterious.
"I have been introduced to your relative, Mr. George Liddell," she wrote, "by his daughter. We have had a conversation respecting you and other matters. I cannot go into this now—I only write to say that Mr. Liddell is going down to see you to-morrow or next day, and I earnestly trust you may be reconciled. I am always your devotedRachel."
"This is very extraordinary," cried Katherine, when she had read it aloud. "What can she mean by sending him down here! I rather dread seeing him."
"Nonsense," returned Miss Payne, sternly. "If that dressmaking friend of yours brings about a reconciliation between you and your very wrong-headed cousin, she will do a good deed. I anticipate some important results from this interview—you must see Mr. Liddell alone."
"I suppose so. I am sure I hope he will not snap my head off."
"You are not the sort of girl to allow people to snap your head off. But I am immensely puzzled to imagine what Miss Trant can have said or done to send this bush-ranger down here. How did Mr. Liddell come to know her?"
"I can only suppose that his little girl, to whom I believe he is devoted, brought him to Rachel's to get a dress tried on or to choose one."
"It is very odd," observed Miss Payne, thoughtfully. "My letter," she went on, after a moment's pause, "is from my new tenant; he wants some additional furniture, which is just nonsense. He has as much as is good for him; I'll write and say I shall be in town on Monday, and call at Wilton Street to discuss matters."
"Areyou going to town on Monday?"
"Yes, I made up my mind when I read this," tapping the letter.
"I suppose you don't object to be left alone? And there is the chance of Mrs. Needham coming down; probably she will stay over Monday."
"I fear that is not very likely."
No more was said on the subject then, but Katherine could not get her mind free from the idea of George Liddell's anticipated visit. She was quite willing to make friends with him, though his ungenerous and unreasonable conduct towards herself had impressed her most unfavorably.
The day passed over, however, without any visitor, nor was it until the following afternoon that Katherine was startled, in spite of her preparation, by the announcement that a gentleman wished to see Miss Liddell.
"I'll go," exclaimed Miss Payne, gathering up her knitting and a book, and she vanished swiftly in spite of rheumatic difficulties.
In another moment George Liddell stood before his dispossessed kinswoman, a tall, gaunt figure with grizzled hair and sunken eyes. He took the hand she offered in silence, and then exclaimed, abruptly,
"You knew I was coming?"
"Yes, Rachel Trant told me. Will you not sit down?"
He drew a chair beside her work-table, and looking at her for a minute exclaimed, in harsh tones which yet showed emotion,
"You are a good woman!"
"How have you found that out?" asked Katherine, smiling.
"I will answer by a long, cruel story!" he returned with a sigh; "a story I would tell to none but you." Again he paused, looking down as if collecting his thoughts, while the brown, bony, sinewy hand he laid on the table was tightly clenched. "You knew my father," he began, suddenly raising his dark suspicious eyes to her, "and therefore can understand what an exacting tyrant he could be to those who were in his power. As a mere child I feared him and shrank from him; my earliest recollection was of my mother's care in keeping me from him. He was not violent to her—I don't suppose he ever struck her, but he treated her with cold contempt, why, I never understood, except that she cost him money, and brought him none. I won't unman myself by describing what her life was, or how passionately I loved her; we clung to each other as desolate, persecuted creatures only do! He grudged us the food we ate, the clothes—rather the rags—we wore. One day playing in Regent's Park I fell into the canal, and was nearly drowned. A gentleman went in after me and saved me. He took me home, he gave me to my mother, he often met us after. He gave me treats and money,—I can't dwell on this time. He won my mother's love, chiefly through me. He was going away to the new world. He persuaded her to leave her wretched home, to take me,—we escaped. I shall never forget the joy of those few days! Then my father (as we might have known he would) put out his torturing hand and seizedme. My mother had hoped that his miserly nature would have disposed him to let me go, if he could thereby escape the cost of my maintenance. But revenge was too sweet to be foregone. I was dragged away. He did not wantherback. He hoped her lover would desert her after awhile, and so accomplish her punishment; but he was true! No, I can never forget my mother's agony when I was torn from her!" he rose and walked to the window, and returned. "The hideous picture had grown faint," he said, "but as I speak it grows clear and black! You can imagine my life after this! It was well calculated to turn a moody, passionate boy into a devil! I was nearly eleven when I lost my mother, and I never heard of her or from her after; yet I never doubted that she loved me and tried to communicate with me, but my father's infernal spite kept us apart. At sixteen I ran away. Your father was friendly to me andtried to persuade me against what he called rashness; but I always fancied he might have helped my mother, backed her up more, and I did not heed him. I went through a rough training, as you may suppose, and never saw my father's face again."
"I can imagine that he could be terrible," murmured Katherine. "I was dreadfully afraid of him, but I did not know he had been so cruel."
George Liddell did not seem to hear her, he was lost in thought.
"You wonder, I daresay, why I tell you this long story," he resumed; "you will see what it leads up to presently."
"I am greatly interested," returned Katherine.
"You will be more so! From what I told Newton, you know enough of my career in Australia, but you donotknow that I married a sweet, delicate woman, who, after the birth of our little Marie, fell into bad health. If I could have taken her away for a long voyage, it might have saved her, but I was in full swing making my pile, and could not tear myself away; that must have been about the time my father died. Had I known I was his heir, I should have sent my wife home. But fool that I was! I was too wrapped up making money (for the tide had just turned, and I was floating to fortune) to see that she was slipping from me. I never dreamed my father would die intestate. I always thought he would take care of his precious gold. It was well for me he destroyed his will."
Katherine felt her cheeks glow; but she did not speak.
"Well, I felt furious to think you had been enjoying my money when I did not even know that my father was dead; but I have changed."
"Why?" asked Katherine, who could not imagine what was his motive for telling her his history.
"You shall hear. You know I placed my little Marie at school. The school-mistress employed a dressmaker to whom the child took a fancy; she insisted on taking me to see her, and to choose some fal-lals." He stopped again, his mouth twitched, his fingers played with his watch-chain. "When the young woman came into the room," he resumed, "I thought I should have dropped. She was the living image of my poor mother, only younger. I could not speak for a minute. At last, when the child had kissed her and chatted a bit, I managed to ask if I might come back and speak to her alone, as she was so like a lady I once knew, that I wanted to put a few questions to her. She seemed a little disturbed; but told me I might come in the evening. I went. I asked her about her parentage; she knew very little, save that she had been born in South America. She offered, however, to show me her mother's picture, and, when she brought it, I not only saw it wasmymother's likeness, but a picture I knew well. Her initials were on the case, R. L. Then I told her everything. I proved to her that I was her half-brother. How bitterly she cried when I described a little brooch with my hair in it, which Rachel still keeps. She has seen our mother kiss it and weep over it. My heart went out to her; she is second now only to my child. Then, Katherine, she told me her own sad story, and the part you played in it. How you saved her, and gave her hope and strength. Give me your hand!I'll never forget this service. It binds me more, a hundredfold more, than if you had done it for myself. But neither entreaties nor reproaches could induce her to tell me the name of the villain who—has she told you?" he interrupted himself to ask sternly.
"She never named his name to me," cried Katherine. "It is cruel to ask her. And of what possible advantage would the knowledge be? Any inquiry, any disturbance, would only punish her."
Liddell started up, and walked to and fro hastily. "That's true," he exclaimed; "but I wish I had my hand on his throat."
"That is natural; but you must think of Rachel, she has suffered so much."
"She has!" said George Liddell, throwing himself into his chair again. "But you don't know the sort of pain and sweetness it is to talk of my poor mother to her daughter! It makes a different and a better man of me. Rachel is a strong woman," he added, after a moment's thought; "she wishes our relationship to be kept secret. It is no credit to anyone, she says, and might be injurious to little Marie; we can be friends, and she need never want a few hundreds to help on her business. It seems that to please his people her father, on returning to England, only used his second name, which I never knew. It is a sorrowful tale for you to listen to—you are white and trembling, my girl," he added, with sudden familiarity,—"but I haven't done yet; you have laid me under obligations I can never repay. I could not offer a woman like you money; but I will pay you in kind. You have saved my dear sister, I will provide for the nephews that are dear to you. I have already seen Newton and my own solicitor, and laid my propositions before them. I don't pretend to munificence for them, besides, I shall not forget either you or them in my will, but they shall have means for a right good education and a good start in life. Now I want you to forgive my brutality when we first met, and, more, I want you to be my daughter's friend." He grasped her hand.
Katherine's eyes had already brimmed over.
"Forgive you!" she repeated. "I am quite ready to forgive. I was vexed, of course, that you should be unreasonably prejudiced against me; but I am deeply grateful for your generosity to the boys. If you knew the joy, the relief you have given me, it would, I am sure, gladden you. But let us try to make Rachel happy too. I wish——"
"She is happiest in her own way. Work is the only cure for ills like hers," interrupted Liddell. "Time will do wonders, and her wish to keep our relationship secret is wise." There was a pause; then Liddell, looking steadily at Katherine, exclaimed, "You are a real true, good-hearted woman; the world would be a better place if there were a few more like you in it." He then passed on to his plans for the future; his projects for his daughter's education, opening his mind with a degree of confidence which amazed Katherine, considering that two days before he was an enemy.
Presently he ceased to speak, and, after a moment's thought, stood up.
"Now I have said my say, and I must go," he exclaimed. "I only came to explain myself to you, for the less of such a story committed to paper the better. I am due in town to-morrow morning; write to Rachel, and come and see her as soon as you can. I wish," he added, with a searching glance, "that I had a woman like you to regulate matters and take care of my little Marie; then I could keep her with me."
"She is far better at school," returned Katherine, a little startled by this suggestive speech. "But will you not have some luncheon before you go?"
"No, thank you. I had some before coming on here. I need very little food, and scarcely anything gives me pleasure; but I like you, my cousin, and I want your friendship for the child."
"She shall have it, I promise."
After a few more words, George Liddell bid her good-bye. She stood a few minutes in deep thought before going to tell her good news to Miss Payne, reflecting that she must not betray the real motive of his change towards herself; the less she said the better. While she thought, Miss Payne came in looking unusually eager.
"Wouldn't he stay and have a bit to eat?" she exclaimed. "I saw him going out of the gate from my room."
"No, he is in a hurry to get back to town. Ah! my dear Miss Payne, he came down to make his peace with me, and he is going to provide for the boys."
"Why, what has happened to him? I can hardly believe my ears."
"I am sure I could hardly believe mine. I suppose as he grew accustomed to feel that everything was in his hands, and that I had given him no trouble, he saw that he had been unnecessarily severe. Then his little girl took him to Rachel Trant's, and they evidently spoke of me; probably she gave a highly colored description of my goodness, and, being an impulsive man, he said he would come and see me, whereupon she wrote to warn me."
"That's all possible; but somehow I feel there is more in it than I quite understand."
"I am sure I do not care to understand the wherefore, if only my cousin carries out his good intentions as regards Cis and Charlie."
"Just so; that is the main point. If he does, what a burden will be lifted off your shoulders!"
"And what a change in the boys' fortunes!" returned Katherine; adding, after a short pause, "I think I will go to town with you on Monday and pay them a visit, while you arrange your affairs with your tenant. Mrs. Needham will put me up for a night or two."
In truth, Katherine longed to see and talk with Rachel, to discuss the curious turn in her changeful fortunes, and build up pleasant palaces in the airy realms of the future.
The following day brought her a letter from De Burgh. It was dated from Paris, and told her of his intention to be absent from England for some time; he pleaded earnestly for pardon with a certain rough eloquence, and repeated the arguments he had previously urged, evidently thinking that his punishment was greatly disproportionate to his offence.
Katherine was much moved by this epistle; she could not help being sorry for him, though she hoped not to meet him again. Theassociation of ideas was too painful; she was ashamed too to remember how near she had come to marrying him, in a sort of despair of the future. She answered this letter at once, frankly and kindly, setting forth the unalterable nature of her decision, and begging him not to put her to unnecessary pain by trying to renew their acquaintance at any future time.
The project of going to town, however, was not carried out. Miss Payne caught a severe cold, owing to the unusual circumstance of having forgotten her umbrella, and, in consequence, getting wet through by a sudden heavy shower.
Instead, therefore, of speeding London-wards on Monday, Miss Payne spent the weary hours in bed with a racking headache and Katherine in close attendance.
Next day, however, she was considerably better, and even talked of coming downstairs in the evening when the house was shut up. She insisted on sending her kind nurse out for air and exercise, as she was looking pallid and heavy-eyed; nor was Katherine reluctant to go, for she enjoyed being alone to meditate on the curious interweaving of fate's warp and woof which had made Rachel the means of reconciliation between George Liddell and herself. She ought now to take up her life again with courage and energy. The boys provided for, she had nothing to fear, while, if the future held out no brilliant prospect of personal happiness, much quiet content probably lay in the humble sufficiency which was now hers. The interest she would take in the careers of Cis and Charlie would renew her youth, and keep her in touch with active life, while, as the impression of her various troubles wore away under the swift-flowing stream of time, she would feel more and more the restful excellence of peace. It was not a bad outlook, yet Katherine felt sad as she contemplated it. Finding her self-commune less cheering than she anticipated, she turned her steps homeward, and entered the house through the window of the drawing-room which opened on a rustic veranda. Coming from strong sunlight into comparative darkness, she took off her hat, and pushed back her hair from her brow before she perceived that a gentleman had risen from the chair where he sat reading.
"You see I have dared to take possession of the premises in your absence," he said.
"Mr. Errington?" cried Katherine, her heart suddenly bounding, and then beating so violently she could hardly speak. "How—where—did you come from?"
"From London, to enjoy a brief breathing-space from pressure of work—welcome as it generally is! I am sorry to find that your friend Miss Payne is invalided, as she was not visible, I ventured to wait for you."
"I am very glad to see you," returned Katherine, placing herself on the sofa as far from the window as she could, for she felt herself changing color in a provoking way.
"I saw Mrs. Needham yesterday, who gave me your address and sundry messages, one to the effect that she hopes to pay you a visit next Saturday; the rest I do not remember accurately, for she was much excited and not very distinct."
"We shall be delighted to see her, she is so bright and sympathetic. What was the immediate cause of her excitement?"
"The marriage of Miss Bradley in about a fortnight."
"Indeed!" cried Katherine, thinking this way of announcing it rather odd, but never doubting it was his own marriage also. "Then accept my warm congratulations; you have no well-wisher more sincere than myself."
Errington looked up surprised.
"Why do you congratulate me? I certainly was of some use in bringing it about, but sooner or later they would certainly have married."
"They? who—whom is she going to marry?"
"My old friend Major Urquhart. It is a very old attachment, but Mr. Bradley objected to his want of fortune; then, as Bradley's wealth increased, Urquhart felt reluctant to come forward again. Accident revealed the state of the case to me. I went to see Urquhart, who had just returned from India, and was in Edinburgh. I persuaded him to return with me, and once the lovers met, matters swiftly arranged themselves. Finally, Bradley gave his consent. Now the air is resonant with the coming chime of wedding bells."
"I am greatly surprised," said Katherine, and it was some minutes before she could speak again. Her horizon seemed suddenly suffused with light; she felt dizzy with a strange delightful glow, and confused with a sense of shame at her own unreasoning, irrational joy. What difference could Errington's marriage or no marriage make to her?
"I suppose," resumed Errington, after looking earnestly at her speaking face, "that the intimacy which arose between Mr. Bradley and myself in consequence of my connection withThe Cyclesuggested the rumor of my engagement with his daughter; but no such idea ever entered my head or Angela's. You know, I suppose, I am nowde factoeditor ofThe Cycle. It is a good appointment, and enables me to hope for possibilities, though I dare not say probabilities."
"I am sure you will be an admirable editor," said Katherine, pulling herself together, and trying to speak lightly.
"Why?" asked Errington, smiling.
"You are just, and—and careful, and must be a good judge of the subjects such a periodical treats of."
"Thank you." He paused; then, looking down, he continued, "Mrs. Needham tells me you have been troubled about your nephews."
"Yes, I was very much troubled, but I think they are safe and well now; later I should put them to a better school, as I now hope to do."She stopped to think how she should best explain George Liddell's unexpected generosity, and Errington exclaimed.
"These boys are a heavy charge to you! yet I suppose you could not bring yourself to give them up?"
"How could I? their mother can really do nothing for them, and it would be cruel to hand them over to Colonel Ormonde's charity."
"It would! you are right," said Errington, hastily. "Poor little fellows! to lose you would be too terrible a trial for them."
Katherine raised her eyes to his; they were moist with gratitude for his sympathy, and seemed to draw him magnetically to her. He changed his place to the sofa; leaning one arm on the back, he rested his head on his hand, and looked gravely down upon her.
"Will you forgive me if I ask an intrusive question? You know we agreed to be friends, yet our friendship does not seem to thrive, it is dying of starvation because we so rarely meet; still, for the sake of our shadowy friendship, answer me: may I put the natural construction on De Burgh's sudden departure from England?"
Katherine hesitated; she did not like to say in so many words that she had refused him, a curious, half-remorseful feeling made her especially considerate towards him.
"I do not like to speak of Lord de Burgh," she said at length.
"When does he return?
"I do not know. I know nothing of his plans."
"Then you sent him empty away?" said Errington, smiling.
"I very nearly married him!" she exclaimed, frankly. "He was kind and generous, and would have been good to the boys; but at last I could not. Oh! I couldnot!"
"I am sorry for De Burgh," said Errington, thoughtfully, "but you were right; your wisdom is more of the heart than the head. Do you remember that day (how vividly I remember it!) when you came to me and told me your strange story? It was the turning-point of my life. When I confessed I knew nothing of the deep, warm, tender affection that actuatedyou, you said that for me wisdom was from one entrance quite shut out."
"I can remember nothing clearly of that dreadful day, only that you were very forgiving and good," returned Katherine, pressing her hands together to still their trembling.
"Well, from the moment you spoke those words, the light of the wisdom you meant dawned upon me, and grew stronger and brighter, till my whole being was flooded with the love you inspired. You opened a new world to me; your voice was always in my ears, your eyes looking into mine." He spoke in a low, earnest, but composed tone, as if he had made up his mind to the fullest utterance. Katherine covered her face with her hands with the unconscious instinct to hide the emotion she felt it would express. "Many things kept me silent. Fear that the sight of me was painful to you; the dread of seeming to seek your fortune; my own uncertain position. Then, when all was taken from you, and I was by my own act deprived of the power to help you, you were so brave and patient that profound esteem mingled with the strange, sweet, wild fire you had kindled! Am I so painfully associated in your mind that you cannot give me something of the wealth of love stored in your heart?You have taught me what love is, will you not reward so apt a pupil?"
"Mr. Errington," said Katherine, letting him take her cold trembling hand, "is it possible you can love and trust a woman who has acted a lie for years as I have?"
"I cannot help both loving and trusting you, utterly," he returned, holding her hand tenderly in both his own. "I believe in your truth as I believe in the reality of the sun's light, and if you can love me I believe I can make you happy. I have but a humble lot to offer you, yet I think it is—it will be a tranquil and secure one. I can help you in bringing up those boys, I will never quarrel with you for clinging to them, and will do the best I can for them! You knowIhave a creditor's claim; Roman law gave the debtor over into the hands of the creditor," continued Errington, growing bolder as he felt how her hand trembled in his grasp; "you must pay me by the surrender of yourself, by accepting a life for a life. Katherine——"
"Ah! how can I answer you? If indeed you can trust and respect me, I can and will love you well," she exclaimed, with the sweet frankness which always enchanted him.
"Will you love me with the whole unstinted love of your rich nature? I cannot spare a grain," said Errington, jealously.
"But I do love you," murmured Katherine; "I am almost frightened at loving you so much."
Could it be cold, composed, immovable Errington who strained her so closely to his heart, whose lips clung so passionately to hers?
"I have a great deal to tell you," began Katherine, when she had extricated herself and recovered some composure. "But I must go and see poor Miss Payne; she will wonder what has become of me."
"Tell her you are obliged to talk to me of business, and come back soon. I have much to consult you about, and I can only remain till to-morrow evening—do not stay away."
And Katherine returned very soon.
"Miss Payne is dreadfully puzzled," she said, smiling and blushing, quivering in every vein with the strange, almost awful happiness which overwhelmed her.
"Now, what have you to tell me?" asked Errington, and she gave him a full description of George Liddell's visit and proposal to provide for Cis and Charlie.
Errington was too happy to heed the details much, he only remarked that he was glad Liddell had come to his right mind.
"I want you to tell Miss Payne as soon as possible our new plans; she is coming downstairs this evening, you say? Let me break the news to her. I think she will give us her blessing; and, Katherine, my sweet Katherine, there is no reason to delay our marriage. You have no fixed home; the sooner you make one for yourself and me the better. The idea is intoxicating. Our poverty sets us free from the trammels of conventionality; we have nothing to wait for."
So they were married.
Here ought to come "Finis!" yet real life had only begun for them. Were they happy? Yes. For under the wild sweetness of warmestpassionate love lay the lasting rock of comprehension and genial companionship. Fuller knowledge brought deeper esteem, and the only secret Katherine ever kept from her husband was the true history of Rachel Trant.
A severe attack of fever, brought on by overstudy, immediately after Katherine's marriage, prevented Bertie Payne from carrying out his missionary scheme. He was reluctantly obliged to put up with the East-End heathen, "who," as Miss Payne observed, "were bad enough to satisfy the largest appetite for sinners."
There his faithful sister established herself to make a home for him, renouncing her comfortable West-End abode, and finding ample interest in the pursuits she affected to treat as fads.
"Altogether everything has turned out in the most extraordinary and unexpected manner," as Mrs. Ormonde observed to Mrs. Needham, whom she encountered at one of Lady Mary Vincent's receptions. "Katherine seems quite proud to settle down in a suburban villa away in St. John's Wood as Mrs. Errington, while she might have made a figure at court as Lady de Burgh. By the way, I see your friend, Mrs. Urquhart, was presented at the last drawing-room."
"Yes, and was one of the handsomest women there.—But I don't suppose Mrs. Errington ever gives a thought to drawing-room or Buckingham Palace balls.—You see she is in a way always at court, for her king is always beside her," returned Mrs. Needham, with a becoming smile. "Good-night, Mrs. Ormonde."