"Every one is good and kind. You, my husband, most of all. I see now what a precious gift God gave me in you. We have been happy, in spite of everything. We are of one mind now, and as each day brings us nearer to the parting hour we are drawn closer in love. When my place on earth is empty, you will always remember that God sees us both, though we cannot see each other."
"I shall not forget, but I hope to keep you and minister to you for years to come."
"Better say 'wish;' for you can hardly hope now. I remember how I used to say so glibly, 'I believe in the communion of saints,' when I repeated the creed in church, along with others. But now I know what the words mean. When you praise God on earth, Kenneth, and I, by His grace, in the home above, there will still be communion."
"True, but communion which will be perfected when we meet again, dear wife."
"Yes, to us; but I suppose it will be always perfect to Him who sees and hears us both."
Such conversations were frequent between the husband and wife, and gave them great comfort. Both were deeply anxious about little Kathleen. It cheered the dying mother to think that, as her child was nearly eight years old, she was not likely to forget her altogether.
"Keep my memory green with Kitty," she would say. "The child is so constantly with you, and will be more so, if possible, when I am gone. Do not let her forget her mother, though she will only picture me as blind and helpless."
"No fear of her forgetting you whilst I live," replied Mr. Mountford, and he ever took the greatest pains to carry out his wife's wish. One thing was, however, carefully kept from Kathleen, not only when she was a child, but afterwards. She knew that her mother had been injured by being thrown from her horse, but the story of her wilfulness and disobedience was never repeated in Kathleen's presence.
Mrs. Ellicott, the widowed sister of Mr. Mountford, had been invited to remain with him after his wife's death. The sisters-in-law had always been great friends, and it had comforted Mrs. Mountford to think that Kathleen would have sweet motherly influences around her as she grew up to girlhood and womanhood.
So long as her father lived, the girl was fairly amenable to these, but she was only fifteen when she lost him, and before that time he had noted with some anxiety the great resemblance between her and her mother, as he had first known her. In one sense the likeness gave him pleasure, in another pain.
Kathleen had almost equal beauty and the same high spirits and winsome ways. But sometimes Mr. Mountford caught glimpses of wilfulness and an ungovernable temper, such as had cost her mother so dear. She would be a great heiress, for though a generous man, Mr. Mountford was a prudent one. From the date of his wife's accident he had lived very quietly, and he continued to do so after her death. His property was not entailed, and he never contemplated leaving any portion of it to a male relative. It was all for Kathleen, and would be hers absolutely when she was twenty-one, or married with the consent of her guardians. These were Mrs. Ellicott, who with her daughter, Geraldine, would, he hoped, live at Hollingsby Hall with Kathleen, at least, until she attained her majority.
Her other guardian was a young man of only twenty-two at the time of his appointment to this somewhat onerous position. His father, Mr. Mountford's oldest friend, had been originally selected, but whilst willing to accede to the request made, he pleaded unsuitability on account of age.
"When people appoint guardians and executors, they need not only to consider the character and business qualities of the individuals chosen, but whether they will be likely to see the trust to an end. I am ten years older than you, and much less vigorous in many ways. Humanly speaking, you are far more likely to outlive me than I you, and I trust you will see your bright girl developed into a noble woman. I will, however, consent to be named as your executor and Kathleen's guardian, if my son may be associated with me in the trust. Then you will have an old head and a pair of young shoulders, but not united in the same individual."
The speaker, Mr. Matheson, of Westhill, noticed a peculiar look on his friend's face as he made this suggestion, and without waiting for a reply he continued: "I see that amused look, Mountford, and I know what it means. You think that to appoint a young fellow of two-and-twenty to be co-guardian with his father of a beautiful girl only eight years younger than himself, and an heiress to boot, is suggestive of match-making in the future."
"I do not deny it," replied Mr. Mountford, "but I will add more than the smile expressed. Knowing what Aylmer is, I could wish nothing better for Kathleen than to be the wife of such a man. But all the same, I would not by word or act influence the choice of my child or your son."
"And by appointing Aylmer as one of her trustees, you raise a very effectual barrier to any nearer union between him and Kathleen. Though I say it, and he is my only son, Aylmer Matheson will put every thought of self aside in his fulfilment of the trust reposed in him, if he should have to act as Kathleen's guardian. But I fervently hope that no one will have to take a father's place to her."
This wish was not fulfilled, and though Mr. Mountford died before his old friend, Mr. Matheson only survived him about two years.
From the age of seventeen, Kathleen had been under the joint guardianship of Mrs. Ellicott and Aylmer Matheson, the latter combining the double qualifications of young shoulders and the wise head which is not generally supposed to accompany them. In appearance he was tall and well-proportioned, rather fair than dark, with rebellious brown hair which no amount of cutting and brushing would deprive of its natural wave and tendency to curl. It was, however, carried well back from a broad and high forehead, and a pair of dark grey eyes, whose expression betokened courage and honesty. A brown moustache and otherwise clean-shaven, rather pale face, and the description is fairly complete. Perhaps, however, the paleness was rather comparative, as it was only noticeable in contrast with the colour which was never lacking on the face of Captain Torrance, between whom and Aylmer Matheson, it was commonly said, there was no love lost.
Those who knew these two men were not surprised at the saying, and would have deemed anything like friendship between them as equally impossible and absurd. Unlikeness is often a help to friendship rather than otherwise. Weakness, whether of character or person, generally looks for strength in its chief friend. Beauty often honestly admires ugliness, or while admiring the other qualities of a plain-visaged friend, is secretly glad that in her she has a foil which enhances her own charms by contrast, instead of a rival.
The waverer is thankful to be taken possession of and managed by the friend who can promptly decide whether to say "Yes" or "No," and who is equally able to give a reason for her answer.
And so on ad infinitum; but in friendship as in marriage, it is only when opposite qualities in the individuals concerned tend to mutual well-being, and the formation of a harmonious whole, that satisfactory results can be hoped for.
Candour cannot be friends with cunning, honesty with fraud, truth with falsehood. The nature which delights in good-doing, even when it demands self-sacrifice, can never join hands with one whose sole aim is self-indulgence and self-aggrandisement. The merciful and the cruel, the liberal and the churlish, the brave and the cowardly, are in each case separated by barriers none the less real because they are invisible to the eye.
The higher nature may pity the lower and long to elevate it, but the two cannot work as friends without such assimilation.
There must at least be kindred principles strong enough to overcome, or even utilize the many minor points of difference which may exist, without proving any bar to a real friendship, or the closer union of which marriage should be the precursor.
Alas, that so close a union should not always mean true unity of hearts, aims, hopes, and lives!
Of Captain Torrance's character something has already been told. Of Aylmer Matheson's only good can be written.
An only son and idolized by his father, he repaid this affection by filial devotion. A man of scholarly attainments and refined tastes, whose society was much sought after, Aylmer was content to share the country pursuits in which his father delighted, and to live almost wholly at Westhill after leaving Oxford. Whilst at college he had been the generous friend and helper of young men who needed such aid. In society he was self-possessed, but modest; in manners as courteous and considerate to the lowly as to those who filled high places.
In one respect Aylmer and his father closely resembled each other. Unlike too many young men, Aylmer was not ashamed to confess Christ before the world, but gladly acknowledged that his chief desire was to be numbered amongst His true soldiers and servants, and to spend and be spent in doing His will.
It will be easily imagined that friendship between Captain Jack Torrance and Aylmer Matheson could hardly exist.
IT seemed strange that the huge building which was the country residence of the Honourable Edmund Arthur Holwynd, Earl of Waybridge, should be simply Hollingsby, whilst the smaller, but far prettier home of the Mountfords, should be styled Hollingsby Hall. But so it was, and though ignorant strangers would sometimes call the latter Little Hollingsby by way of distinction, such were always sternly rebuked by the older dwellers in the neighbourhood.
Everybody knew that the earl was only the representative of a very modern peerage, and that his rambling house, red brick with white stone facings, was no old family-seat, but the outcome of a large expenditure of money with the minimum of taste on the part of his father, the first peer.
The Hall, on the contrary, was known to occupy part of the site of a much larger building that had stood there centuries ago, and always this spot had been owned by a Mountford.
Kathleen's father had told her a good deal about her home and those who had owned it.
"You ought to know all about it, Kitty," he said, "for it will be yours some day. The estate which goes with the Hall is not a large one, but it is large enough to keep up a house of this size. You have heard of estates being burdened, and even lost, because some foolish owner could not be satisfied without building a place too large for his means. The Mountfords of old were wiser in their day and generation."
"One of them, four grandfathers back, I believe, was living like some who had gone before, in the old Hall, or rather part of it, for it was too big for the income. So like a wise man he saved enough to pull it down and to build this pretty nest in which you were born."
"The Mountfords have been very jealous about their lands, and proud of their name. They would never entail the estate, but trusted to each generation to pass it on intact to the next. So it has been hitherto, though, so far, an heir has never been lacking. Now the good name of the old Mountfords will have to be kept up by a slip of a girl when I am gone. Remember, dear, ours is an honest name. We have prided ourselves on living within our means, that we might have something wherewith to show our love to God by helping our neighbour; on hating debt and keeping aloof from habits and associates who were likely to lead us into it."
"Kitty darling, when you are mistress of Hollingsby Hall, keep to the old Mountford traditions, and show that in all that is lovely and of good report, a woman need not be a whit behind the men of her family. If I should be taken from you, you will be lovingly guarded, and I trust you will look on those to whose care you are committed as representing your parents, for they have been prayerfully chosen, and are worthy of your esteem."
Of course Kathleen had wept when she heard these words, and had thrown herself into her father's arms, ready to promise anything, and feeling resolved that the old name, home, and estates should never be lowered, lost, or lessened through her. All the same, she hoped that the dear father would live to see her quite old, a wish not destined to be realized.
Mr. Mountford had directed that Kathleen should be educated at home, and, as Mrs. Ellicott's daughter, Geraldine, or Ger, as her cousin called her, was only two years older, the girls would study together happily enough. A liberal income was to be set aside for the maintenance of the home, and Kathleen was to be brought up with the same surroundings as she would have been had her father lived.
"Better she should be accustomed to all that her means justify, than be deprived of what she has been used to from childhood, and then placed in absolute possession of a large fortune when she comes of age," he had said.
So Hollingsby Hall showed little change during Kathleen's girlhood. All the old servants stayed on under Mrs. Ellicott's rule; but the large sum of money which Mr. Mountford had left to his daughter in addition to the estate became larger each year, as the income from the latter more than met all expenses.
Geraldine Ellicott presented a great contrast to the young heiress; but the cousins were strongly attached to each other, and had many tastes in common.
Externally they were altogether unlike. Miss Ellicott was very tall, and too slender for her height, but erect and graceful in spite of it. She had no decided complexion. Her features would never have been chosen as models by painter or sculptor, and most people, looking at her face in repose, would have pronounced her decidedly plain. But her broad brow suggested intellect, and she was a most thoughtful student and reader.
Kathleen and she were alike musical, yet with a difference. Each was naturally gifted; but whilst the one was contented with the facility which followed a moderate amount of effort, Geraldine was ever working to turn to the best account every talent she possessed.
"When I play or sing, people listen, smile, and say, 'Thank you so much! What a charming voice you have, Miss Mountford!' or, 'What a lovely touch!' When you lift up that grand contralto voice of yours, there is a silence that one feels, and they pay you the greater compliment of forgetting to thank you. They are absorbed. They give little gasps as the last note dies away, and there is a look of awe on some faces, as if there might be an uncanny element in a voice which so entrances the hearers. How I envy your power!" Kathleen would often say.
Geraldine would laugh at her cousin's words, but there were many who felt what Kathleen expressed, and went further still, declaring that when Miss Ellicott sang, she became positively beautiful, there was so much soul shining in her eyes, which were as fine as Miss Mountford's, whilst in herself she was the dearest, kindest creature possible.
Pretty Mrs. Stapleton once ventured to remark that Geraldine Ellicott was a girl whom every one liked, but no one would ever fall in love with. The speaker was, however, one whose judgment was not absolutely infallible.
It sometimes happens that those whose good looks are their sole attraction, are unable to understand the attractiveness which exists and lasts, without them.
When Kathleen returned to the Hall, after her drive to the meet, she rushed to her cousin's room, and flung herself into an easy-chair without waiting to take off her outdoor garments.
Miss Ellicott was looking out of the window, but she turned to greet Kathleen with a bright smile on her face, as if it were reflecting happy thoughts.
"Well, Kitty, have you enjoyed your drive? I was just thinking how lovely the colouring would be on the hedgerows, with the sun shining. I have been revelling in it without leaving home."
"I might as well have stayed here, for the drive only made me ill-tempered and envious;" and Kathleen gave her cousin an account of what and whom she had seen on the road, a half-defiant expression showing itself in face and tone as she alluded to Captain Torrance.
"You must have laughed, Ger, had you seen the way aunty ignored Captain Jack and gave him the back of her bonnet to contemplate, when he was dying to speak to her. However, she had to be civil when he came up afterwards. What a splendid boy little Ralph is!"
"He is a fine little fellow. I always feel so sorry for him," replied Geraldine, ignoring Kathleen's allusion to Mrs. Ellicott's coolness to Captain Jack.
"I cannot see much need for pity, Ger. Ralph's father dotes on that child. It is beautiful to see them together."
"I am sure it is. No one doubts the father's love for Ralph. But who would not pity a motherless boy, for the best of fathers could not make up for such a loss, and—" Geraldine paused, and Kathleen completed the sentence in her own fashion—
"And Ralph has not the best of fathers, I suppose you would say."
"Do not put words into my mouth, Kitty dear. It is not for me to judge, only, without disparaging Captain Torrance, one can hardly think it is good for that dear boy to be associated with his father's friends in all their pursuits. He must see and learn many things that are hardly fitting for a child to know."
The gentle reply mollified Kathleen, and she replied, "I dare say you are right, but I really believe Ralph's father is so fond of the boy, that he cannot bear him out of his sight."
"I can quite understand that, Kitty. You see, Captain Jack is of an affectionate nature, and the sort of man who could not endure loneliness."
Geraldine had no desire to prolong a conversation of which Captain Torrance was the subject. She could not agree with her cousin's estimate of his character, and would not irritate her by expressing her own opinion. She could, however, hardly suppress a smile at the idea of Captain Jack in solitude at Monk's How. Everybody knew that it was seldom without a crowd of guests, who were helping its owner to get rid of what was left of his once ample fortune.
"I need not say that my honoured guardian was not at Hollingsby this morning. Like Aunt Ellicott, he sympathizes with the fox," said Kathleen, after a pause.
"Mr. Matheson called here whilst you were out."
"Expecting to see me, no doubt. How disappointed he would be at finding only you!"
She looked archly at her cousin, but in Geraldine's face there was no self-consciousness.
"I am certain he was disappointed," continued Kathleen. "Perhaps he came round to make sure that I had not mounted Polly and gone after the hounds. Eh, Ger?"
"Do not say that, Kitty dear. Such a thought would never enter his mind. He knows you would never break your promise to your father."
"Yet, after I made it, my poor father himself doubted whether I should keep it. I cannot tell you, Ger, how the thought of this one thing troubles me, and all the more, because he had said so much about the Mountfords, and that I, a girl, need not be a whit behind the noblest of the men who had gone before me. I am certain something has been hidden from me. I was just told what everybody else knew, that my mother's blindness and helplessness were the result of a fall from her horse. But I am not prohibited from riding. It torments me to think there is a mystery about the whole thing. I am not a child. I ought to know all."
Kathleen waited for no reply, but snatched up her gloves and left the room hastily, that Geraldine might not notice her springing tears.
Mrs. Ellicott entered almost directly afterwards.
"Is anything wrong with Kitty?" she asked. "She rushed past me just now, and I fancied she was crying. Surely you girls have not been quarrelling!"
"No fear of that, mother," said Ger; and then she told what had passed, adding, "Can you not tell her? I do believe the knowledge of the whole truth about her mother's accident would help poor Kitty to battle against the fits of wilfulness which come on from time to time."
"Perhaps so, dear. I will think about it."
Mrs. Ellicott did think, and decided that what Kitty called "a hateful mystery" should be one no longer. Holding the girl's hand in hers, Mrs. Ellicott told her niece the story of her mother's misfortune, and what led to it. Tenderly, we may be sure, and not forgetting to picture the after penitence and patience of the sufferer.
"I loved your mother so dearly, Kitty," she said, "that it gives me a great pang to speak of the fault for which she paid so heavy a penalty. Your father gave me permission to tell you all, if it would be for your good to know it. He only concealed so much because it seemed hard to expose a mother's fault to her child, especially as you only knew her during those last years. You remember how lovely and how patient she was. Your father thought it would be best for you to picture her just as you saw her after—"
Mrs. Ellicott stopped to wipe the tears from her eyes.
"I am ashamed of myself!" cried Kathleen. "I might have been sure that my father was silent for a good reason; and here have I been giving way to pettishness and ill-temper, because he, in tenderness to my mother's memory, and out of love to me, withheld this sorrowful story from me. Forgive me for the trouble I have given you, aunty! I hope what I have heard will be a lesson and a help to me. I would not be without the memory of my sweet mother's face for all the world, and now I know everything, I grieve for her more than I can tell you."
Mrs. Ellicott could not regret having told Kathleen the truth, for she became much more gentle for a time and watchful over herself. An incident which occurred the same evening made her specially hopeful on the girl's account.
As Mountain was returning to his cottage, after a visit to the stables, he was accosted by a smart groom, whose face was strange to him, but whose livery showed that he was in the service of Captain Torrance.
"This is Little Hollingsby, isn't it?" asked the man.
"Not that I know of," replied Mountain.
"Why, don't you live here?" pointing to the Hall.
"I live there!" returned Mountain, indicating his humbler dwelling by pointing his thumb at it.
"Oh, come now, you know what I mean well enough! I have a message and something else for Miss Mountford, and I was told she lived at Little Hollingsby."
"There is no place o' that name," responded Mountain, looking as obtuse as he knew how.
"Can you tell me which is Miss Mountford's house?"
"I can."
"Then do, if you please."
"Since you, ask me in a mannerly way I will. That is the house, at least that is the way that leads to the back of it. I suppose you don't want the front entrance," replied Mountain.
"Why, you said this was not Little Hollingsby."
"No more it is. There is no place o' that name, as I've told you once already."
"You needn't be so short-tempered when I ask you a civil question!" retorted the groom indignantly. "What do you call this house, then?"
"It isn't what I call it, but the house is Hollingsby Hall, as everybody hereabouts knows, or ought to, by this time." The groom gave a prolonged whistle.
"Well, I never. Anybody would have thought that big place of the earl's was the Hall, not this—"
"I'd have you to know, young man," interrupted Mountain, in high indignation at the contemptuous stress laid on the last word, "I'd have you to know that Hollingsby Hall has been this place, and called nothing else for ages before that place of the earl's, which is as ugly as it is big, was thought of. Ay, or an earl to live in it, for the title and Hollingsby are new alike, though the village is old enough."
"Well, how was I to know? I have only been at the captain's place for a month or so, and I can't remember ages back, if you can!" retorted the groom.
"Who said I could? but let me tell you it's matter of history about the Hall, and the Mountfords, who used to have a bigger house than the earl's, but they pulled it down and built this, as better suited to their means. Not like some people as shall be nameless, that waste and spend all before them, and soon won't have a pigsty to call their own."
Mountain spoke severely, but looked triumphant, as if he had "about settled this puppy of a groom from Monk's How."
But the puppy in question was getting impatient, and not knowing to what lengths the speaker might go, he ventured to interrupt Mountain's tirade.
"It's all very interesting, no doubt; but as the family are strangers to me, and I've no partickler taste for history, I'll not trouble you to tell me any more. And as to people spending themselves out of house and home, and running into debt, I shan't put myself out for them. I shall manage to find a place, I dare say, and we shall neither of us be asked to pay anybody's debts but our own—if we have any. What I want to know is, how to deliver my message, and cetera, to Miss Mountford?"
"That's an easy matter, now you know your way to the back door."
"You don't mean to say that Miss Mountford will come to the back door to answer it, do you?" sneered the groom, who was waxing more and more indignant at Mountain's mode of replying.
"No, I don't. Neither would she answer the Hall door, if you went to that. She keeps servants enough to take the messages which other people's servants bring. One of 'em will take yours, if you give 'em a chance;" and turning on his heel, Mountain marched rapidly towards his own dwelling, without waiting for more words.
"If the indoor servants aren't pleasanter to speak to than the outdoor ones, it will be a pity!" shouted the groom after the retreating figure; adding to himself, "Captain Torrance told me to put what he sent into the hands of the young lady herself; and I mean to do it, specially as he promised me a five-shilling tip if I managed it, and brought an answer. I'm not often beat when I take a thing to do, and the captain said, 'Jem Capes, I can trust you better than most. You have got a head on your shoulders, and not a something which might as well be a turnip, for any sense there is in it.' And sure enough there are a many turnip heads about, particularly in these country places."
As Mr. Jem Capes finished his soliloquy he vigorously used the knocker to the back entrance of Hollingsby Hall.
IN a few seconds after Mr. Jem Capes had called attention to his presence by means of the knocker, a neat kitchen-maid opened the door of the servants' entrance to the Hall. The sight of a trim, female figure pleased Captain Torrance's messenger. He was young, and, according to his own notions, good-looking, and with plenty to say for himself, therefore well calculated to make a favourable impression. He glanced admiringly at the girl, and, with a full consciousness of the absurdity of the remark, said—
"You are the lady's-maid here, I believe, miss?"
"You are mistaken," was the quiet reply. "I am a kitchen-maid; but if you want to see Cameron, who is Miss Mountford's own maid, I will let her know."
"I have no desire to see any face but yours, and I'm sure I couldn't find a prettier, if I had my pick of all in the house. I mean, of course, amongst them that are in service here. It isn't for such as me to pass an opinion about the ladies."
The girl heard this flattering speech with an unmoved countenance, and, much to Mr. Jem Capes's surprise, ignored it entirely when next addressing him.
"Please to tell me what you want, or whether you wish to see any of the men-servants. There are none of them in the house just now," she said.
The groom's face fell at the ill-success of his insinuating looks and compliments, and he answered, rather sharply, "I want nothing with servants—men or girls. I have had enough of one outside, the coachman, I think, who is about as sweet as a sloe or a crab-apple."
"You are speaking about my father. What is your message, please?"
Probably Jem Capes never felt so angry and humiliated as he did at this moment, when, for the second time, Patty Mountain, ignoring alike his compliments to herself and his impertinent allusion to her father, asked his business.
"My message is for your mistress, young woman," he replied in a sullen tone. "The gentleman who sent this note and something along with it, said I must give it into her own hand. What I have to ask you is, can I see the lady?"
"I cannot tell, but I will find out;" then, after civilly requesting the groom to take a seat, Patty disappeared, in order that the inquiry might be made.
Capes was not sorry when he saw another servant in place of Patty, but the new-comer proved to be older and still more staid-looking.
"You have brought something for my mistress, I believe," she said. "Miss Mountford cannot see you, but if you will send the note by me, she will answer it now, or forward a reply, if a message will not be sufficient."
"I was told to give it and the other article into her own hand; but if so be she will not see me, of course you shall take the note, and I'll wait here," said Capes, resuming his seat. "I dare say the lady will see me, though, when she has read the letter."
Capes waited what he thought an unconscionable time, but at length the messenger reappeared.
"This is the answer," she said, "and I am to tell you to please take back the other article. The note will explain."
"You don't mean that I'm to take the—the—what Captain Torrance sent—back with me. You must have made a mistake. You'd better ask again," replied Capes, unable to believe his ears.
"There's no mistake. I have told you exactly what my mistress, Miss Mountford, said."
"But she has not seen the captain's present."
"I know that. I can only tell you what message she sent. She made it very plain to me."
Capes almost snatched the note from the bearer's hand, put on his hat, and without another word left the house. He closed the door behind him with a bang, and once outside, gave further vent to his feelings in words which shall not be repeated in full, though part of them may.
"To think of me being so done out of everything. The captain will be so angry he'll be fit to strike me, though he'd better not. I've done my best and been beaten all round, by coachman and his girl, the waiting-maid and the mistress. But what aggravates me beyond anything is, that the finest brush of the day should have been in a way flung back in the captain's face. Such a compliment as it was for him to send it, when the lady was not present at all. I reckoned on a sovereign from her at the very least."
Capes's anticipations of what his master would say were more than realized, for the captain broke into a perfect tempest of anger after reading Miss Mountford's note, and, very unreasonably, blamed the messenger for what was no fault of his.
Captain Jack had thought to please Kathleen by sending her the fox's brush with the following note:—
"DEAR MISS MOUNTFORD,""Every one who caught a glimpse of you this morningwas filled with regret at the thought that you wereprohibited from joining in the real pleasure of theday. I think I may venture to say that no one feltthis more than myself. To be 'so near, and yet so far,'in touch with, and not permitted to share in what hadbrought so many of your friends together, must havebeen a trial indeed. I know what it was for me evento witness your disappointment. I am venturing to sendyou the finest trophy of to-day's sport—the brush of amagnificent animal. I trust you will honour it with aglance, then send it back by my man, that I may have itfittingly mounted for you, as a souvenir of the firstmeet of the Hollingsby Hunt this season.""I am, dear Miss Mountford,""With much respect, faithfully yours,""JOHN TORRANCE.""Monk's How, November 4."
"DEAR MISS MOUNTFORD,""Every one who caught a glimpse of you this morningwas filled with regret at the thought that you wereprohibited from joining in the real pleasure of theday. I think I may venture to say that no one feltthis more than myself. To be 'so near, and yet so far,'in touch with, and not permitted to share in what hadbrought so many of your friends together, must havebeen a trial indeed. I know what it was for me evento witness your disappointment. I am venturing to sendyou the finest trophy of to-day's sport—the brush of amagnificent animal. I trust you will honour it with aglance, then send it back by my man, that I may have itfittingly mounted for you, as a souvenir of the firstmeet of the Hollingsby Hunt this season.""I am, dear Miss Mountford,""With much respect, faithfully yours,""JOHN TORRANCE.""Monk's How, November 4."
"DEAR MISS MOUNTFORD,""Every one who caught a glimpse of you this morningwas filled with regret at the thought that you wereprohibited from joining in the real pleasure of theday. I think I may venture to say that no one feltthis more than myself. To be 'so near, and yet so far,'in touch with, and not permitted to share in what hadbrought so many of your friends together, must havebeen a trial indeed. I know what it was for me evento witness your disappointment. I am venturing to sendyou the finest trophy of to-day's sport—the brush of amagnificent animal. I trust you will honour it with aglance, then send it back by my man, that I may have itfittingly mounted for you, as a souvenir of the firstmeet of the Hollingsby Hunt this season.""I am, dear Miss Mountford,""With much respect, faithfully yours,""JOHN TORRANCE.""Monk's How, November 4."
"DEAR MISS MOUNTFORD,"
"Every one who caught a glimpse of you this morning
was filled with regret at the thought that you were
prohibited from joining in the real pleasure of the
day. I think I may venture to say that no one felt
this more than myself. To be 'so near, and yet so far,'
in touch with, and not permitted to share in what had
brought so many of your friends together, must have
been a trial indeed. I know what it was for me even
to witness your disappointment. I am venturing to send
you the finest trophy of to-day's sport—the brush of a
magnificent animal. I trust you will honour it with a
glance, then send it back by my man, that I may have it
fittingly mounted for you, as a souvenir of the first
meet of the Hollingsby Hunt this season."
"I am, dear Miss Mountford,"
"With much respect, faithfully yours,"
"JOHN TORRANCE."
"Monk's How, November 4."
Kathleen's reply was simple and straightforward.
"DEAR CAPTAIN TORRANCE,""I am most grateful for your kind thought of me,and for your intended present. I know that many girlswould greatly value such a trophy, but in my case itwould cause only pain to possess it. Believe me, youare mistaken in supposing that I shall ever feeldisappointment in connection with the Hollingsby Hunt.I was pleased to see such a gathering for once, and Igreatly admired it as a picture. Beyond this, it cannever have the smallest charm for me, and I think itmore than probable that I shall never again be presentat a meet.""With renewed thanks for the compliment you havepaid me, and best wishes,""I am, sincerely yours,""KATHLEEN DILLON MOUNTFORD.""Hollingsby Hall, November."
"DEAR CAPTAIN TORRANCE,""I am most grateful for your kind thought of me,and for your intended present. I know that many girlswould greatly value such a trophy, but in my case itwould cause only pain to possess it. Believe me, youare mistaken in supposing that I shall ever feeldisappointment in connection with the Hollingsby Hunt.I was pleased to see such a gathering for once, and Igreatly admired it as a picture. Beyond this, it cannever have the smallest charm for me, and I think itmore than probable that I shall never again be presentat a meet.""With renewed thanks for the compliment you havepaid me, and best wishes,""I am, sincerely yours,""KATHLEEN DILLON MOUNTFORD.""Hollingsby Hall, November."
"DEAR CAPTAIN TORRANCE,""I am most grateful for your kind thought of me,and for your intended present. I know that many girlswould greatly value such a trophy, but in my case itwould cause only pain to possess it. Believe me, youare mistaken in supposing that I shall ever feeldisappointment in connection with the Hollingsby Hunt.I was pleased to see such a gathering for once, and Igreatly admired it as a picture. Beyond this, it cannever have the smallest charm for me, and I think itmore than probable that I shall never again be presentat a meet.""With renewed thanks for the compliment you havepaid me, and best wishes,""I am, sincerely yours,""KATHLEEN DILLON MOUNTFORD.""Hollingsby Hall, November."
"DEAR CAPTAIN TORRANCE,"
"I am most grateful for your kind thought of me,
and for your intended present. I know that many girls
would greatly value such a trophy, but in my case it
would cause only pain to possess it. Believe me, you
are mistaken in supposing that I shall ever feel
disappointment in connection with the Hollingsby Hunt.
I was pleased to see such a gathering for once, and I
greatly admired it as a picture. Beyond this, it can
never have the smallest charm for me, and I think it
more than probable that I shall never again be present
at a meet."
"With renewed thanks for the compliment you have
paid me, and best wishes,"
"I am, sincerely yours,"
"KATHLEEN DILLON MOUNTFORD."
"Hollingsby Hall, November."
A second perusal of this note left Captain Torrance in a better temper.
"I see it all now," he thought. "I was a fool to send such a present to her. She must know the story of her mother's mishap on the field, whether she knows how it came about or not. Naturally, she hates the thought of a woman actually joining in the hunt, though, this morning, I could have been certain that she was pouting because she could not show off on that handsome mare of hers."
"At any rate, she must feel that I have paid her the greatest compliment a hunter could, whether she takes his offering or leaves it. I must give Capes the tip I promised him, after all. He will be disappointed at not receiving one from the fair hands of Miss Mountford."
Captain Jack laughed with keen enjoyment at the idea of his messenger's indignation at a double loss.
Half an hour later Capes was mollified by receiving the promised douceur from his master, together with a few conciliatory words.
"You did your best, no doubt. It was really I who made a mistake in offering such a present to a lady who takes no interest in the hunt. I shall send you with it to Mr. Stapleton, and ask him to present it to his wife. Only mind, Jem. Not a word must be breathed about Miss Mountford's having had the first chance of it."
"Hope I know better than that, sir," replied Capes, touching his hat and looking sagaciously at his master.
Captain Jack was fully convinced that Kathleen would not allude to the incident, and that Mrs. Ellicott and her daughter would be far from wishing that any one should know of even this slight correspondence between Miss Mountford and himself. So in a few minutes Capes was on his way to Oakwood with a note to Mr. Stapleton, in which the captain begged that gentleman to present the brush to his wife, as the most graceful and the bravest lady-rider on the field that day. And, with the offering, he asked Mr. Stapleton to express the hope, on his behalf, that she would for many years grace the Hollingsby Hunt with her presence.
Captain Torrance could be sufficiently punctilious on occasion, and with all his faults there was a dash of chivalry in his composition. Besides, he had the memory of the faithful heart which was all his own during that short married life of his. In every young wife and mother he seemed to see a reflection of his own lost Adela, and pretty Mrs. Stapleton, with her little daughter, called forth all the best traits in Captain Jack's character. Hence the respectful message sent through the husband, and the offering which gave all the pleasure at Oakwood which it had failed to give at Hollingsby Hall.
Capes returned to his master in high glee with a note of thanks, and with his own pocket the heavier by the sovereign which he had given up as lost.
Both master and man were well pleased. The former was rejoicing that Kathleen's rejection of his offering had opened for him a new way of approach to her, and Capes, as he fingered his douceurs in gold and silver, said to himself, "Better luck next time. If I am not mistaken, the master is not real sorry for what has happened, and he's not the one to be daunted by a slap in the face from a girl. He'll find a way of paying her out some day."
In Kathleen's present mood, she was hardly likely to make a secret to her own people of Captain Torrance's letter. She was too full of self-reproach, and a deep sense of the goodness of those whose only desire had been to keep from her a story that must pain her if told, to allow of concealment on her part now.
So Mrs. Ellicott, Geraldine, and Aylmer Matheson all saw Captain Jack's letter, and the last-named, not being present at the time, was told exactly what answer Kathleen had sent. All were hopeful that the slight intercourse between Monk's How and Hollingsby Hall would become slighter still, and perhaps die away altogether.
Kathleen continued to be very gentle in manner for some time after, and there was a look of thoughtfulness, occasionally of sadness, on her face not usually seen there.
Aylmer Matheson, who was ever most careful not to take advantage of his position as guardian, in order to force himself into his ward's presence with unreasonable frequency, was cheered by the gentle welcome which Kathleen gave him. One evening she called him "Aylmer," for the first time since his father's death, which had made him her sole male trustee. His quick glance of pleasure, as he replied, brought a bright colour to Kathleen's cheek, and this in turn made the young man's heart beat rapidly.
On his homeward way Aylmer began again to picture happy possibilities. He asked himself a thousand questions about Kathleen's changed manner, and wondered if her alternate shyness, coldness, and frankness towards him might, after all, be favourably interpreted.
"A proud girl like Kathleen would never allow any man to think that he was preferred above others," thought he. "One has heard of cases where girls have treated those they loved best almost with scorn, and kept them at the greatest possible distance, lest they should betray their feelings. But this has been when they imagined their affection was not reciprocated. I have kept aloof from Kathleen, for I could not bear that any human being should accuse me of taking advantage of my position. No one shall say that I have striven to entrap my ward into an engagement during her minority. She must be absolutely her own mistress before I make any open attempt to gain her affections, though she can hardly be ignorant of my love for her."
After coming to this conclusion, Aylmer Matheson began to harass himself with doubts as to the wisdom of this mental decision. There was another side to be considered. If he held himself aloof, others would not, and Kathleen might be wooed and won in the meanwhile by some one of whom no true friend of hers could approve. The "some one" always took the face and form of Captain Torrance in Aylmer's cogitations, and whilst he would have been generous enough to resign his own pretensions in favour of a good man to whom Kathleen had given her heart, he was by no means inclined to yield them in favour of Captain Jack.
"I must think of Kathleen's welfare, rather than of my own pride. Surely my character is sufficiently well-known by all for whose good opinion I need care, to prevent me from being misjudged. No one could well accuse me of mercenary motives, since I have abundant means of my own, and Westhill is unencumbered. I would not touch a penny of Kathleen's money. All should remain entirely at her own disposal after marriage, as it will be when she comes of age a year hence. Am I to allow a profligate spendthrift, whose past career will not bear looking into, to win this girl, who is beautiful, innocent, and rich, because I am afraid of what the world might say if I strove to gain her affections whilst she is still my ward?"
The conflict was a severe one, and all through the small hours Aylmer Matheson debated with himself as to the course he ought to adopt. He knew one thing of which the dwellers in the little world around him were in ignorance, and so was Kathleen herself.
When Mr. Mountford had associated him with his father and Mrs. Ellicott in the guardianship of Kathleen, it will be remembered that a conversation took place between the elders as to the possibility of a marriage between Aylmer and his young ward in the distant future. Then Mr. Matheson confidently asserted that to his son, their positions as guardian and ward would prove a barrier to any nearer union, as Aylmer would put aside every thought of self in relation to Kathleen.
Mr. Mountford then expressed his opinion of the young man's worth in the strongest terms, but shortly before his death he said a few words to Aylmer himself.
After again commending Kathleen to his care, he added, "Remember, Aylmer. If when my child is grown-up, you and she desire to enter into the sweetest and closest of all relationships, you must recall our conversation of to-day, and feel assured that had her father been living, his consent and blessing would have been given, and his dearest wish fulfilled by such a union. But I know you, my dear boy, and that you will place Kathleen's happiness before your own. I desire, therefore, that unless you have given her your whole heart and won hers in return, you will never allude to this conversation. Afterwards, if all go well, Kathleen will be the happier for knowing that you would have been the man of all others to whom I would have given my only child, had I lived to see her married."
The memory of these words was most cheering to Aylmer, but they could not be used to further his suit. Indeed, he would have scorned to owe its acceptance to any influence, save that of a whole-hearted love on the part of Kathleen.
Aylmer finally decided to watch and wait for a while, and he was rewarded for his patience by a little season of greater happiness than he had known for a long time past.
It was hardly likely that the effect produced on Kathleen by hearing her mother's story would pass away all at once. The girl seemed to have made a great effort at self-conquest, and, since that memorable evening, had caused Mrs. Ellicott no heart-aches by her fits of wilfulness.
Aylmer spent more time at the Hall, and no face beamed a brighter welcome or gave him a sweeter smile of greeting than did Kathleen's.
Geraldine rejoiced—as only an unselfish nature can rejoice—at the new state of things. She had divined Aylmer's secret, and succeeded in hiding her own.
As to Captain Torrance, nobody seemed to know what had become of him, except that he had left home two days after the meet, and taken his boy with him. Everybody wondered at this, for it was seldom indeed that Captain Jack absented himself from Hollingsby during the hunting-season.
Kathleen never mentioned him, which was, perhaps, a less favourable sign for Aylmer than he took it to be. Aylmer himself might well be forgiven for wishing that the captain's absence would be indefinitely prolonged, though there were a good many others who hoped that he would soon return with a replenished purse.
So the time passed until the first week in and Aylmer spent the interval in a fool's paradise from which he was soon to be rudely ejected.
THE sun was shining gloriously overhead, the sky was blue, the snow hard and crisp underfoot, and of wind there was only enough to give a barely perceptible movement to the topmost twigs of the leafless trees. It was an ideal winter's morning for walking, and as Kathleen Mountford looked on the beautiful picture spread before her windows, she determined to enjoy it more fully out-of-doors.
"It is of no use asking you to walk with me, aunt," she said, addressing Mrs. Ellicott.
"If I were a few years younger, Kitty, there is nothing I should enjoy so much as a long brisk walk with you. But when I do go out with young people, I always feel that I am like a clog to their heels. At my slow pace, I should starve and shiver in the keen air, and the worst of it is a young companion would shiver with me, and be longing all the while to keep up her circulation by movements better befitting her years. I shall nurse the fire to-day, my dear, and battle against the feeling of envy that will intrude into the minds of old folks as they witness the movements of the young."
"It must be hard, aunty, especially when any one has led an actively useful life like yours."
"We ought to remember that we have been young, and I, for one, can thank God as I look back, since He has left me bright memories of a healthy, happy girlhood, free from serious anxieties of any kind. You, Kathleen, are laying up such memories day by day."
"You can hardly say that my girlhood has been all brightness," replied Kathleen, in a low voice, and with a sudden look of gravity on her fair face. "When one has lost both parents years and years before one grew much beyond childhood, there has been sorrow enough to fling a veil over much of its brightness."
"True, darling. But God has left you so many mercies, and you have had no unloved girlhood."
"I know that, aunty. Still, with neither parent, brother, nor sister, the best places in my heart are hopelessly empty, though others are wonderfully filled."
Mrs. Ellicott saw Kathleen's look of affection, as the girl bent to kiss her tenderly, and she was deeply moved. She was very nearly replying—
"The best place of all has yet to be tenanted, and when you bestow your affection on one who is to be the partner of your future life, you will be less sensible of the vacant places which trouble you now;" but she refrained from uttering this thought, and only returned her niece's caress with added tenderness.
Soon Kathleen shook off the momentary sadness, and said—
"I am afraid my walk must be a solitary one, for Geraldine has breakfasted in her room, and is trying to ward off a threatening cold. If I call at Oakwood, and try to coax Hetty Stapleton to join me, she will keep me indoors to listen whilst the trio growl at the frost which has prevented to-day's hunting, or she will take so long to dress that lunch-time will be upon us before we are ready to start. I will e'en go alone, and try to be satisfied for once with the company of Nature."
"You will have beauty enough to interest you, Kitty, if you keep your eyes open to it."
"I am becoming less blind than I was, thanks to you and Ger, who have made me ashamed of myself by the way in which you extort enjoyment from everything. The blades of grass, the simplest wild flowers, the shapes of the trees, the lights and shadows on hill and dale, the changing clouds, or the absence of them, bird, beast, and insect, sights and sounds, all go to make up your enjoyment. It is glorious to be born with such a faculty for extorting pleasure from everything. It is next best to be with those who have it, and who strive to stir up others to share their pleasure, though the taste may be lacking."
"Yours was not lacking, Kitty. It was only dormant, and needed awakening and cultivating."
"Thank you, aunty. Anyway, I shall enjoy my walk this morning without Hetty Stapleton, for I have decided not to call at Oakwood. You knew that Hetty had come to spend the winter with her brother and sister-in-law, did you not?"
"I believe you told me, dear, but I am not sure."
"It was not I, it was Aylmer who mentioned that she was come to stay for some months, when he was with us the other evening. I was glad of the news, for I like Hetty, and have always found her a pleasant companion, though she is five years older than I am."
"I like her too," replied Mrs. Ellicott. "She has plenty of common-sense, and though her face is not a handsome one, it bears on it the stamp of a true nature. I could never imagine Hetty Stapleton capable of littleness or meanness in any shape. I wish she lived at Oakwood, for your sake, Kitty."
"So do I, aunty. Girls, of the sort to make friends of, are few indeed within walking distance of home, and by your own account Hetty would be the perfection of one. Sensible, true, incapable of meanness, and, most important of all, not too handsome, she would leave nothing to be desired," said Kathleen, with an arch look on her face as she alluded to Hetty's personal appearance. "Now I must go, or I shall lose my walk. Take care of yourself, there's a dear."
Away went Kathleen alone, a little to her aunt's regret. Mrs. Ellicott had purposely held her in talk, half hoping that Mr. Matheson would make his appearance and offer to accompany her, as he had spoken of calling during the morning. Perhaps Kathleen would meet him before she passed out of the grounds, and in that case Aylmer would certainly offer his escort.
Mrs. Ellicott went to the window and watched her niece's rapidly-retreating figure until she could see it no longer, then resumed her easy-chair by the fire, where for some time she sat alone and in deep thought.
Though no word had passed between Geraldine and herself respecting Aylmer Matheson's devoted affection for his ward, both had divined it. But Mrs. Ellicott never for a moment dreamed that Aylmer had won the heart of her own daughter, without seeking it. Indeed, no one would have guessed this, least of all Aylmer himself. Only Kathleen had occasionally twitted her cousin by jesting allusions to Mr. Matheson's perfections, and Geraldine's evident appreciation of them. But even she had been silenced by her cousin's gentle replies and calmness of manner whenever Aylmer's name was mentioned.
"She cares nothing about Aylmer, except as a sort of adopted brother," had been Kathleen's mental conclusion.
"I wish she did, and that he cared for her. They would make a model couple, and suit each other to perfection. But the wrong people are constantly getting mated, and I suppose there is no help for it. However, Ger may be sure that she will never have a rival in me."
This last thought was passing through Kathleen's mind as she left the Hall and started on her walk. By the time she passed beyond her own boundaries, she found herself wondering whether the owner of Monk's How had returned, or if there were any truth in the report that he was not likely to be seen again in the neighbourhood of Hollingsby, unless his empty pockets were refilled by some extraordinary piece of good fortune.
Then Kathleen began to dream on her own account. She pictured Captain Jack as having another side to his character—a brighter, better, purer one than that which was open to the world. Evil reports were always exaggerated. Let people get hold of a little scandal, and it grew with every pair of lips the tale passed through. Lovers of slander delighted to show the worst side of a character, that they might the more readily find listeners. It was horrible to think how much more willing people were to pull characters to pieces than to give any one credit for what was good in them, much less to imagine any person's inner life could be better than what was on the surface.
Captain Jack was handsome. No one could deny that. Every one said he had wasted his wife's fortune, but few told how Mrs. Torrance had always believed in her husband, and that with all his faults he had loved her while living, and mourned her early death.
Captain Jack idolized his boy, yet nobody gave him a good word for this. All shook their heads, and said Ralph was being ruined by companionship with his father, and the friends he gathered round him, instead of being treated like a child and placed under a wise teacher to be fittingly instructed.
"They forget that poor Captain Torrance would be alone if he sent the boy away. He must have some one to cheer him, and if his friends are not everything that could be wished, that is partly the fault of his position. He has neither sister, wife, nor brother. A household with no good woman to guide it must be all wrong," decided the girl in her own mind.
Kathleen did not herself look at both sides of the question, or consider that, unless Captain Torrance's character made him unfit for the society of good men, or that his tastes disinclined him for theirs, he might as well have such under his roof as those whom he invited. That, failing wife or female relative, he might have engaged a lady of suitable age to manage his household, watch over his boy, and receive his guests. But the girl was in the mood to excuse every fault of her absent hero, and even to think how delightful it would be for some girl, good, beautiful, and rich, to prove an angel of mercy to Jack Torrance. To lure him away from evil companions by the greater attraction of her purer life, and a whole-hearted, self-devoted love. To be a real mother to a fine boy, whom Kathleen pictured as growing up to repay her by his more than filial affection, and proving a credit to her training. To pay Jack Torrance's debts, so that he might make a new beginning, owing no man anything, except a great debt of love to his rescuer, which he would pay by a life-long devotion. Yet this would not be payment, only an exchange, for the ministering angel would give as much as she received in the way of affection.
"I am sure Captain Torrance might be—"
But the progress of Kathleen's day-dream was at this moment interrupted by a smart groom, no other than Jem Capes, who touched his hat respectfully and paused just in front of her, thus intimating that he had a message to deliver.
It was not a verbal one. Jem touched his hat a second time, held out a letter, and said—
"I was going straight to the Hall with this, miss, but seeing you coming along, I thought I'd better ask if I should give it to you, or go on there with it."
Jem saw Miss Mountford's face flush as she held out her hand for the letter, saying, "I may as well take it, and spare you the trouble of carrying it to the house. If an answer is required I will send it later."
"No trouble at all, miss. My master, Captain Torrance, said there would be no answer. He only got back last night. Master Ralph hasn't been very well."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Kathleen. "I hope he is better."
"Yes, ma'am, miss, I mean. My master thinks the country air will put him to rights again. Is there any message I can take, or—"
"Nothing, thank you."
The groom touched his hat, and retraced his steps to Monk's How.
"You are soon back," said Captain Torrance, who was inspecting his horses, and saw Capes coming towards the stable.
"I met the lady, sir, and I took the liberty of asking whether she would have the letter, or if I should carry it to the Hall. She took it, sir."
"Is Miss Mountford well?" asked the captain, with affected carelessness.
"She looked very handsome, sir, if I may take the liberty to say as much, and I never saw a beautifuller colour on any young lady's cheeks than there was on hers after she took the letter. She was a little pale when I first saw her. She was walking, and by herself, sir."
The effect of this artful speech was sufficiently apparent to the groom, in the gratified expression which overspread his master's face, but Captain Jack made no further remark about Miss Mountford for the moment. He had some instructions to give on stable matters, then, as he turned away, he said—
"You must have saved yourself half the walk by delivering the letter on the way."
"Just about half, sir;" and Capes proceeded to describe the exact spot at which he met the young lady, and hazarded a guess as to the direction in which she was going. He did not need to be told that this was just the information which his master wished but would not ask for, and he smiled to himself as he saw Captain Torrance leave the grounds a few minutes later, though his face had hitherto been as stolid as possible. Master and man looked equally unconscious of any secret understanding between them, but each read the thoughts of the other.
"The captain will just manage to meet the young lady by taking a little round, and he is stepping out," said Capes to himself, as he watched his master.
"The rascal read me like a book," was the captain's conclusion, "and answered every question I wished to ask, without my needing to utter a word. He is a sharp fellow, and appears devoted to my interest; but, all the same, he would throw me over or betray me to-morrow, if by so doing he could advance his own. Never mind, I can take care of myself; and when Jem Capes ceases to be of use to me I shall get rid of him."
Meanwhile Kathleen was hurrying onward with the letter, which she held tightly concealed in her muff. She was longing to read it, but conquered the inclination to break the seal until she could do so without being observed. She felt herself trembling with surprise and excitement. It seemed so strange, that when her thoughts were wholly occupied by the writer, a message from him should be so suddenly placed in her hand. He was near when she believed him to be far-away. Kathleen's guardians had rejoiced at Captain Torrance's unexpected absence. Kathleen herself had been disturbed and rendered anxious by it, and whilst all around her imagined that it was a matter of indifference to her whether he returned or not, she had bestowed a larger share of her thoughts upon him than at any previous time. Part of these have been unveiled. But Kathleen had gone further, and in the depth of her own heart she had pictured herself as being the instrument of saving Captain Jack from himself; and changing him, his home, and his boy. She had heard, too, often, how many tens of thousands would be absolutely hers a twelvemonth hence, hoarded during the last years of her father's retired life and her own minority. The money was mere dross now—of no use to anybody—and Kathleen almost loathed it on this account. But what a glorious thing it would be if, by the judicious expenditure of a part of it, a new life could be opened for Captain Jack!
She forgot, poor girl, that this man had spent his own patrimony, and that another girl, good, pure, and unselfish, had dedicated to him her life and her fortune, with the same object in view, but all in vain.
Kathleen soon reached a quiet lane, which led to a field-path by which she meant to return home. There was beauty enough all around to attract her admiration, but she saw none of it now. Her thoughts were concentrated on the letter, and the moment she felt herself secure from observation she opened it, and read as follows:—