"I cannot fancy yours, Kathleen. I know that I could not have too much of your society, though I, too, weary of my own often enough."
Kathleen laughed and blushed at the compliment. But she did not dislike it, and when her "grave, wise guardian," for the first time since he had held that office, lifted her shapely hand to his lips, before he said good night, she only thought to herself, "He is growing more like what he was in the old days. How good he was to me when I was quite a little creature, and he was so tall and strong! To think that, when I was eight, he carried me on his shoulder, and when my mother died, only my father seemed more to me than Aylmer was. I sometimes wish he had never been my guardian, for the idea of having to take care of me made him ever so much older. I have been a great trouble both to him and aunty, but I hope I shall repay them yet. I wish Aylmer were my real brother."
A wish which the subject of it would certainly not have echoed.
Kathleen went to Geraldine's room after Aylmer left the house, and found her cousin much better.
"Nearly well, Kitty," she said, in answer to loving inquiries. "The rest has done so much for me, and a quiet night will complete the cure."
"Not sufficiently so to allow of your driving with me to Mellingham, I am afraid, so I shall put off going. I can send a telegram to Miss Pritchard, to say I will be there a day later, instead of to-morrow."
"Don't do that, Kitty. It would be certain to inconvenience her, by upsetting her arrangements for the week. You know how particular you are in expecting that she will keep her promises about the delivery of articles ordered by you, and surely it is fair that we should keep our engagements."
"In a way it is; but of course Miss Pritchard will have plenty of other work. It will only mean finishing some one else's gown instead of mine, and if she is as much pressed with orders as she usually professes to be, the change may help her. You know my dresses are never a success, unless you are with me at the choosing and fitting of them."
"I think I shall be well enough to go with you. At any rate, do not send the telegram until I know," said Ger. "I am going to sleep as soon as possible now, and mean to 'pay attention to it,' as my old nurse used to say children ought always to do."
Kathleen went to her room in an unusually happy frame of mind, at peace with all the world.
After the excitement of the morning and afternoon, the calm that followed had been very welcome. Aylmer had been delightful, as a whole. If he had uttered one sharp sentence, what did it matter? It only made him seem more akin to Kathleen herself, since she was always saying sharp things, and being sorry afterwards. "If only I were half as good as Aylmer!" she thought. Then the girl asked herself whether the greater self-restraint she had been enabled to exercise could have resulted from that longing cry for help which had gone from her heart to God, after the talk with Mrs. Ellicott? Could this sense of peace within, and of love and goodwill to all around her, be another result of her pleading "in real earnest," though only that once? If so, she must go again and again, and in the same spirit.
Kathleen was deeply sensible of the difference between her ordinary prayers, and the cry which went up from her very soul that day. It was a new experience and a sweet one, and it led her to think how vast, how far-reaching must be the Divine love which had been waiting to bless, to pardon, and to cheer her, as soon as these mercies were asked for, because they were really wanted.
The following morning proved bright and pleasant. Geraldine came down to breakfast, with no trace of illness, except that she was paler than usual, and professed herself ready to share Kathleen's drive and shopping expedition.
"I hope you are not going without feeling fit for the journey, Ger," said Kathleen. "It would be so easy to send a telegram."
"I am really fit. I shall enjoy the drive, which involves no fatigue, and I shall have the further satisfaction of seeing all the pretty winter things, without feeling it my duty to spend money which I cannot spare at present."
"Sometimes I wonder what you do with your money, Ger, for though you are beautifully dressed and look far better than I do, you spend much less."
Geraldine laughed, and replied, "You do not know my special extravagances, Kitty. I have several, but I conceal them, that you may not be influenced by my spendthrift tastes. Believe me, dear, I am not hoarding. In fact, I am on the verge of bankruptcy, and counting how long it will be before quarter-day will replenish my purse."
"I'll lend you some when we get to Mellingham."
"I will not borrow, Kitty. The debt would be a debt all the same, if even you were my creditor;" and Geraldine left the room to prepare for her drive.
Mrs. Ellicott remained at home to write letters. Kathleen was ready first, and, as usual, went to the door as soon as she heard the sound of the horses' feet on the gravel, that she might pet the pretty animals, and give each some lumps of sugar. She spoke to Mountain, and praised the horses, but obtained only the shortest answers, consistent with the respect due from him to his young mistress.
"Are you not well this morning, Mountain?" asked Kitty.
"Yes, Miss Kathleen, I'm well enough."
"Has some one been vexing you, or is anybody ill at home? I had not heard of anything amiss."
"My people are well enough, miss, thank you for asking. Maybe I am vexed, but I shall have to get pleased again, for them that has grieved me aren't likely to put themselves out, whether I'm right side out or wrong."
Mountain's face assumed the most stolid appearance imaginable, and Kathleen thought, "Poor old Mountain! I wish I knew what is amiss. I hope he is not angry that William Burns is courting his daughter, Patty. He is a worthy young fellow, and would make her a good husband. I'll try to smooth matters."
How was Kathleen to know that, to use Mountain's own words, he was "just breaking his heart over his young mistress, and wishing he could run over that harum-scarum captain, by accident, of course, if by so doing he could get rid of him without hurting his own horses."
As coachman, Mountain always called the steeds he controlled "my horses," and he had a proper professional pride in them, and did not like them to be used for what he called "dirty work" of any kind. He would have deemed it an indignity to allow one of the handsome pair that "hadn't their match within twenty mile," to run single in a dog-cart, for instance. But he did not seem to think that it would be derogatory to use them as a means of getting rid of Captain Jack. Not that Mountain would have liked "to finish him outright," but to inflict such personal damage as would spoil his looks, and keep him a prisoner until Miss Kathleen was furnished with a husband of whom he could approve. And Mountain further thought it was a great pity he could not tell Miss Kathleen that she was the cause of his vexation, and that by evening herself with Captain Torrance, she was as deep in the "black books" of Hollingsby people generally, as it was possible for the much-loved young lady of the Hall to have placed herself.
It was well that Kathleen did not associate Mountain's grievances with herself, or it might have spoiled her drive. She was of too affectionate a nature to be indifferent to the goodwill of any person, however humble, and it would have troubled her to know that Hollingsby folk, and her faithful servants in particular, were "worritting" on her account, because of that walk in broad day with Captain Torrance, who had been judged and condemned as not worthy to black her shoes.
WHEN the girls reached Mellingham after a pleasant drive, Geraldine's face was tinged with colour, and she looked almost her usual self.
"I am glad you brought me out, Kitty," she said. "I am quite ready to make a study of materials and styles on your account, and hope I shall not feel too envious when I see you wearing the results of it."
"No fear of that, Ger, or whilst you were planning for me, you would make arrangements for yourself."
"Don't you know that one of the first lessons my mother taught me, was to study what I could do without?"
"You do without too many things, Ger, and you will not allow anybody else to fill up blank spaces in your wardrobe."
"My dear Kitty, there are none. It is too full, and its contents are going to be thinned to-morrow."
"Just like you. The question in your mind is not whether you need all your garments, but whether some one else is in greater need of them. So they go before you have really done with them."
"Not before I can well spare them, though every article has its destination fixed in advance. And when one has an affection for a garment, despite its age and fashion, it is sometimes a trial to part with it a little earlier than one intended, because of the shabbiness of a pensioner's best gown."
"I believe you choose your own dresses largely with a view to their second-hand usefulness, Ger," said Kathleen. "I am afraid I could not do that. I am too anxious about my own personal appearance, to trouble myself as to what the effect of my garments will be on their next wearer. I would rather buy new ones of homelier stuff, for those who are in want of them."
Geraldine laughed, and replied, "You give me more credit than I deserve, Kitty. I think quite enough of my own wants and looks. Please to remember the compliment you paid me only last night."
"It was a true one. You are always beautifully dressed, and at a far less expense than myself."
"You know how fastidious I am as to the quality of my materials, so, being good, they stand more wear, and do substantial service second-hand."
At this moment the carriage stopped in front of the principal silk mercer's in Mellingham, and soon Kathleen, assisted by Geraldine and the principal dressmaker, Miss Pritchard, was busily engaged in choosing materials for evening dresses. Then styles had to be decided upon, and a previously ordered walking-gown fitted.
Miss Pritchard was looking pale and weary, and Geraldine said, "I am afraid you are very tired to-day."
"I am, rather. We had an unexpected press of business on Monday, and more work has been promised for this week than can well be got through."
"And you, being at the head of this department, will no doubt feel the responsibility a heavy one."
"Naturally I do; but those who are under me feel it equally, though in another way. But please do not think that I am complaining. My employers have their anxieties also."
"Undoubtedly they have," replied Geraldine, struck with the patient dignity of the young modiste, whose refined manners had struck her when they first met. "I hope you received the message I sent you a few days since," she added.
"I received no message," replied Miss Pritchard. "Was is about the dress I re-trimmed for you? I hoped it would please you, though, owing to a difficulty in matching the material, I was unable to carry out your instructions exactly."
"You made it look far prettier than I could have thought possible," said Geraldine. "The style is perfect, and I was very anxious you should know I was pleased with it, so I called and left a message with one of the assistants to that effect. He promised to deliver it at once."
"It never reached me, though I should have been glad to have it, for I was not sure you would like the unavoidable change. Praise travels slowly towards our work-rooms, but blame is winged on its way. It is a common saying amongst the girls, that if fault is found the messenger comes upstairs two steps at a time. If a word of commendation is spoken down below, it stays there, for fear workers should think too much of themselves and their work."
"But that is unjust," said Kathleen, warmly. "I should have thought it would be so pleasant to pass on a message of praise, and so much the opposite to be deputy faultfinders."
Miss Pritchard smiled, though rather sadly, as she answered—
"Messages of praise are comparatively rare. We workers generally think that the old saying, 'No news is good news,' applies to what we do, and are well contented to hear nothing. If, however, ladies wish to serve those whose work gives them satisfaction, they could do so very materially by expressing their approval to one of the firm. We should probably hear nothing about it, even if a note were written to that effect, but it would be remembered to our credit, all the same."
Kathleen recalled to mind an incident which had occurred a few months before, as she noted Pritchard's suggestion.
A milliner in the employment of another firm had been terribly nervous one morning when displaying some hats for her to choose from. She was young and attractive-looking, but there were traces of tears in her eyes, and her hands trembled visibly. Her employer was in the showroom, and watched the movements of the girl with a stern face. Kathleen's quick instinct divined that the girl was in trouble, probably in fear of losing her situation, and this, she happened to know, would be a serious matter to her, on account of an invalid mother, to whom her help and presence were essential.
Turning to the master of the place, Kathleen said, with her most winning smile—
"I have been looking at these pattern-hats, which I suppose I ought to consider perfect, but I shall not choose from amongst them. I much prefer the modifications produced under the superintendence of your own milliner, whose superior taste is often commended by my friends."
Kathleen mentioned the names of several of the proprietor's most valued customers, and gave her own order in accordance with her words. She chose only the colour she desired, and with a bright smile said to the young milliner, "I know I can leave all else to your good taste. You have always pleased mine."
The words were spoken loudly enough to be heard by the proprietor, who bowed the rich Miss Mountford out of his establishment with a face wreathed in smiles, after Kathleen had bade the girl good morning, and received a volume of grateful thanks expressed in her changed looks.
"I said nothing but the truth," was Kathleen's comment, when at a future visit the young milliner was able to express her thanks in words.
"You saved me and my mother," replied the girl. "Had I been dismissed, I must have sought a situation elsewhere, and, probably, at a distance. My mother could not have been removed, and I am sure the parting would have shortened her life."
It was generally either through something Geraldine did or said that Kathleen learned these lessons of thought for others, but she was an apt scholar. Sometimes, indeed, her impulsive nature would distance Ger's prudence, and she would say and do more than was necessary in a really good cause.
"You are so wise, Ger, as well as generous," she would say, "and I am always running into extremes. Never mind. Better do too much than too little, or nothing."
On this morning at Mellingham she was somewhat exercised in her mind about Miss Pritchard. She wished the new gown to be completed by the week end, but the sight of Miss Pritchard's pale face decided her to say—
"Do not harass yourself or allow any one to be overworked on my account. My dress can stand over till another week, if necessary."
"Thank you very much," replied Miss Pritchard. "It will probably be ready, but it is a relief to have your permission to leave it over."
Some other shopping had to be done, and sundry commissions executed for Mrs. Ellicott before they met the carriage at an appointed place. These completed, they started homeward.
Hollingsby Hall and village had no railway station very near to the bulk of the houses. The village was long and straggling, and the station was about half a mile distant from the end farthest from the Hall. Its position had been chosen so that it might be about equidistant from Hollingsby and another larger village, and as the inhabitants of both were wont to say, "It couldn't have been planted awkwarder for all parties if they'd had a judge and jury to settle where it should be." From which remark it will be divined that the rural mind had decided against the collective wisdom of these institutions.
A little before the carriage reached the station, Mountain pulled up, to wait until a passenger train had started and the gates been opened for him to drive across the line. As they waited, Kathleen noticed a boy intently watching the departure of the train, and waving his cap frantically to some passenger. There was no mistaking the little figure. It was Ralph Torrance, and Captain Jack was returning his boy's farewell by waving his hand from the carriage window. The father's eyes were far too intent upon Ralph to notice the Mountford carriage and its occupants, but Kathleen had time to think of what she saw.
"He is going away again, and without Ralph, so most likely he will not be long absent," she thought. Both ideas gave her a certain amount of pleasure. She was not sorry that Captain Torrance would be unlikely to cross her path again immediately. She would have been sorry, for Ralph's sake, to think that the boy would be left alone for any length of time. At least, Kathleen tried to persuade herself that pity for the lonely child was her reason for wishing his father a speedy return.
Both the cousins saw Ralph starting homeward on foot, and noticed that he was a great deal altered by his recent illness. He had passed through the turnstile, and was on the road, before the way was clear for the carriage, but as it passed him he took off his cap and stood aside, his dark curly head bared, and looking the very image of his father.
A moment after Mountain was signalled to stop, and Kathleen called to Ralph, who was slowly following.
"Would you like a seat with us, Ralph?" she said. "You look tired."
"If you please, Miss Mountford," replied the boy, and gladly took his place opposite Kathleen, adding as soon as he was settled in it, "Father did not know I should be at the station to see him off. He said good-bye to me after breakfast. He was calling somewhere between home and the station, and he did not want to take me with him. Besides, Kelpie—that's my very own pony, you've seen him often, Miss Mountford—had cast a shoe, and was gone to the smithy, so I couldn't ride. But I meant seeing father off, for all that, so I just ran to the station by the short cut across the fields, and was there in time. Only he was in the carriage and they were shutting the doors, so we could only wave to one another. I'm glad I went, and father wouldn't know that I was walking. He would think Kelpie had come back in time, and that I should ride home. Else he'd have been sorry, perhaps, and afraid of me being tired."
"Because you have been ill lately, I hear?"
"Did father tell you so? We only got home the night before last, and now he is gone back again."
"Yes, your father told me. I was sorry to hear of your illness. I am glad you are with us, and will not get too tired," said Kathleen.
"Oh, I'm not afraid of walking, though I like riding better. It's just nothing of a run to the station and back, when one is well. I wish father knew that you were giving me a lift home, seeing I haven't the Kelpie. He has been as frightened about me as if I were a girl. Boys are stronger than girls, you know, Miss Mountford, and can stand a great deal more."
"Sometimes, Ralph, not always. Illness affects both pretty much alike."
Ralph pondered Kathleen's reply, as if not altogether satisfied with it, whilst feeling that, as a boy and a gentleman, he ought not to disagree with a lady.
"Were you long ill?" asked Geraldine.
"Nearly all the while we were away. I had a cold and a cough, and then I got worse and stayed in bed, and a nurse came to the hotel to take care of me. Father was in an awful way one day. Nurse says I did not know him, but I can't just believe that. As if I could forget father!"
There was something touching in the way the boy drew himself up and threw back his head, in contempt at such an absurd notion.
"You would not if you were well, dear," said Kathleen, "but older people sometimes forget when they are very ill. They remember again afterwards."
"Older people might. I know Sarah's grandmother does not remember anybody, she's so old, and she stays in bed all the time. But I know I could never forget father."
Ralph said this in a tone so decisive that it was useless to reply. Geraldine and Kathleen smiled at each other, but made no attempt to alter his opinion.
Sarah was Ralph's personal attendant. She was a Hollingsby young woman, who had been his first nurse, and who had stayed on at Monk's How regardless of all save the child, for whom she had cared during his mother's lifetime.
Sarah was plain of face, staid in manner, often sharp of tongue, but wholly devoted to her charge, whom she would have shielded from bodily harm at the risk of her life. With regard to harm of another and more serious kind, Sarah was powerless. To the best of her ability she taught the child the simple lessons she had herself learned at her mother's knee, or in the Sunday school, hoping that some of them would abide, and perchance bring forth fruit after many days. As to the captain, Sarah was abundantly conscious of his shortcomings, and moaned over them in private; but she would hear no word uttered against him. She had idolized Mrs. Torrance, and knew that the wife's love for her husband had remained unchanged till death.
"Whatever the master may have done, he loved the mistress, and he's fond of his boy, though I often wish he'd show it in a wiser way," was Sarah's opinion. "It's my place to uphold him, and not to stand by and hear any tongue wag against the master, whose bread I've eaten for near on eleven years past."
In educational matters, Ralph was "seen to," as Sarah put it, by the Hollingsby curate, to whose rooms the boy went for two hours daily; but his manners were modelled on those of Captain Jack himself.
"Won't Sarah swear, I mean scold, when I get home, Miss Mountford!" said Ralph, as the carriage neared Monk's How. "Of course Sarah doesn't swear. I only say that for fun, and to tease her when she's vexed. I ought to have been in for dinner at one o'clock, and now it's nearly two, I'm sure. When father's at home I generally have proper late dinner with him as well."
"I suppose Sarah will be wondering what has got you," said Kathleen.
"Yes. I told you I had run away to see father off."
"Would you like to lunch with us, Ralph?" asked Kathleen. "We can leave a message at the lodge for Sarah."
"I should rather think so. It would be just lovely. Only," continued the boy, with a dubious glance at his garments, "Sarah will say I had no business to go without being dressed up, you know. Can you wait for me a few minutes, whilst I run in and tell her?"
"Your clothes are all right, Ralph. You only want a wash and a brush up, which you shall have at the Hall, whilst we are having ours, you know," replied Kathleen, quickly. She had asked the boy to accompany them on a momentary impulse, but was not prepared to drive into the grounds and wait at the entrance of Monk's How until Ralph's toilet had been performed to Sarah's satisfaction.
So the message was left, and much to Mountain's disgust, the boy, instead of being dropped at the lodge, accompanied the girls to the Hall.
"That's the first move," growled Mountain to himself, as he turned his horses towards the stables. "The father came with our young lady to the gates, the other day; the boy is in the house. One more step, and the captain as they call him, will follow. If I could but—" Here Mountain paused, and whatever he further thought must be guessed.
RALPH made good use of his time at the Hall. He was in some respects so manly, in others such a thorough child, but in every way so outspoken, that not only Kathleen but Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine were charmed with the boy.
Even Mountain thawed when the little fellow visited the stables, and made some knowing remarks about the animals he saw there.
"He might ha' been his own father by the way he reckoned up the horses," said Mountain afterwards. "And he is a little gentleman in his ways. If he only hadn't got a father at all, I'd never mind how often he was in and out here."
When Aylmer Matheson paid his next visit to the Hall, he was entertained, if not gratified, by an account of Ralph's sayings and doings. He heard Kathleen say that she must really ask the boy now and then, he was so delightfully bright and original; he had given them all something to talk and laugh over after he left them.
"You would have been charmed with the little fellow, Aylmer. You must help me to be kind to him."
What could Aylmer say? How could he object to Kathleen inviting a mere child, because of his father's antecedents? He knew that to suggest the exclusion of the boy would probably raise a storm of indignation on the part of his ward, and would appear to most people ungenerous and tyrannical. Yet Hetty Stapleton's words of warning were ringing in his ears, and he was profoundly convinced of their wisdom.
"He will woo Kathleen most effectively by means of his boy, of whom she is very fond."
It would be almost impossible to preserve the same distance between the Hall and Monk's How, if Kathleen made a pet of Ralph under her own roof. A mere outdoor intimacy, which allowed John Torrance to join her whenever they chanced to meet, would be worse still.
Aloud, Aylmer said, "I shall be only too glad to help you, Kathleen, in any plan for the boy's real good."
All the same, his mind was full of fears, which he vainly strove to stifle, and he wished that any one but himself filled the post of guardian to Kathleen. She was wonderfully sweet and kind in her manner to him that evening, asking his advice even about what seemed purely feminine matters, and promptly acting upon it, even where it did not accord with her own ideas. So stirred was Aylmer by the tender graciousness of Kathleen's manner, that he gave himself no further time for self-questioning. Hetty Stapleton's counsel had encouraged hope, his own doubts and scruples were put aside, and, availing himself of an unexpected opportunity, Aylmer told his ward the story of his love.
"I know not when I began to love you, dear," he said. "It seems to me that I cannot look back upon a time, since you were the merest slip of a girl, when you were not first and dearest of all to me. Though you were so much younger, and I grown to manhood, I never pictured a home for myself in which you were not the 'angel of the house.' Your father loved me, Kathleen, and gave me the place a brother might have filled, had you possessed one. Let me finish, dear Kathleen;" for the girl would have interrupted. "Hear my story out, and then give me your answer."
Then Aylmer told her how, whilst longing to be faithful to the trust reposed in him, it had raised a certain barrier between her and himself which had kept him silent until now, though he had longed to speak.
"I have been afraid that the world would misjudge me, and say that the guardian was selfish, and scheming to keep his beautiful ward and her wealth for himself. And yet, dear, you will believe me when I say that to me my sweet Kathleen, with only herself to bestow, would give me what is worth more than all the riches of the world, if she would put her dear hand in mine and bid me keep it."
"I wish I could—oh, how I wish I could!" said Kathleen. "It is dreadful to me to say a word that will grieve you, but I have never thought of you in that way. I have been trying so much of late to show you that I cared for you as if you were my own dear, good brother, and many, many times when I have pained you I have suffered more myself than you have done, though I have seemed hard and wilful, for you were always so patient. When I was a child, Aylmer, I used to think God had given you to me for a brother, because I had none of my own. Be my brother still, and try to forget."
Kathleen raised her beautiful eyes to Aylmer's, streaming with tears. Her hand was in his, for he had taken it, and she made no effort to withdraw it. Aylmer's clasp had been to her an assurance of safety ever since the stalwart youth had made her his child-playmate. Her look of distress went to his heart and appealed to his unselfish nature, whilst it caused him the bitterest pain and disappointment.
"I have been as a brother hitherto, dear Kathleen," he replied, "but I have always hoped to fill a yet dearer place in your affection. Now I reproach myself for abruptness. I have told my story too suddenly. Let me leave it with you unanswered for a while. Take what time you choose; I will have patience, and trust that when you have examined your own heart more closely, you may find me occupying more than a brother's share of it."
Kathleen shook her head. "Better answer now, Aylmer. The waiting would be trying to you, and very hard for me, because I should all the while be grieving at the thought of pain to come. You are so good and true. You have been brother, friend, guardian all in one, but in all my life I have never thought of you as you think of me, and I know I shall not change in this respect. I wish I felt differently, but, apart from such love as you ask, I have given you the best I had to bestow. There is no one whom I would place as friend and brother side by side with you. Let me tell you, too, that I know you would be glad to take me as a poor girl rather than as a rich heiress, and that I am certain, whenever you do choose a wife worthy of you, she will be one of the happiest women in the world."
"I shall not be likely to choose again, Kathleen. Mine will be a life-long love for you."
"Do not say that, Aylmer, except in the sense of remaining still my best and truest friend."
"I can never be less than that, dear Kathleen, never do less than the best in my power to promote your happiness, at any cost to myself. May God bless you, dear, and help me to bear my sorrow patiently!"
He touched her hand with his lips, then left the room and the house, without waiting to see Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine again.
To neither of these did Kathleen repeat what had passed between her and Aylmer. "It is his secret, and must be held sacred," she said to herself. "Besides, there is only Ger that I make a girl confidante of, and I could not tell her that he cares for me most of all. Perhaps he will learn some day to think of her as he now does of me. That is the one bit of comfort to be had out of the whole thing—the hope that through this present sorrow a great happiness may come to Ger in the future."
Not for one moment did Kathleen indulge in a feeling of triumph on account of her conquest. Wilful she was, but far above any littleness of that kind. She would have had Aylmer forget his disappointment and her refusal, had this been possible. Still, in heart she could not altogether silence the feeling of pride and joy at the thought of being the choice of one so good as her guardian.
"My father would have wished me to accept him," she thought; and it gave her a feeling of pain that she should go contrary to what she knew would have been his wish.
"But he would have put my happiness before even Aylmer's, and would never have desired my lips to say 'Yes' when my heart said 'No.'"
A few dull days followed—dull both in and out-of-doors. Grey skies, rare glimpses of sunshine, alternate drizzle and downpour, made up weather neither fit for walking nor driving. Aylmer was from home. He had talked of accepting an invitation to join a shooting party at a friend's place some fifty miles away; and when he sent a few lines to say that he should be absent for a week or more, they all concluded he had done so, as he gave no address. Only Kathleen guessed why he had left home so suddenly, and she missed him more than she cared to acknowledge to herself, whilst she dreaded his return. There would never, she thought, be the same happy, unrestrained intercourse that there had been in the past. Ever before them both would come the memory of pain inflicted by the one, and of rejected affection and hopes crushed on the other.
Kathleen thought the week which followed the longest she had ever spent. The weather which was so trying to her, was equally so to her neighbours, and visitors were few in a country place where friends' houses lay somewhat wide apart.
A change came at last, and with it Kathleen's spirits began to rise again. She was happier, too, after Aylmer's return, for he had bravely schooled himself to meet her as of old, and to reserve his regrets, or at least the manifestation of them, for lonely hours at home. Even there he did not sit down and give himself up to unavailing sorrow, but sought strength from God to endure his trial, and found comfort in the thought of that divine love which never faileth.
Aylmer had just one confidante—Hetty Stapleton. As he had already told her what was in his heart, so now he acquainted her with the downfall of his plans and the extinction of his hopes.
"You will think I was wrong to speak so soon," he said, "but Kathleen's kindness carried me out of myself, and, shall I own it? your own suggestion as to the use that John Torrance would make of Ralph, urged me to try my fortune, lest I should lose by delay what I would have exercised any amount of patience to win. With the boy going in and out at the Hall, Kathleen charmed with him and bent on doing him good, the lad himself such a winsome little fellow, and so loyal to his father, I foresaw that the thin end of the wedge had been inserted. A little while, and it would be impossible to keep John Torrance in his present position."
"I understand the difficulty, and I do not blame you, though I wish you had not spoken so soon. What can I do to warn Kathleen? If I only dare tell her what I know, and yet I should hate to do it. She might put a wrong construction on my speaking, for most people hereabouts thought at one time that John Torrance was paying attentions—I will not say to me, he has far too good taste for that, but to my money. He was terribly embarrassed just then, and would have swallowed any pill if it were sufficiently gilded. He found another way out of his difficulties, but he paid a high price for it, as my brother Gerard happens to know."
"If any one could say a warning word to Kathleen with a chance of success, you would be that one, Hetty. She likes and trusts you, and your good sense and tact would enable you to choose the right time."
"And that is not the present. Kathleen knows that we are good friends, and she would regard a word against John Torrance as suggestive of advocacy on your behalf. It will be very difficult for me to speak at all."
"You will understand, Hetty," said Aylmer, "that all I desire is Kathleen's happiness. If she could have loved me as I love her, I should have regarded her as a precious gift from God, and cherished her as such. This cannot be; but, all the same, I will leave no stone unturned to save her from herself, and from harm at another's hand. But no one must plead for me with her. I could not bear that."
"And you do not for a moment suppose that I could be so wanting in delicacy, or of true friendship to yourself as to dream of such a thing," replied Hetty stoutly.
"I am afraid I did think you capable of going almost any length that was not unwomanly, to help one whom you blessed with your friendship. You are so staunch always."
Hetty blushed with pleasure, but re-asserted her own views on the subject.
"That would have been unwomanly, in the higher sense of the word, though very woman-like in another, for the sex is very impulsive, you know, and apt to damage a cause by mistaken kindness. Trust me, Aylmer. I will never injure yours."
"I do trust you. Now let me ask if you have heard the last rumour as to Captain Torrance's pecuniary position? It is whispered that before long he will have to yield possession of Monk's How to his creditors, and that everything is virtually gone now."
"I heard this before I left town. At least it was said that he was about to make an arrangement of the kind, and that unless he married a rich girl, or had another fortune left to him, he would leave the old home of his family a penniless man, at a given time."
"When will that come to pass, I wonder? It is dreadful to think of, especially when Ralph is considered. His father will have robbed him of everything."
"When? In a little over a year from this time; and with all my heart I wish he were gone from Hollingsby now, never to return. We would take care of Ralph amongst us, or let Kathleen adopt him if she chose, and John Torrance out of the way, all would go well," said Hetty, in a tone that showed how much in earnest she was.
"I would rather think of John Torrance aroused to a sense of his responsibilities, starting to retrieve his fallen fortunes, and proving yet a wise as well as an affectionate father to that boy," replied Aylmer.
"What a sanguine nature yours must be! In the first place, there is no washing white, yet there is a better chance of doing that than of changing John Torrance. Then about the fallen fortunes. How would he begin to retrieve them? He has no profession, though he might perhaps turn jockey. He has no capital, and if he had, would he not be more likely to try to increase it by gambling than in any other way? He is just a hopeless black sheep. Nobody can help him, I tell you."
In Aylmer's mind was the higher thought: "There is One mighty to save to the uttermost, though human friends despair, or have become indifferent." But he did not say this to Hetty. He only replied—
"It is possible some friend might be found to help Torrance, if he were really inclined to make a start in the right direction."
"And I believe you would be foolish enough to do it, Aylmer Matheson. It would be like your Quixotic notions, and you would be rewarded as you deserved to be," said Hetty, indignant at the very thought.
"You judge my motives with your usual charity, dear friend. You are only just in thinking that there is no man to whom I would not lend a hand to help him upwards, if he were in earnest in wishing to rise."
"If you are desirous of devoting your means to John Torrance's service, he will find you plenty of opportunities. Perhaps you would prefer giving him Westhill and its appurtenances in the meanwhile. An extra fortune will not long encumber John Torrance," said Hetty with considerable warmth.
"Not quite that," replied Aylmer, "though I would sacrifice something for Kathleen's sake. If Torrance were worthy of her, I could bear my own disappointment, and feel rewarded by the knowledge that she was happy."
"You are simply too good for this world, Aylmer, but a Quixotic goose all the same, though I like you the better for a nobility that I could not imitate. Were I a man, in your shoes, for instance, now, I should set all my wits to work to circumvent John Torrance and win Kathleen in spite of him. Aye, and I would do it somehow. I cannot think that it is manly to accept one rebuff as a final defeat, or to hold out open arms and a full purse to your opponent, to furnish him with new weapons to turn against yourself. Think better of it, my friend, on all accounts."
Aylmer did think, but it was not of Hetty's advice. He thought of the Master he professed to serve, the one perfect Man who, though He was equal with God, "made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a servant"—for what?
Thinking of His blameless life of good-doing and His death of sacrifice, Aylmer Matheson might well feel that he would lose no manliness that was worth the name, if only he followed in the footsteps of his Divine Lord, "the Man of sorrows."
THE friendship between Miss Mountford and Ralph Torrance grew rapidly. The ice once broken was not likely to close again, especially as the boy was feeling his father's continued absence a real trouble. His grievances were poured into Kathleen's sympathetic ear, and so far as she was able she comforted him.
"You see, father has never stayed away like this before," said Ralph. "If he went for a long time, he always took me, and if for a little while, he came back just when he had promised to do. I thought he was going to London for three days, and now, maybe he won't be back for Christmas. He says the people he is with cannot do with children, because of their grown-up visitors. I think they might have me, for I'm a boy, not a baby."
Ralph tossed back his head with an air of insulted dignity, but strove to keep back threatening tears. His father had been ten days absent, and Christmas was very near. There had always been visitors of some sort at this season, and if there had been no one else, his father's presence would have satisfied Ralph.
"Perhaps," said Kathleen, "one boy would have been considered in the way. If there were other boys in the house, you know, it would be different."
"I wouldn't have bothered anybody. But it's no use; a fellow can't go to a place unless people ask him, can he, Miss Mountford? 'Specially if they don't know him. Besides, I don't know where father is staying. He writes to me and sends me envelopes directed like this."
Ralph showed his latest, somewhat tumbled through being carried, together with his father's letter, in a pocket too narrow to hold it properly.
Kathleen declined to look at the address which Ralph was eager to show her, but she could not well refuse to listen when the boy said, "Here is a bit for you. Father says, 'Tell Miss Mountford that I do not know how to thank her for being so good to my motherless boy. I am more grateful to her than words can express. When I come back, I shall try to tell her how deeply I feel her goodness.'"
"And you have been good. You have asked me here four times, besides bringing me from the station that first day. You've let me ride out on the Kelpie twice, along with you, and once you let me try if I could sit your beautiful mare. I enjoyed that most of all, for Polly is a beauty, though she would be too big for me in a general way, you know."
"Fie, Ralph, to say you enjoyed riding Polly more than riding out with me, when I had her, and you had Kelpie. Your pony, in his way, is quite as good as Polly."
"You are not really vexed," replied Ralph, in a confident tone. "You are only pretending. People always pretend when they talk to boys, just as if we didn't know when they are in earnest. It was because you thought it would please me so much that you lent me Polly."
"Perhaps it was, Ralph. Any way, I am glad you were pleased."
The boy nodded. Then a grave look came on his face, and he asked, "Should you be very sorry if Polly were taken away from you, Miss Mountford?"
"I should indeed, Ralph, but I do not think any one will take her away from me. Why do you ask?"
"Because father once said, 'Maybe you and I will have to do without either horse or pony, my boy.' I cried awfully, for you see, Miss Mountford, a fellow can't help being fond of his pony, can he?"
"Certainly not, Ralph, and Kelpie is a darling on four legs."
"That's what I say, only I don't think I quite called him a darling. That's a girl's word. I say he is a plucky little chap, 'just as good as they make 'em.' It was Jem Capes taught me that. He's our groom, and he says funny things sometimes that make me laugh. If I tell them to Sarah, she scolds me, and says, grooms may talk so, but gentlemen should know better. I don't mind. I will say that nobody could make a better pony than the Kelpie. He's such a fellow to go, and such a kind, good-tempered one. I don't know what I should do without him."
"You shall not do without him, Ralph," said Kathleen, for she felt a lump rising in her throat as the boy ran on about his pet. "If your father ever wishes to part with Kelpie, I will buy him, and he shall still be your very own to ride and use as you like, only I will keep him here for you."
With a wild cry of delight the boy flung his arms round Kathleen's neck, and kissed her repeatedly, then lay sobbing on her shoulder.
The girl was deeply moved, and she returned the child's caresses whilst her arms clasped him lovingly.
After a few minutes Ralph raised his head and wiped away his tears, seeming, Kathleen thought, a little ashamed of them.
"I'm sorry I cried," he said. "It looks so silly for a boy to cry, but a fellow can't always help it, 'specially when his father isn't coming home for Christmas, can he, Miss Mountford?"
"I don't think you were foolish to cry, Ralph," replied Kathleen, who saw that the allusion to his father's absence was nearly making the boy break down a second time.
"I'm so glad of that. It is nice to have a real friend besides the Kelpie. Father does not want to be away. He told me so in his letter, and he said if only I could be with—But I ought not to tell you that. It would be like asking. It would be mean."
Ralph shut his lips and held them tightly, as if battling against the temptation to continue.
Kathleen guessed the rest of the sentence, and said—
"Do you know, Ralph, I had been wondering whether you could come here for Christmas Day. I knew that your father would want you if he were at home, so I did not ask you when I invited the Stapleton children and some more whom you know. But I meant to do so, if you were likely to be alone."
"Did you though, Miss Mountford?" asked the boy, with sparkling eyes.
"Yes," said Kathleen, laughing; and, crossing to her writing-table, she took up a dainty note, with a sprig of holly for a seal, and addressed to Ralph Torrance, which she handed to him.
The boy took it eagerly, and then said, "Please excuse me," after the fashion of his elders, and waited till Kathleen gave him permission before he opened the note.
"Shan't I be glad to come? It will be next best to having father home. Best of all would be if he were here too; wouldn't it, Miss Mountford? I suppose I ought to write a proper answer to this note," he added, without waiting for Kathleen's reply to his former question, or else taking it for granted that she would agree with him.
"As you have promised me the pleasure of your company, Ralph, I shall not want a written answer," said Kathleen, much to the boy's relief, for he was cogitating as to whether he should ask his tutor how to word his reply, or if Sarah would be able to help him in so important a matter.
"I will come, as you have been so kind as to ask me," said Ralph. Then he folded the precious note, and put it into his pocket in company with his father's letter and various boyish treasures, which made it bulge out to its utmost extent.
"Why, how rosy your cheeks are!" he added, looking at Kathleen, on whose face a fine colour had suddenly appeared when the boy spoke of having his father at the Hall.
Kathleen only laughed, and told Ralph she liked to have rosy cheeks, then gave the boy a list of the guests who were coming on Christmas Day.
"They are all children," she said. "I have asked no grown-up people."
"Not one at all? Not Mr. Matheson?"
"Yes, I hope Mr. Matheson will come, but he is away just now, only for a night, however. I don't know what I should do without him, for he always helps to make things bright for my young visitors. So does my cousin, Miss Ellicott, you know, but I do not count her or Mr. Matheson as visitors."
"They are very nice and kind to me always," said Ralph. "I think I may tell you what father wrote in his letter, now you have asked me to come, Miss Mountford. It is here. 'If you could spend your Christmas Day with your kind friend at the Hall, I should be quite happy about you, my dear boy.' I shall tell father I am coming, and that you did not know he was wishing I could be here till after you had really asked me. You quite understand why I didn't read that at first. It would have been asking for an invitation, wouldn't it now?"
"I don't think I should have taken it in that way, Ralph. However, it was best for you to do exactly what you thought was honourable. Besides, nothing could have made any difference when my note was written."
"But you might have thought I was asking, for all that," said Ralph, proud that he was placed above suspicion.
The boy's next letter to his father was an unusually long one. He had so much to tell. The writing of it cost him no little self-denial, and gave the Kelpie a holiday; but if the boy could have seen the delight with which his father read it, and the look of triumph on his face, he would have felt repaid for the loss of his ride.
Sarah was never allowed to see Ralph's letters to his father, much to her disgust.
"I mayn't be much of a scholar, Master Ralph," she would say, "but I'd be ashamed of myself if I couldn't do without snaking blots and smearing them with my thumb as you do. It's well the captain sends you envelopes ready directed and stamped, or the post people would never read your writing."
"I don't want them to read my writing, and I'll seal my letter and post it myself, so that you shan't," said Ralph defiantly, and in a very different tone from that in which he addressed Miss Mountford. "Father says he can read what I write, and that is good enough for me."
Ralph made a grimace at Sarah, waved his letter round his head, then raced off to post it.
"I'll be even with him yet," thought Sarah, for she was not a little anxious to find out something about her master's doings and whereabouts, Ralph having steadily refused all information. Her curiosity was not of an unkindly sort, but she had long known that her master's position was becoming desperate, and that utter ruin hung over Monk's How. She grieved for the downfall of the old name, for the mistress whom she had served so faithfully, for the boy she had nursed from his birth. She would have made any sacrifice for Ralph, and he, whilst he teased and harassed her, as only an over-indulged lad can tease, would have fought one far above his own size, if he had dared to annoy Sarah.
When Ralph returned triumphant from the post, Sarah was on her way to it by a different road. The postmaster was, of course, a village neighbour, and to him she appealed.
"Master Ralph has just posted a letter for his father," she said. "I'm afraid he has not put a stamp on, and I'm not sure if it's right directed."
"I'll look," said the postmaster, and accordingly he sought for and found the only letter addressed to Captain Torrance. "It's all right, only a bit tumbled, and the stamp is straight enough. The address is well-written, in a man's hand; if I'm not mistaken, the captain's own. I should know, I've seen it often enough."
"It's the inside I'm anxious about. Master Ralph is that self-willed, he won't let me see if the spelling is all right. I should like—"
"Come now, Sarah, that won't do. Neither you nor I have any business with the inside of a letter, or the outside either, for that matter, when it has once been posted. I've obliged you so far as seeing it is directed plainly, and stamped, because of it being a boy's letter. But I wouldn't go beyond that, no, not if the Queen herself was to ask me;" and the letter was dropped into the mail-bag again.
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged for what you have done," said Sarah. "It's lucky it is to the captain, who will excuse blots and bad spelling."
On her homeward way Sarah thought, "I can turn-out the boy's pockets after he's asleep. If I find the captain's letter to him, it will tell me what I want to know."
Again she was disappointed. Ralph knew the contents of that precious letter by heart, and feeling that no one could rob him of them, he had burned the letter itself to ashes. He, however, displayed Miss Mountford's note of invitation to her admiring eyes, and told her he should be all right for Christmas Day.
"And I am glad the lady has asked you, Master Ralph," said Sarah. "I have been making myself miserable about you being all by yourself here. Not but what no company is better than bad," she thought, but she kept this sentiment unspoken.
Sarah could look back on recent Christmases and lament, as she pictured the guests that her master had gathered around him then, and permitted this boy to mix with. She gave Ralph many admonitions as to his conduct, especially as to the language he should use in Miss Mountford's presence.
"I don't want you to tell me what to say," replied Ralph. "Do you think I shall talk to a lady as if she were Jem Capes? Father has taught me how to behave to ladies."
"Then don't forget, Master Ralph, that's all. Be a good boy, and a gentleman, whoever you are with, and then you won't need to be put in mind." From which warnings it will be understood that Sarah was aware how her charge varied his mode of speech to suit the company in which he found himself. If Miss Mountford could have heard her protégé in conversation with the groom, her opinion of him would have been modified.
Still, there was much that was lovable and even noble in the child, whilst his faults were inseparable from his surroundings. He copied his father's words and ways with the utmost exactitude, and John Torrance laughed as, from time to time, he noted this, but without rebuking his boy.
"How can I?" he thought. "If Ralph is to turn over a new leaf, I must set the example, for he makes me his model in all things. He is a sharp-sighted youngster, but blind on one point, for he thinks his father can do no wrong. I wish I were a better man, for his sake. The less he sees of me, especially now, the more likely he is to improve."
This last thought followed the reading of that letter which had cost Ralph so much trouble little disappointment. All she had learned was, that her master's correspondence went to the address of his London lawyer, but of his movements she knew nothing. It seemed as if every one in the neighbourhood was equally ignorant.
CHRISTMAS came and went. Kathleen's party was a great success, largely owing to the efforts of Aylmer, Geraldine, and Hetty Stapleton, who had been pressed into the service. Without them, the hands of the young hostess would have been too full.
In pity for Ralph's loneliness, he was invited to stay the night at the Hall. It would be too sad, Kathleen said, for the lonely boy to go back from all the brightness there to the dead quiet of Monk's How.
The boy enjoyed his visit to the full, but Kathleen noticed that he avoided Hetty Stapleton in a determined fashion.
"Don't you know Miss Stapleton?" she asked. "She is such a favourite with all the young people in the neighbourhood. Or have you and she quarrelled?"
The boy's face crimsoned as he answered, "Of course I know Miss Stapleton. Everybody does at Hollingsby. We haven't quarrelled, only I don't think we are friends."
"How is that, Ralph? She has surely not been unkind to you. If so, I must take her to task."
"Please don't say a word, Miss Mountford!" pleaded Ralph, earnestly. "Miss Stapleton always tries to be kind to me. She has wanted to give me things, and has asked me to ride with her, and—" Ralph paused, though he could have given Kathleen a long list of offered kindnesses which he had curtly rejected.
"And you would not accept the things, or join in the rides, eh, Ralph? What can Hetty have done to offend you?"
"Nothing to me, only I know father doesn't like her, and she doesn't like him now, though I think they were friends once. I heard Sarah say so. You see, Miss Mountford, I couldn't take presents or go riding with a lady if father was not friends with her, could I? You'll be sure not to tell Miss Stapleton or anybody why I refused, because Sarah was saying that to the cook one day, and she didn't know that I heard her."
Kathleen promised to respect Ralph's confidence, then said, "But you go out with me."
"That is different. I know father likes me to be with you. He said one day, that there was no lady in the world he admired so much as he did you, and there had only been one so good before, and that was my mother."
Seldom had Kathleen been so glad of an interruption as she was at that moment. Her attention was called from Ralph by Hetty Stapleton herself, and so no response was needed. But the boy's words—the echo of his father's—were not forgotten.
It seemed that Captain Torrance was in no hurry to return to Monk's How. He came there occasionally, but made no long stay, and took no advantage of the relations between Miss Mountford and Ralph. His visits to Hollingsby were purely business ones, and that he might see the boy and make arrangements for his comfort and the supply of his wants. He sent Kathleen a few lines expressive of his gratitude for her goodness to Ralph, and said that she had poured brightness into his young life and influenced him for good, a work worthy of one so pure and noble as herself. He prayed her to continue her kindness to the lad, as he, of necessity, must be much absent from home, and told her that whilst he could never repay her, he well knew that such a nature as hers would find its reward in the fact that she was helping others, above all, a motherless boy.
Always Captain Torrance harped on this string, and always too he awoke a responsive chord in Kathleen's breast. She sent him a few lines in reply, told of her affection for the bright boy, and promised to do all in her power for his happiness and benefit.
"Ralph has brightened our quiet life here," she wrote, "and we should all miss him, were he long absent." That was all; but it satisfied Captain Torrance. He did not even call at the Hall, and only on a single occasion did Kathleen exchange a few words with him out-of-doors. This was when winter festivities, such as are usual in country houses, had come to an end. The young leaves were showing on the trees and the song of birds was heard in the land, telling everywhere of new life—the glorious awakening of the world after the deadness of winter.
The country roads were dry, and riding was most enjoyable in the bright sunshine and with lengthening days; for April had proved agreeably false to her character, and was more inclined for smiles than tears.
Kathleen and Ralph were out riding together on Polly and the Kelpie. Miss Mountford was otherwise unattended. After a brisk canter they were riding quietly homeward, when Captain Torrance came in sight. He had arrived at Monk's How quite unexpectedly during Ralph's absence. Naturally, the boy was wild with delight on seeing his father, and equally naturally, the latter exchanged a cordial greeting with Kathleen, and made use of the opportunity to repeat the thanks he had previously written. But the tone and looks of the speaker were far more eloquent than written words could be, however well considered, and Kathleen listened with undisguised pleasure.
"You have given me far more credit than I deserve," she said. "Ours is not a one-sided affection, is it, Ralph? You are my friend as I am yours. My cavalier too, and very much we enjoy our rides together. The Kelpie and Polly are well used to be companions now."
Of course Ralph was proud of his post, of his steed, and above all, of being called Kathleen's friend; and though he could not put his feelings into words, he said enough to make her laugh and blush at his childish compliments. Just at this moment, when Captain Torrance was standing listening to his boy, looking towards Miss Mountford and patting Polly's neck in a caressing fashion, Hetty Stapleton came in sight.
It seemed to Kathleen that the wrong persons always had appeared on the scene, if by the merest chance she was exchanging a few unimportant words with Captain Torrance. She had long since guessed that Hetty had no good will towards him, and Ralph's innocent confidences had convinced her that the feeling was mutual. She thought highly of Hetty, but was hardly likely to part abruptly with Ralph's father, with whom she had not exchanged a word for months. So she made no attempt to ride on until Hetty had passed by; but she could not fail to see that Captain Jack's elaborate bow received the slightest possible recognition, and that the girl's face wore an expression of grave regret as she returned her own greeting. Captain Jack gave a half-comical, half-rueful look at Kathleen, as he said—
"We were friends once, and now Miss Stapleton seems doubtful whether she has seen me before or not."
Ever loyal to those whom she professed to like, Kathleen replied, "I have always thought Hetty's friendship well worth winning and keeping. I value it greatly."
"And so it is. Friendship that deserves the name always is. But in Miss Stapleton's case and mine, it happened it was difficult to—"
The speaker hesitated, laughed, uttered an irrelevant word, and then said, "Something happened which I cannot speak about. If it were my own affair, I should be only too happy if you would listen whilst I told you what estranged us."
A meaning look conveyed an impression to Kathleen's mind, and from that moment she believed that Hetty's friendship had ripened into a stronger attachment for John Torrance, and that it had not been reciprocated, hence the friendship had come to an untimely end.
She could never have told how she was led to this conclusion; a mistaken one, for in Hetty's case friendship was far too strong a term to use as regarded her acquaintance with this man.
He had sought her society for the sake of her fortune, as we already know, and though the world was no wiser as to what had occurred through Hetty's telling, John Torrance could never pardon her for having rejected him, and she knew this.
"You will like to go home with your father, Ralph," said Kathleen after this. "I am sure he will want you, especially as he is leaving you again so soon."
"I must take you home first, Miss Mountford," replied Ralph. "I ought to, you know. A gentleman always sees the lady home. Father won't mind."
"I should mind very much if you forgot yourself so far as to allow Miss Mountford to ride home alone," said his father, with becoming gravity.
"I knew you'd say so, father. I'll be at home as soon as you are."
Away went the riders, and homeward walked John Torrance, well satisfied with the success of his plans. He had purposely absented himself, to allow Ralph to obtain a firm foothold under Miss Mountford's roof, and he had no intention of staying at Monk's How for long together, until the time drew near when Kathleen's fortune would be in her own hands. Ralph would be his best advocate, and he regularly told the boy many things which he wished her to know, but warned him not to repeat them to Sarah or to any of the people about.
"I trust you, dear boy," he would say. "I have only you."
"I may tell Miss Mountford things, mayn't I?" asked Ralph. "She's so kind, you know, and I'm certain she's sorry for you, and for me being all by myself."
"Tell Miss Mountford what you like, Ralph. No fear of her telling your secrets or mine. It is hard on you, my boy, for the house is very quiet now."
"I don't mind if it's best for you. I missed the horses at first, but you see Miss Mountford lets me go and see hers, and I have the Kelpie."
Then Ralph told his father of his talk with Miss Mountford about his pet, and her promise that if the pony were sold, she would buy him.
It was a long time since John Torrance had been moved as he was at this story. He had parted with all his horses, except his favourite hunter and the Kelpie, and had reduced his establishment at Monk's How as far as possible. Absence gave him a good excuse for this. But it would have cost the man a great pang to deprive Ralph of his pony, and Kathleen's promise to the boy touched his heart. Spendthrift, bankrupt, schemer as he was, ashamed of his past, and hopeless as to his future unless he could win this girl and her fortune, he was almost ready to give up his pursuit of them.
"She is far too good to be linked for life with such a man as I am," he thought. "I am half inclined to go to her, to tell her all, and to ask her to take my boy and make of him a better man than his father. Matheson would help her, and I would pledge myself to go away and never again to reclaim Ralph, or intrude on her presence. Ralph would feel the loss of me for a time, but he would get over it under her roof and guardianship."
It was too late to carry out such a resolution that night. Captain Torrance slept upon it, and with the coming of morning saw matters in a different light.
"When I do honestly love Kathleen, and would marry her without a penny, if I had money of my own, I cannot be counted a mere mercenary suitor."
"As to going away, where can I go with the hope of helping myself without money? I dare say Matheson would lend me some, as he has done before, or give it, for that matter. Well he might, for it would leave the coast clear for him; but would Miss Mountford herself thank me for doing this?"
Captain Jack decided that she would not, felt sure that Kathleen cared more for himself than for Matheson, and that Ralph would break his heart if deprived of the sight of his father.
So, a couple of days later, Monk's How was again left to Ralph and the servants, but the boy went to Miss Mountford to be comforted.
"It's horridly lonely, worse than ever, when I've had father for a little while," he said, as he walked in the grounds hanging on Kathleen's arm. "But I don't mind so much as I did; father is doing it for the best. He told me so. And I know now why he didn't stay at home at Christmas. Father used to ask a lot of men to come that he had known for a long while. Some of them were not very nice. They drank a great deal of wine and stuff, and were noisy, and said—"
"Hush, Ralph! you must not tell me these things," said Kathleen; "your father would not like it."
"Yes, he would. He told me I might say anything to you, for I must have somebody to talk to, and the servants gossip, you know. Well, you may guess what the men did when there was no lady in the house. It was just for want of mother. The nice people go where there are mothers, father says. Well, this last Christmas he stayed away from home, so that the men who had been used to be here could not come, and he says he will never have such about him any more. He wants to be a real good man, for my sake, and somebody else's. He didn't say who else. Do you know, Miss Mountford?"
"How can I tell, Ralph? Your father never spoke to me about such things."
"Of course not. I wonder if it is for your sake, so as he may be more like you, because you know what he said about you being the best—"
Kathleen put her hand on the boy's lips, exclaiming, "I must really stop you by force, your tongue runs so fast, Ralph, and you are such a flatterer. You will do me harm. I shall think too much of myself."
"I'm sorry if I've vexed you," said Ralph, penitently.
"I am not angry, dear," said Kathleen; and she kissed the boy's upturned face in token of this.
The sound of the luncheon bell summoned them to the house, and put an end to the conversation and to further revelations on Ralph's part, for the time.
Many similar talks followed, and Kathleen ceased to check the boy when he began them. He always brought his father's letters, and read the greater part of them to her. Often there were messages of grateful thanks to Kathleen herself, which Ralph was particularly proud to repeat to her.
Through this innocent medium, John Torrance contrived to keep in constant touch with Miss Mountford. His carefully-worded letters might have been addressed to her for by means of them she was brought to sympathize with him in his new and noble aspirations after a higher and better life.
Thus far, however, John Torrance had not gone beyond aspirations. The life itself was in the future. His present one was modelled on the old lines. He was only going to change when, as Kathleen's husband, he should settle down afresh to domesticity in the country, with plenty of money to make it endurable.
It was true that he had kept away from Monk's How at Christmas to avoid inviting a number of guests, but this was only half the truth. The other half was, that he wished to stand better with his neighbours, especially Kathleen, and that he was unable to entertain his old associates with the reckless extravagance to which they had been accustomed—not that their company would have been distasteful to him.