"Are you going to town on Monday?"

"Yes, I made up my mind when I read this," tapping the letter.

"I suppose you don't object to be left alone? And there is the chance of Mrs. Needham coming down; probably she will stay over Monday."

"I fear that is not very likely."

No more was said on the subject then, but Katherine could not get her mind free from the idea of George Liddell's anticipated visit. She was quite willing to make friends with him, though his ungenerous and unreasonable conduct towards herself had impressed her most unfavorably.

The day passed over, however, without any visitor, nor was it until the following afternoon that Katherine was startled, in spite of her preparation, by the announcement that a gentleman wished to see Miss Liddell.

"I'll go," exclaimed Miss Payne, gathering up her knitting and a book, and she vanished swiftly in spite of rheumatic difficulties.

In another moment George Liddell stood before his dispossessed kinswoman, a tall, gaunt figure with grizzled hair and sunken eyes. He took the hand she offered in silence, and then exclaimed, abruptly,

"You knew I was coming?"

"Yes, Rachel Trant told me. Will you not sit down?"

He drew a chair beside her work-table, and looking at her for a minute exclaimed, in harsh tones which yet showed emotion,

"You are a good woman!"

"How have you found that out?" asked Katherine, smiling.

"I will answer by a long, cruel story!" he returned with a sigh; "a story I would tell to none but you." Again he paused, looking down as if collecting his thoughts, while the brown, bony, sinewy hand he laid on the table was tightly clenched. "You knew my father," he began, suddenly raising his dark suspicious eyes to her, "and therefore can understand what an exacting tyrant he could be to those who were in his power. As a mere child I feared him and shrank from him; my earliest recollection was of my mother's care in keeping me from him. He was not violent to her—I don't suppose he ever struck her, but he treated her with cold contempt, why, I never understood, except that she cost him money, and brought him none. I won't unman myself by describing what her life was, or how passionately I loved her; we clung to each other as desolate, persecuted creatures only do! He grudged us the food we ate, the clothes—rather the rags—we wore. One day playing in Regent's Park I fell into the canal, and was nearly drowned. A gentleman went in after me and saved me. He took me home, he gave me to my mother, he often met us after. He gave me treats and money,—I can't dwell on this time. He won my mother's love, chiefly through me. He was going away to the new world. He persuaded her to leave her wretched home, to take me,—we escaped. I shall never forget the joy of those few days! Then my father (as we might have known he would) put out his torturing hand and seized me. My mother had hoped that his miserly nature would have disposed him to let me go, if he could thereby escape the cost of my maintenance. But revenge was too sweet to be foregone. I was dragged away. He did not want her back. He hoped her lover would desert her after awhile, and so accomplish her punishment; but he was true! No, I can never forget my mother's agony when I was torn from her!" he rose and walked to the window, and returned. "The hideous picture had grown faint," he said, "but as I speak it grows clear and black! You can imagine my life after this! It was well calculated to turn a moody, passionate boy into a devil! I was nearly eleven when I lost my mother, and I never heard of her or from her after; yet I never doubted that she loved me and tried to communicate with me, but my father's infernal spite kept us apart. At sixteen I ran away. Your father was friendly to me and tried to persuade me against what he called rashness; but I always fancied he might have helped my mother, backed her up more, and I did not heed him. I went through a rough training, as you may suppose, and never saw my father's face again."

"I can imagine that he could be terrible," murmured Katherine. "I was dreadfully afraid of him, but I did not know he had been so cruel."

George Liddell did not seem to hear her, he was lost in thought.

"You wonder, I daresay, why I tell you this long story," he resumed; "you will see what it leads up to presently."

"I am greatly interested," returned Katherine.

"You will be more so! From what I told Newton, you know enough of my career in Australia, but you do not know that I married a sweet, delicate woman, who, after the birth of our little Marie, fell into bad health. If I could have taken her away for a long voyage, it might have saved her, but I was in full swing making my pile, and could not tear myself away; that must have been about the time my father died. Had I known I was his heir, I should have sent my wife home. But fool that I was! I was too wrapped up making money (for the tide had just turned, and I was floating to fortune) to see that she was slipping from me. I never dreamed my father would die intestate. I always thought he would take care of his precious gold. It was well for me he destroyed his will."

Katherine felt her cheeks glow; but she did not speak.

"Well, I felt furious to think you had been enjoying my money when I did not even know that my father was dead; but I have changed."

"Why?" asked Katherine, who could not imagine what was his motive for telling her his history.

"You shall hear. You know I placed my little Marie at school. The school-mistress employed a dressmaker to whom the child took a fancy; she insisted on taking me to see her, and to choose some fal-lals." He stopped again, his mouth twitched, his fingers played with his watch-chain. "When the young woman came into the room," he resumed, "I thought I should have dropped. She was the living image of my poor mother, only younger. I could not speak for a minute. At last, when the child had kissed her and chatted a bit, I managed to ask if I might come back and speak to her alone, as she was so like a lady I once knew, that I wanted to put a few questions to her. She seemed a little disturbed; but told me I might come in the evening. I went. I asked her about her parentage; she knew very little, save that she had been born in South America. She offered, however, to show me her mother's picture, and, when she brought it, I not only saw it was my mother's likeness, but a picture I knew well. Her initials were on the case, R. L. Then I told her everything. I proved to her that I was her half-brother. How bitterly she cried when I described a little brooch with my hair in it, which Rachel still keeps. She has seen our mother kiss it and weep over it. My heart went out to her; she is second now only to my child. Then, Katherine, she told me her own sad story, and the part you played in it. How you saved her, and gave her hope and strength. Give me your hand! I'll never forget this service. It binds me more, a hundredfold more, than if you had done it for myself. But neither entreaties nor reproaches could induce her to tell me the name of the villain who—has she told you?" he interrupted himself to ask sternly.

"She never named his name to me," cried Katherine. "It is cruel to ask her. And of what possible advantage would the knowledge be? Any inquiry, any disturbance, would only punish her."

Liddell started up, and walked to and fro hastily. "That's true," he exclaimed; "but I wish I had my hand on his throat."

"That is natural; but you must think of Rachel, she has suffered so much."

"She has!" said George Liddell, throwing himself into his chair again. "But you don't know the sort of pain and sweetness it is to talk of my poor mother to her daughter! It makes a different and a better man of me. Rachel is a strong woman," he added, after a moment's thought; "she wishes our relationship to be kept secret. It is no credit to anyone, she says, and might be injurious to little Marie; we can be friends, and she need never want a few hundreds to help on her business. It seems that to please his people her father, on returning to England, only used his second name, which I never knew. It is a sorrowful tale for you to listen to—you are white and trembling, my girl," he added, with sudden familiarity,—"but I haven't done yet; you have laid me under obligations I can never repay. I could not offer a woman like you money; but I will pay you in kind. You have saved my dear sister, I will provide for the nephews that are dear to you. I have already seen Newton and my own solicitor, and laid my propositions before them. I don't pretend to munificence for them, besides, I shall not forget either you or them in my will, but they shall have means for a right good education and a good start in life. Now I want you to forgive my brutality when we first met, and, more, I want you to be my daughter's friend." He grasped her hand.

Katherine's eyes had already brimmed over.

"Forgive you!" she repeated. "I am quite ready to forgive. I was vexed, of course, that you should be unreasonably prejudiced against me; but I am deeply grateful for your generosity to the boys. If you knew the joy, the relief you have given me, it would, I am sure, gladden you. But let us try to make Rachel happy too. I wish——"

"She is happiest in her own way. Work is the only cure for ills like hers," interrupted Liddell. "Time will do wonders, and her wish to keep our relationship secret is wise." There was a pause; then Liddell, looking steadily at Katherine, exclaimed, "You are a real true, good-hearted woman; the world would be a better place if there were a few more like you in it." He then passed on to his plans for the future; his projects for his daughter's education, opening his mind with a degree of confidence which amazed Katherine, considering that two days before he was an enemy.

Presently he ceased to speak, and, after a moment's thought, stood up.

"Now I have said my say, and I must go," he exclaimed. "I only came to explain myself to you, for the less of such a story committed to paper the better. I am due in town to-morrow morning; write to Rachel, and come and see her as soon as you can. I wish," he added, with a searching glance, "that I had a woman like you to regulate matters and take care of my little Marie; then I could keep her with me."

"She is far better at school," returned Katherine, a little startled by this suggestive speech. "But will you not have some luncheon before you go?"

"No, thank you. I had some before coming on here. I need very little food, and scarcely anything gives me pleasure; but I like you, my cousin, and I want your friendship for the child."

"She shall have it, I promise."

After a few more words, George Liddell bid her good-bye. She stood a few minutes in deep thought before going to tell her good news to Miss Payne, reflecting that she must not betray the real motive of his change towards herself; the less she said the better. While she thought, Miss Payne came in looking unusually eager.

"Wouldn't he stay and have a bit to eat?" she exclaimed. "I saw him going out of the gate from my room."

"No, he is in a hurry to get back to town. Ah! my dear Miss Payne, he came down to make his peace with me, and he is going to provide for the boys."

"Why, what has happened to him? I can hardly believe my ears."

"I am sure I could hardly believe mine. I suppose as he grew accustomed to feel that everything was in his hands, and that I had given him no trouble, he saw that he had been unnecessarily severe. Then his little girl took him to Rachel Trant's, and they evidently spoke of me; probably she gave a highly colored description of my goodness, and, being an impulsive man, he said he would come and see me, whereupon she wrote to warn me."

"That's all possible; but somehow I feel there is more in it than I quite understand."

"I am sure I do not care to understand the wherefore, if only my cousin carries out his good intentions as regards Cis and Charlie."

"Just so; that is the main point. If he does, what a burden will be lifted off your shoulders!"

"And what a change in the boys' fortunes!" returned Katherine; adding, after a short pause, "I think I will go to town with you on Monday and pay them a visit, while you arrange your affairs with your tenant. Mrs. Needham will put me up for a night or two."

In truth, Katherine longed to see and talk with Rachel, to discuss the curious turn in her changeful fortunes, and build up pleasant palaces in the airy realms of the future.

The following day brought her a letter from De Burgh. It was dated from Paris, and told her of his intention to be absent from England for some time; he pleaded earnestly for pardon with a certain rough eloquence, and repeated the arguments he had previously urged, evidently thinking that his punishment was greatly disproportionate to his offence.

Katherine was much moved by this epistle; she could not help being sorry for him, though she hoped not to meet him again. The association of ideas was too painful; she was ashamed too to remember how near she had come to marrying him, in a sort of despair of the future. She answered this letter at once, frankly and kindly, setting forth the unalterable nature of her decision, and begging him not to put her to unnecessary pain by trying to renew their acquaintance at any future time.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE END.

The project of going to town, however, was not carried out. Miss Payne caught a severe cold, owing to the unusual circumstance of having forgotten her umbrella, and, in consequence, getting wet through by a sudden heavy shower.

Instead, therefore, of speeding London-wards on Monday, Miss Payne spent the weary hours in bed with a racking headache and Katherine in close attendance.

Next day, however, she was considerably better, and even talked of coming downstairs in the evening when the house was shut up. She insisted on sending her kind nurse out for air and exercise, as she was looking pallid and heavy-eyed; nor was Katherine reluctant to go, for she enjoyed being alone to meditate on the curious interweaving of fate's warp and woof which had made Rachel the means of reconciliation between George Liddell and herself. She ought now to take up her life again with courage and energy. The boys provided for, she had nothing to fear, while, if the future held out no brilliant prospect of personal happiness, much quiet content probably lay in the humble sufficiency which was now hers. The interest she would take in the careers of Cis and Charlie would renew her youth, and keep her in touch with active life, while, as the impression of her various troubles wore away under the swift-flowing stream of time, she would feel more and more the restful excellence of peace. It was not a bad outlook, yet Katherine felt sad as she contemplated it. Finding her self-commune less cheering than she anticipated, she turned her steps homeward, and entered the house through the window of the drawing-room which opened on a rustic veranda. Coming from strong sunlight into comparative darkness, she took off her hat, and pushed back her hair from her brow before she perceived that a gentleman had risen from the chair where he sat reading.

"You see I have dared to take possession of the premises in your absence," he said.

"Mr. Errington?" cried Katherine, her heart suddenly bounding, and then beating so violently she could hardly speak. "How—where—did you come from?"

"From London, to enjoy a brief breathing-space from pressure of work—welcome as it generally is! I am sorry to find that your friend Miss Payne is invalided, as she was not visible, I ventured to wait for you."

"I am very glad to see you," returned Katherine, placing herself on the sofa as far from the window as she could, for she felt herself changing color in a provoking way.

"I saw Mrs. Needham yesterday, who gave me your address and sundry messages, one to the effect that she hopes to pay you a visit next Saturday; the rest I do not remember accurately, for she was much excited and not very distinct."

"We shall be delighted to see her, she is so bright and sympathetic. What was the immediate cause of her excitement?"

"The marriage of Miss Bradley in about a fortnight."

"Indeed!" cried Katherine, thinking this way of announcing it rather odd, but never doubting it was his own marriage also. "Then accept my warm congratulations; you have no well-wisher more sincere than myself."

Errington looked up surprised.

"Why do you congratulate me? I certainly was of some use in bringing it about, but sooner or later they would certainly have married."

"They? who—whom is she going to marry?"

"My old friend Major Urquhart. It is a very old attachment, but Mr. Bradley objected to his want of fortune; then, as Bradley's wealth increased, Urquhart felt reluctant to come forward again. Accident revealed the state of the case to me. I went to see Urquhart, who had just returned from India, and was in Edinburgh. I persuaded him to return with me, and once the lovers met, matters swiftly arranged themselves. Finally, Bradley gave his consent. Now the air is resonant with the coming chime of wedding bells."

"I am greatly surprised," said Katherine, and it was some minutes before she could speak again. Her horizon seemed suddenly suffused with light; she felt dizzy with a strange delightful glow, and confused with a sense of shame at her own unreasoning, irrational joy. What difference could Errington's marriage or no marriage make to her?

"I suppose," resumed Errington, after looking earnestly at her speaking face, "that the intimacy which arose between Mr. Bradley and myself in consequence of my connection with The Cycle suggested the rumor of my engagement with his daughter; but no such idea ever entered my head or Angela's. You know, I suppose, I am now de facto editor of The Cycle. It is a good appointment, and enables me to hope for possibilities, though I dare not say probabilities."

"I am sure you will be an admirable editor," said Katherine, pulling herself together, and trying to speak lightly.

"Why?" asked Errington, smiling.

"You are just, and—and careful, and must be a good judge of the subjects such a periodical treats of."

"Thank you." He paused; then, looking down, he continued, "Mrs. Needham tells me you have been troubled about your nephews."

"Yes, I was very much troubled, but I think they are safe and well now; later I should put them to a better school, as I now hope to do." She stopped to think how she should best explain George Liddell's unexpected generosity, and Errington exclaimed.

"These boys are a heavy charge to you! yet I suppose you could not bring yourself to give them up?"

"How could I? their mother can really do nothing for them, and it would be cruel to hand them over to Colonel Ormonde's charity."

"It would! you are right," said Errington, hastily. "Poor little fellows! to lose you would be too terrible a trial for them."

Katherine raised her eyes to his; they were moist with gratitude for his sympathy, and seemed to draw him magnetically to her. He changed his place to the sofa; leaning one arm on the back, he rested his head on his hand, and looked gravely down upon her.

"Will you forgive me if I ask an intrusive question? You know we agreed to be friends, yet our friendship does not seem to thrive, it is dying of starvation because we so rarely meet; still, for the sake of our shadowy friendship, answer me: may I put the natural construction on De Burgh's sudden departure from England?"

Katherine hesitated; she did not like to say in so many words that she had refused him, a curious, half-remorseful feeling made her especially considerate towards him.

"I do not like to speak of Lord de Burgh," she said at length.

"When does he return?

"I do not know. I know nothing of his plans."

"Then you sent him empty away?" said Errington, smiling.

"I very nearly married him!" she exclaimed, frankly. "He was kind and generous, and would have been good to the boys; but at last I could not. Oh! I could not!"

"I am sorry for De Burgh," said Errington, thoughtfully, "but you were right; your wisdom is more of the heart than the head. Do you remember that day (how vividly I remember it!) when you came to me and told me your strange story? It was the turning-point of my life. When I confessed I knew nothing of the deep, warm, tender affection that actuated you, you said that for me wisdom was from one entrance quite shut out."

"I can remember nothing clearly of that dreadful day, only that you were very forgiving and good," returned Katherine, pressing her hands together to still their trembling.

"Well, from the moment you spoke those words, the light of the wisdom you meant dawned upon me, and grew stronger and brighter, till my whole being was flooded with the love you inspired. You opened a new world to me; your voice was always in my ears, your eyes looking into mine." He spoke in a low, earnest, but composed tone, as if he had made up his mind to the fullest utterance. Katherine covered her face with her hands with the unconscious instinct to hide the emotion she felt it would express. "Many things kept me silent. Fear that the sight of me was painful to you; the dread of seeming to seek your fortune; my own uncertain position. Then, when all was taken from you, and I was by my own act deprived of the power to help you, you were so brave and patient that profound esteem mingled with the strange, sweet, wild fire you had kindled! Am I so painfully associated in your mind that you cannot give me something of the wealth of love stored in your heart? You have taught me what love is, will you not reward so apt a pupil?"

"Mr. Errington," said Katherine, letting him take her cold trembling hand, "is it possible you can love and trust a woman who has acted a lie for years as I have?"

"I cannot help both loving and trusting you, utterly," he returned, holding her hand tenderly in both his own. "I believe in your truth as I believe in the reality of the sun's light, and if you can love me I believe I can make you happy. I have but a humble lot to offer you, yet I think it is—it will be a tranquil and secure one. I can help you in bringing up those boys, I will never quarrel with you for clinging to them, and will do the best I can for them! You know I have a creditor's claim; Roman law gave the debtor over into the hands of the creditor," continued Errington, growing bolder as he felt how her hand trembled in his grasp; "you must pay me by the surrender of yourself, by accepting a life for a life. Katherine——"

"Ah! how can I answer you? If indeed you can trust and respect me, I can and will love you well," she exclaimed, with the sweet frankness which always enchanted him.

"Will you love me with the whole unstinted love of your rich nature? I cannot spare a grain," said Errington, jealously.

"But I do love you," murmured Katherine; "I am almost frightened at loving you so much."

Could it be cold, composed, immovable Errington who strained her so closely to his heart, whose lips clung so passionately to hers?

"I have a great deal to tell you," began Katherine, when she had extricated herself and recovered some composure. "But I must go and see poor Miss Payne; she will wonder what has become of me."

"Tell her you are obliged to talk to me of business, and come back soon. I have much to consult you about, and I can only remain till to-morrow evening—do not stay away."

And Katherine returned very soon.

"Miss Payne is dreadfully puzzled," she said, smiling and blushing, quivering in every vein with the strange, almost awful happiness which overwhelmed her.

"Now, what have you to tell me?" asked Errington, and she gave him a full description of George Liddell's visit and proposal to provide for Cis and Charlie.

Errington was too happy to heed the details much, he only remarked that he was glad Liddell had come to his right mind.

"I want you to tell Miss Payne as soon as possible our new plans; she is coming downstairs this evening, you say? Let me break the news to her. I think she will give us her blessing; and, Katherine, my sweet Katherine, there is no reason to delay our marriage. You have no fixed home; the sooner you make one for yourself and me the better. The idea is intoxicating. Our poverty sets us free from the trammels of conventionality; we have nothing to wait for."

So they were married.

Here ought to come "Finis!" yet real life had only begun for them. Were they happy? Yes. For under the wild sweetness of warmest passionate love lay the lasting rock of comprehension and genial companionship. Fuller knowledge brought deeper esteem, and the only secret Katherine ever kept from her husband was the true history of Rachel Trant.

A severe attack of fever, brought on by overstudy, immediately after Katherine's marriage, prevented Bertie Payne from carrying out his missionary scheme. He was reluctantly obliged to put up with the East-End heathen, "who," as Miss Payne observed, "were bad enough to satisfy the largest appetite for sinners."

There his faithful sister established herself to make a home for him, renouncing her comfortable West-End abode, and finding ample interest in the pursuits she affected to treat as fads.

"Altogether everything has turned out in the most extraordinary and unexpected manner," as Mrs. Ormonde observed to Mrs. Needham, whom she encountered at one of Lady Mary Vincent's receptions. "Katherine seems quite proud to settle down in a suburban villa away in St. John's Wood as Mrs. Errington, while she might have made a figure at court as Lady de Burgh. By the way, I see your friend, Mrs. Urquhart, was presented at the last drawing-room."

"Yes, and was one of the handsomest women there.—But I don't suppose Mrs. Errington ever gives a thought to drawing-room or Buckingham Palace balls.—You see she is in a way always at court, for her king is always beside her," returned Mrs. Needham, with a becoming smile. "Good-night, Mrs. Ormonde."

THE END