"Perhaps so. But of course you know better than I do. You were always more learned, and all that; besides, you are not over anxious, as a mother would be."

"Nor careless either," said Katherine thinking of the nights at Castleford when she used to steal to the bedside, of little feverish, restless Charlie, while his mother kept within the bounds of her own luxurious chamber.

"No, no; certainly not," returned Mrs. Ormonde, remembering it was as well not to offend so strong a person as she felt Katherine to be. "Only Cecil is a tiresome, self-willed boy, and very likely to get into mischief."

"If you wish it, Ada, I shall, of course, have him escorted to and fro to school."

"Oh, just as you like. I suppose you know the place better than I do."

"Colonel Ormonde has never come down to see me," resumed Katherine, after a pause. "You must tell him I am quite hurt."

"Well, dear, you must know that Duke is rather vexed with you."

"Vexed with me! Why?" asked Katherine, opening her eyes.

"You see, he thinks you ought to have come to us for a while; and then De Burgh came back from this last time in such a bad temper that my husband thought you were not behaving well to him—making a fool of him, in short; inviting him down here to amuse yourself, and then refusing him, if you did refuse."

"No, I did not; for Mr. De Burgh never gave me an opportunity," cried Katherine, indignantly. "Nor did I ever ask him here. I cannot prevent his coming and lodging at the hotel. I am quite ready to talk to him, because he amuses me, but I am not bound to marry every man who does. Tell Colonel Ormonde so, with my compliments."

"I am sure I don't want you to marry De Burgh! Indeed, I am surprised at Duke; but you see, being chums and relations (and men stick together so), that he only thinks of De Burgh, who, entre nous, has been awfully fast. He is amusing, and very distingue, but I am afraid he only cares for your money, dear."

"Very likely," returned Katherine, with much composure.

"Then another reason why the Colonel does not care to come down is that he has a great dislike to that Miss Payne. She is really hostess here, and it worries Duke to have to be civil to her."

"Why?" asked Katherine. "I can imagine her being an object of perfect indifference; but dislike—no!"

"Well, dear, men never like that sort of women;—people, you know, who eke out their living by—doing things, when they are plain and old. Handsome adventuresses are quite another affair—they are amusing and attractive."

"How absurd and unreasonable!"

"Yes, of course; they are all like that. Then he thinks Miss Payne has a bad and dangerous influence on you. He disapproves of your living on with her, for you don't take the position you ought, and—"

Katherine laughed good-humoredly as Mrs. Ormonde paused, not knowing very well how to finish her speech. "Colonel Ormonde will hide the light of his countenance from me, then, I am afraid, for a long time; for I like Miss Payne, and I am going to stay with her for the period agreed upon; and I will not marry Mr. De Burgh, nor will I let him ask me to do so, for there is a degree of honesty about him which I like. You may repeat all this to your husband, Ada, and add that but for a lucky chance his wife and myself would have been among the sort of women who eke out their living by doing things. I don't think I should be afraid of attempting self-support if all my money were swept away."

"Don't talk of such a thing!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, turning pale. "Thank God what you have settled on the boys is safe!"

Katherine's half-contemptuous good humor carried her serenely through this rather irritating visit, but the totally different train of thought which it evoked assisted her to recover her ordinary mental tone. It was, however, touched by a minor key of sadness, of humility (save when roused by any moving cause to indignation), which gave the charm of soft pensiveness to her manner.

Mrs. Ormonde was rather in a hurry to go back to town, as she had important interviews impending with milliner and dressmaker prior to a visit to Lady Mary Vincent at Cowes, from which she expected the most brilliant results, for the little woman's social ambition grew with what it fed upon. Nor did the rational repose of Katherine's life suit her. Books, music, out-door existence, were a weariness, and in spite of her loudly declared affection for her sister-in-law she found a curious restraint in conversing with her.

They parted, therefore, with many kind expressions and much satisfaction.

"I will write you an account of all our doings at Cowes. I expect it will be very gay and pleasant there. How I wish you were to be of the party, instead of moping here!" said Mrs. Ormonde.

"Thank you. I should like it all, no doubt, but not just now. I will keep you informed of our small doings."

So Mrs. Ormonde steamed on her way rejoicing, and Katherine re-entered a pretty low pony-carriage in which she drove a pair of quiet, well-broken ponies, selected for her by Bertie Payne, whose conversion had not obliterated his carnal knowledge of horseflesh. A small groom always accompanied her, for though improved by the practice of driving, she did not like to be alone with her steeds.

She had nearly reached the chief street of Sandbourne, when a tall gentleman in yachting dress strolled slowly round the corner of a lane which led to the beach. He paused and raised his hat. She recognized De Burgh and drew up.

"And so you are driving in capital style," was his greeting; "all by yourself, too. Will you give me a lift back?"

"Certainly. Where have you come from?"

"Melford's yacht. I escorted my revered relative, old De Burgh, down to Cowes. He has a little villa there. As he has grown quite civil of late, I think it right to encourage him. Melford was there, and invited me to take a short cruise. So I made him land me here just now. The yacht is still in the offing. Lady Alice was on board."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Katherine, with much interest. "How is she?"

"So far as one can judge from the exterior, remarkably well, and exactly the same as ever. It is rather funny, but they had Renshaw on board too, the son of the big brewer who has bought, or is going to buy, Errington's house in Berkeley Square. I fancy it is not impossible he may come in for Errington's ex-fiancee as well as his ex-residence."

"It cannot be, surely!" cried Katherine, flushing with a curious feeling.

"Why not? I don't say immediately. I have no doubt everything will be done decently and in order."

"Well, it is incomprehensible."

"Not to me. What can—(Make that little brute on the off side keep up to the collar. You want a few lessons from me still.) What can a girl like Lady Alice do? She is an earl's daughter. She cannot dig; to beg she is ashamed; she must therefore take to herself a husband from the mammon of unaristocratic money-grubbers."

"I should like to meet her again—poor Lady Alice!" said Katherine, more to herself than to her companion.

"I think you are wasting your commiseration," he returned. "She seems quite happy."

"She may be successful in hiding her feelings."

De Burgh laughed. "Tell me," he asked, "do you really think Errington is the sort of fellow women break their hearts about?"

"I cannot tell. He seems to me very good and very nice."

"That is a goody-goody description. Well done!"—as Katherine guided her ponies successfully through the gate of her abode and turned them round the gravel sweep. "I must say you have a pretty little nook here."

"Had you arrived an hour sooner you would have seen Mrs. Ormonde. I have just seen her off by the 12.30 train. She has been paying us a farewell visit, and is gone to Lady Mary Vincent."

"Indeed! She will have her cup of pleasure running over there; they live in a flutter of gayety all day long."

Here De Burgh sprang to the ground and assisted Katherine to alight.

"Will you lunch with us?" she asked, an additional tinge of color mounting to her cheek; for she knew De Burgh was no favorite of Miss Payne, who was no doubt rejoicing at the prospect of repose and deliverance from their late guest, who generally managed to rub her hostess the wrong way.

"You are very kind. I shall be delighted."

While Katherine went ostensibly to put aside her hat—really to warn Miss Payne—De Burgh strolled into the drawing-room. How cool and fresh and sweet with abundant flowers it was! An air of refined homeliness about it, the work and books and music on the open piano, spoke of well-occupied repose. Its simplicity was graceful, and indicated the presence of a cultured woman.

De Burgh wandered to the window—a wide bay—and took from a table which stood in it a cabinet photograph of Katherine, taken about a year before. He was absorbed in contemplating it when she came in, and he made a step to meet her. "This is very good," he said. "Where was it taken?"

"In Florence."

"It is like"—looking intently at her, and then at the picture. "But you are changed in some indescribable way, changed since I saw you last, years ago—that is, a month—isn't it a month since you drove me from paradise?—but you don't remember."

"But, Mr. De Burgh, I did not drive you away. You got bored, and went away of your own free-will."

"I shall not argue the point with you—not now; but tell me," with a very steady gaze into her eyes, "has anything happened since I left to waken up your soul? It was by no means asleep when I saw you last, but it has met with an eye-opener of some kind, I am convinced."

"I should not have given you credit for so much imagination, Mr. De Burgh."

Here Miss Payne made her appearance, and the boys followed. They were treated with unusual good-humor and bonhomie by De Burgh, who actually took Charlie on his knee and asked him some questions about boating, which occupied them till lunch was announced.

Miss Payne was too much accustomed to yield to circumstances not to accept De Burgh's attempts to be amiable and agreeable. He could be amusing when he chose; there was an odd abruptness, a candid avowal of his views and opinions, when he was in the mood, that attracted Katherine.

"You are a funny man!" said Cecil, after gazing at him in silence as he finished his repast. "I wish you would come out in the boat with us. Auntie said we might go."

"Very well; ask her if I may come."

"He may, mayn't he?"—chorus from both boys.

"Yes, if you really care to come: but do not let the children tease you."

"Do you give me credit for being ready to do what I don't like?"

"I can't say I do."

"When do you start on this expedition?"

"About seven, which will interfere with your dinner, for Miss Payne and I have adopted primitive habits, and do not dine late; we indulge in high tea instead."

"Nevertheless, I shall meet you at the jetty. Till then adieu."

"May we come with you?" cried the boys together—"just as far as the hotel?"

"No, dears; you must stay at home," said Katherine, decidedly.

"Then do let him come and see how the puppy is. He has grown quite big."

"Yes, I'll come round to the kennel if you'll show me the way," replied De Burgh, with a smiling glance at Katherine. "Till this evening, then," he added, and bowing to Miss Payne, left the room, the boys capering beside him.

"I should say that man has breakfasted on honey this morning," observed Miss Payne, with a sardonic smile. "Does he think that he has only to come, to see, and to conquer?"

"He has been quite pleasant," said Katherine. "I wonder why he is not always nice? He used to be almost rude at Castleford sometimes." She paused, while Miss Payne rose from the table and began to lock away the wine. "I wonder what has become of Mr. Payne? He has not been here for a long time."

"What made you think of him?" asked his sister, sharply.

"I suppose the force of contrast reminded me of him. What a difference between Bertie and Mr. De Burgh!—your brother living only to help others, and utterly forgetful of self; he regardless of everything but the gratification of his own fancies—at least so far as we can see."

"Yes; Mr. De Burgh can hardly be termed a true Christian. Still, Gilbert is rather too weak and credulous. I suspect he is very often taken in."

"Is it not better he should be sometimes, dear Miss Payne, than that some poor deserving creature should perish for want of help?"

"Well, I don't know. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if that law were more carefully obeyed, fewer would need help."

"Life is an unsolvable problem," said Katherine, and the remark reminded her of her humble friend Rachel. She therefore sat down and wrote her a kind, sympathetic letter, feeling some compunction for having allowed so long an interval to elapse since her last.

Her own troubles had occupied her too much. Now that time was beginning to accustom her to their weight, her deep interest in Rachel revived even with more than its original force. Katherine did not make intimates readily. Let there be ever so small a nook in the mind, ever so tiny an incident in the past, which must be hidden from all eyes, and there can be no free pass for outsiders, however dear or valued, to the sanctum of the heart, which must remain sealed, a whispering gallery for its own memories and aspirations. But Rachel Trant never dreamed of receiving confidence, nor, after once having strung herself up to tell her sad story, did she allude to her bitter past, save by an occasional word expressing her profound sense of the new life she owed to Katherine; nor did the latter, when talking with her face to face, ever realize that there was any social difference between them. Rachel's voice, manner, diction, and natural refinement were what might be expected from a gentlewoman, only that through all sounded a strain of harsh strength, the echo of that fierce despair from whose grip the tender consideration of her new friend had delivered her. The evening's sail was very tranquil and soothing. De Burgh was agreeable in the best way; that is, he was sympathetically silent, except when Katherine spoke to him. The boys and their governess sat together in the bow of the boat, where they talked merrily together, occasionally running aft to ask more profound questions of De Burgh and auntie. Fear of rheumatism and discomfort generally kept Miss Payne at home on these occasions.

De Burgh walked with Miss Liddell to her own door, but wisely refused to enter. "No," he mused, as he proceeded to his hotel; "I have had enough of a solitude a trois. It's an uncomfortable, tantalizing thing, and though I have been positively angelic for the last seven or eight hours, I can't stand any more intercourse under Miss Payne's paralyzing optics. I wonder if any fellow can keep up a heavenly calm for more than twenty-four hours? Depends on the circulation of the blood. I wonder still more if it is possible that Katherine is more disposed to like me than she was? She is somehow different than when I was here last. So divinely soft and kind! I have known a score or two of fascinating women, and gone wild about a good many, but this is different, why the deuce should she not love me? Most of the others did. Why? God knows. I'll try my luck; she seems in a propitious mood."



CHAPTER XXI.

"NO."

Next morning's post brought a letter from Bertie, which was a kind of complement to Katherine's reflections of the night before. After explaining that he had hitherto been unable to take a holiday from his various avocations, he promised to spend the following week with his sister and Miss Liddell. He then described the success of Mrs. Needham's bazar, and proceeded thus:

"Meeting my old friend Mrs. Dodd a few days ago, I was sorry to find from her that your favorite, Rachel Trant, had been very unwell. She had had a great deal of work, thanks to your kind efforts on her behalf, and sat at it early and late; then she took cold. I went to see her, and found her in a state of extreme depression, like that from which you succeeded in rousing her. I think it would be well if she could have a little change. Are there any cheap, humble lodgings at Sandbourne, where she might pass a week or two? I shall pass this matter in your hands."

"I am sure old Norris's wife would take her in. They have a nice cottage, almost on the beach, close to the point."

"No doubt. Really that Rachel of yours is in great luck. I wonder how many poor girls in London are dying for a breath of sea-air?"

"Ah, hundreds, I fear. But then, you see, they have not been brought under my notice, and Rachel has; so I will do the best I can for her. I am sure she is no common woman."

"At all events she has no common luck."

Katherine lost no time in visiting Mrs. Norris, and found that she was in the habit of letting a large, low, but comfortable room upstairs, where the bed was gorgeous with a patchwork quilt of many colors, and permitting her lodgers to dine in a small parlor, which was her own sitting-room.

The old woman had not had any "chance" that season, as she termed it, and gladly agreed to take the young person recommended by her husband's liberal employer. So Katherine walked back to write both to Bertie and their protegee.

During her absence De Burgh had called, but left no message. And Katherine felt a little sorry to have missed him, as she thought it probable he would go on to town that afternoon, and she wanted to hear some tidings of Errington, yet could hardly nerve herself to ask.

The evening was gloriously fine, and as Miss Payne did not like boating, the pony-carriage was given up to her, the boys, and Miss North the governess, for a long drive to a farm-house where the boys enjoyed rambling about, and Miss Payne bought new-laid eggs.

When they had set out, Katherine took a white woolen shawl over her arm—for even in July the breeze was sometimes chill at sundown—and strolled along the road, or rather cart track, which led between the cliffs and the sea to the boatman's cottage. She passed this, nodding pleasantly to the sturdy old man, who was busy in his cabbage garden, and pursued a path which led as far as a footing could be found, to where the sea washed against the point. It was a favorite spot with Katherine, who was tolerably sure of being undisturbed here. The view across the bay was tranquilly beautiful; the older part of Sandbourne only, with the pretty old inn, was visible from her rocky seat among the bowlders and debris which had fallen from above, while the old tower at the opposite point of the bay stood out black and solid against the flood of golden light behind it. She sat there very still, enjoying the air, the scene, the sweet salt breath of the sea, thinking intently of Rachel Trant's experience, of her fatal weakness, of the unpitying severity of that rule of law under which we social atoms are constrained to live; of the evident fact that were we but wise and good we might always be the beneficent arbiters of our own fate; that there are few pleasures which have not their price; and after all, though she, Katherine, had paid high for hers, it had not cost too much, considering she had been groping in the dimness of imperfect knowledge. Oh, hew she wished she had never attempted to act providence to her mother and herself, but trusted to Errington's sense of generosity and justice! Of course it would have been humiliating to beg from a stranger, yet before that stranger she had been compelled to lower herself to the dust, and—

The unwonted sound of approaching feet startled her. She turned, to see De Burgh within speaking distance. "I am like Robinson Crusoe in my solitude here," she said, smiling. "I turn pale at the sound of an unexpected step, as he did at the print of Friday's foot."

"And to continue the smile," he returned, leaning against a rock near her, "the footprint or step, as in Crusoe's case, only announces the advent of a devoted slave." He spoke lightly, and Katherine scarce noticed what seemed to her an idle compliment.

"I fancied you had gone to town," she said.

"No; I am not going to town; I don't know or care where I am going. Some kind friends might say I am on my way to the dogs."

"I hope not," said Katherine, gravely. "I imagine, Mr. De Burgh, that if you had some object of ambition—"

"I should become an Admirable Crichton? I don't think so. There are such dreary pauses in the current of all careers!"

"Of course. You would not live in a tornado!"

"I am not so sure"—laughing. "At all events I shall never be satisfied with still life like our friend Errington."

"Do you know anything of him? Mrs. Ormonde never mentions his name."

"Of course not; when a fellow can't keep pace with his peers, away with him, crucify him."

"As long as a few special friends are true——"

"If they are," interrupted De Burgh; and Katherine did not resume, hoping he would continue the theme, which he did, saying: "He has left his big house, gone into chambers somewhere, and has I believe, taken up literature, politics, and social subjects. So Lady Mary Vincent says. I fancy he is a clever fellow in a cast-iron style."

"What a change for him!"

"I believe there was something coming to him out of the wreck, and I think he is a sort of man who will float. I never liked him myself, chiefly, I fancy, because I know he doesn't like me. Indeed, I don't care for people in general." There was a pause, during which Katherine glanced at her companion, and was struck by his sombre expression, the stern compression of his lips.

"Did you call at the cottage?" she asked.

"No; you were out this morning, and I did not like to intrude again," he laughed. "Growing modest in my sere and yellow days, you see; so I thought I should perhaps find you here, as I saw your numerous party drive past the hotel."

"I like this corner, and often come here. But, Mr. De Burgh, you look as if the times were out of joint."

"So they are"—suddenly seating himself on a flat stone nearly at Katherine's feet, leaning his elbow on another, and resting his head on his hand, so as to look up easily in her face.

"What gloomy dark eyes he has!" she thought.

"I should like to tell you why," he went on.

"Very well," returned Katherine, who felt a little uneasy.

"I am pretty considerably in debt, to begin with. If I paid up I should have about three half-pence a year to live on. Besides my debts I have an unconscionably ancient relative whose title and a beggarly five thousand a year must come to me when he dies, if he ever dies. This venerable impediment has some hundred or more thousands which he can bequeath to whom he likes. Hitherto he has not considered me a credit to the family. Well, I went to him the other day, on his own invitation, and to my amazement he offered to pay my debts—on one condition."

"I do hope he will," cried Katherine, as De Burgh paused. She was quite interested and relieved by the tone of his narrative.

"Ay, but there's the rub. I can't fulfil the condition, I fear. It is that I should marry a woman rich enough to replace the money my debts will absorb; a particular woman who doesn't care for me, and whom, knowing the hideous tangle of motives that hangs round the central idea of winning her, I am almost ashamed to ask; but a woman that any man might court; a woman I have loved from the first moment my eyes met hers, who has haunted and distracted me ever since, and who is, I dare say, a great deal too good for me; but a creature I will strive to win, no matter what the cost of success. This girl or rather (for there is a richness and ripeness of nature about her which deserves the term) this fair, sweet woman—I need not name her to you." He stopped, and his passionate pleading eyes held hers. Katherine grew white, half with fear, half with sincere compassion. She tried to speak. At last the words came.

"You make me terribly sad, Mr. De Burgh," she said, with trembling lips. "You make me so sorry that I cannot marry you; but I cannot—indeed I cannot. Will Lord De Burgh not pay your debts if he knows you have done your best to persuade me to marry you?"

De Burgh laughed a cynical laugh. "You are infinitely practical, Katherine. (I am going to call you Katherine for the next few minutes. Because I think of you as Katherine, I love to speak your name to yourself; it seems to bring me a little nearer to you.) Listen to me. Don't you think you could endure me as a husband? I am a better fellow than I seem, and mine is no foolish boy's fancy. I am a better man when I am near you. Then this old cousin of mine will leave me all he possesses if you are my wife, and the Baroness de Burgh, with money enough to keep her place among her peers, would have no mean position; nor is a husband passionately devoted to you unworthy of consideration."

"It is not indeed. But, Mr. De Burgh, do you honestly think that devotion would last? These violent feelings often work their own destruction."

"Ay: God knows they do, amazingly fast," he returned, with a sigh and a far-away look. "But what you say applies to all men. If you ever marry you must run the risk of inconstancy in the man you accept. I am at least old enough and experienced enough to value a good woman when I have found one, especially when she does not make her goodness a bore. And you—you have inspired me with something different from anything I have ever felt before. Yes, yes," he went on, angrily, as he noticed a slight smile on her lips. "I see you try to treat this as only the stereotype talk of a lover who wants your money more than yourself; but if you listen to the judgment of your own heart, it is true and honest enough to recognize truth in another, and it will tell you that, whatever my faults (and they are legion), sneaking and duplicity are not among them. It is quite true that when first I heard of you I thought your fortune would be just the thing to put me right, as I have no doubt my dear friend Mrs. Ormonde has impressed upon you, but from the moment I first spoke to you I felt, I knew, there was something about you different from other women. I also knew that in the effort to win the heiress I was heavily handicapped by the sudden strong passion for the woman which seized me."

"That surely ought to have been a means of success?" said Katherine, a good deal interested in his account of himself.

"No: it made me, for the first time in my life, hesitating, self-distrustful, and awfully disgusted at having to take your money into consideration. Had you been an ordinary woman, ready to exchange your fortune for the social position I could give my wife, and perhaps with a certain degree of liking for the kind of free-lance reputation I am told I possess, I should have carried my point, and presented the future Baroness de Burgh to my venerable kinsman months ago."

"And suppose the unfortunate heiress had been a soft-hearted, simple girl?" said Katherine, with a slight faltering in her tones. "Suppose she were credulous, loving, attracted by you—you are probably attractive to some women—and married you believing in your disinterested affection?"

De Burgh, who had risen from half-recumbent position, and stood leaning against a larger fragment of rock, paused before he replied: "I think that I am a gentleman enough not to be a brute, but I rather believe a woman of the type you describe would not have a blissful existence with me."

"I am sure of it. You are quite capable of making the life of such a woman too dreadful to think of." She shuddered slightly.

De Burgh looked curiously at her. "If you will have the goodness to undertake my punishment," he said, "by marrying me without love, and letting me prove how earnestly I could serve you and strive to win it, I'll strike the bargain this moment. I have been reckless and unfortunate. Now give me a chance; for I do love you, Katherine. I'd love you if you were the humblest of undowered women."

The tears stood in her eyes, for the passion and feeling in his voice struck home to her.

"I believe it," she said, softly, "and I am almost sorry I cannot love you. But I do not, nor do I think I ever could. You will find others quite as likely to draw forth your affection as I am. But there are some natural barriers of disposition, and—oh, I cannot define what—which hold us apart. Yet I am interested in you, and would like to know you were happy. Yet, Mr. De Burgh, I must not sacrifice my life to you. If I did, the result might not be satisfactory even to yourself."

"Sacrifice your life! What an unflattering expression!" cried De Burgh, with a hard laugh. "So there is no hope for me?"

Katherine shook her head.

"I felt there was but little when I began," he said, as if to himself. "Tell me, are you free? Has some more fortunate fellow than myself touched that impregnable heart of yours? I know I have no right to ask such a question."

"You have not indeed, Mr. De Burgh. And if I could not with truth say 'no,' I should be vexed with you for asking it. Weighted as I am with money enough to excite the greed of ordinary struggling men, I shall not be in a hurry to renounce my comfortable independence."

De Burgh's eyes again held hers with a look of entreaty. "That independence will last just as long as your heart escapes the influence of the man whom you will love one day; for though love lies sleeping, it is in you, and will spring to life some time, all the stronger and more irresistible because his birth has not come early. Then you will feel more for me than you do now."

"I do feel for you, Mr. De Burgh"—raising her moist eyes to his.

"Thank you"—taking her hand and kissing it. "Will you, then be my friend, and promise not to banish me? I'll be sensible, and give you no trouble."

"Oh yes, certainly," said Katherine, glad to be able to comfort him in any way; and she withdrew her hand.

"I am not going to worry you with my presence now," he continued. "I shall say good-by for the present. I am going away north. I have entered a horse for a big steeple-chase at Barton Towers, and will ride him myself. If I win I can hold out awhile longer. You must wish me success."

"I am sure I do, heartily. After this, do give up racing."

"Very well. But"—pressing her hand hard—"I'll tell you what I will not give up, my hope of winning you, until you are married to some one else and out of my reach."

He kissed her hand again, and then, without any further adieu, turned away, walking with long swift steps toward the town, not once looking back.

"Thank God he is gone!" was Katherine's mental exclamation as the sound of his foot-fall died away. She was troubled by his intensity and determination, and touched by his unmistakable sincerity. "If I loved him I should not be afraid to marry him. I think he might possibly make a good husband to a woman he was really attached to; but I have not the least spark of affection for him, though there is something very distinguished in his figure and bearing; even his ruggedness is perfectly free from vulgarity. Yes, he is a sort of man who might fascinate some women; but he is terribly wrong-headed. If he keeps hoping on until I marry, he has a long spell of celibacy before him. I dare say he will be married himself before two years are over."

She sat awhile longer thinking, her face growing softer and sadder. Then she rose, wrapped her shawl round her, and walked slowly back to the cottage, where she found the rest of the party just returned, joyous and hungry.

Bertie came down late on the following Saturday, and brought a note from Rachel Trant to Katherine, accepting her offer of quarters at Sandbourne with grateful readiness. Katherine was always pleased with her letters; they expressed so much in a few words; a spirit of affectionate gratitude breathed through their quiet diction.

Katherine was very glad to receive it, for Bertie's accounts of their protegee made her uneasy. She had at first refused to move, saying it was really of no use spending money upon her, and seemed to be sinking back into the lethargic condition from which Katherine had woke her.

Her kind protectress therefore set off early on Monday to tell Mrs. Norris she was coming, and to make her room look pretty and cheerful. By her orders the boatman's son was despatched to meet their expected tenant on her arrival. Miss Payne having arranged a picnic for that day, at which Katherine's company could not be dispensed with.

When they returned it was already evening; still Katherine could not refrain from visiting her friend. "She will be so strange and lonely with people she has never seen before," she said to Bertie. "As soon as tea is over I shall go and see her."

"It will be rather late, yet it will be a great kindness. I will go with you, and wait for you among the rocks on the beach."

Miss Payne expressed her opinion that it was unwise to set beggars on horseback, but offered no further opposition.

The sun had not quite sunk as Katherine and her companion walked leisurely by the road which skirted the beach toward the boatman's dwelling.

"I wish we could find some occupation that could so fill Rachel Trant's mind as to prevent these dreadful fits of depression," began Katherine.

"She had plenty of work, and seemed successful in her performance of it," he returned; "but it does not seem to have kept her from a recurrence of these morbid moods. Loneliness does not appear to suit her."

"Sitting from morning till night, unremittingly at work, in silence, alone with memories which must be very sad, is not the best method of recovering cheerfulness, and unfortunately, Rachel is too much above her station to make many friends in it. She wants movement as well as work," remarked Katherine.

"As you consider her so good a dressmaker, it might be well to establish her on a larger scale, and give her some of the older girls from our Home as apprentices. Looking after and teaching them would amuse as well as occupy her."

"It is an idea worth developing!" exclaimed Katherine; and they walked on a few paces in silence.

"So De Burgh has been paying you a visit?" said Bertie at length.

"He has been paying Sandbourne a visit. He did not stay with us."

"It is wonderful that he could tame his energies even to stay here a few days."

"He was here only two days the last time."

"You cannot have much in common with such a man."

"Not much, certainly; still, he interests me. He has had such a narrow escape of being a good man."

"Narrow escape! I should say he never was in much danger of that destiny."

"Perhaps if the door of every heart were opened to us we should see more good in all than we could expect." A few words more brought them to the boatman's house, where they parted.

Miss Trant was at home, Mrs. Norris said. Katherine ascended the steep ladder-like stair, and having knocked at the door, entered the room. Rachel was seated in the window, which was wide open. Her elbows rested on a small table, and her chin on her clasped hands, while her large blue eyes looked steadily out over the bay, which slept blue and peaceful below; the lines of her slightly bent figure looked graceful and refined, but there was infinite sadness in her pose.

"I am very glad to see you again," said Katherine. Rachel, who was too deep in thought to hear her enter, started up to clasp her offered hand. Her pale thin face was lit with pleasure, and her grave, almost stern eyes softened.

"And so am I. You do not know how glad. Do you know, I began to think I never should see you again," and she kissed the hand she held.

"Do not!" said Katherine, bending forward to kiss her brow. "Were you so ill, then?"

"Not physically ill, except for my cough; but for all that I felt dying, and really I often wonder why you try to keep me alive. I am a trouble to you, and I do very little good. Had I not been a coward I should have left the world, where I have no particular place, long ago."

"Well, you see, I have a sort of superstition that life is a goodly gift which must not be cast aside for a whim; and why should you despair of finding peace? There is so much that is delightful in life!"

"And so much that is tragic!"

"Ah, yes! but if we only seek for the sorrowful we destroy our own lives, without helping any one. You must let the dead past bury its dead."

"How if the dead past comes and crosses your path, and looks you in the face?"

"What do you mean, Rachel?"

"You will think me weak and contemptible, but I must confess to you the cause of my late prostration."

"Yes, do; it may be a relief."

"About a month ago," said Rachel, sitting down by the table opposite Katherine, and again resting her elbow on it, while she half hid her face by placing her open hand over her eyes, "I was walking to Mrs. Needham's with some work I had finished, when, turning into Lowndes Square, I came face to face with—him. It is true I had a thick veil on, and my large parcel must have partially disguised me, but he did not recognize me. He passed me with the most unconscious composure, and he was looking better, brighter, than I had ever seen him. The sight of him brought back all the torturing pangs of helpless sorrow for the sweetness, the intense happiness I can never know again; the stinging shame, the poison of crushed hopes, the profound contempt for myself, the sense of being of no value to any one on earth. I think if I could have spoken to you, I might have shaken off these fiends of thought; but I was alone, always alone: why should I live?"

"Rachel, you must put this cruel man out of your mind. He has been the destroyer of your life. Try and cast the idea of the past from you. Life is too abundant to be exhausted by one sorrow. You have years before you in which to build up a new existence and find consolation. I will not listen to another word about your former life; let us only look forward. I have a plan for you—at least Mr. Payne has suggested the idea—in which you can help us and others, and which will need all your time and energy. But I will not even talk of this business. We must try lighter and pleasanter topics. Not another word about by-gone days will I speak. You have started afresh under my auspices, and I mean you to float. Now that you are here, Rachel, you must read amusing books, and be out in the open air all day. You will be a new creature in a week. You must come and see my cottage and my nephews; they are dear little fellows. Are you fond of children?"

"I don't think I am. I never had anything to do with them. But I would rather not go to your house, dear Miss Liddell. I feel as if I could not brave Miss Payne's eyes."

"That is mere morbidness. There is no reason why you should fear any one. You must discount your future rights. A few years hence, when you are a new woman, you will, I am sure, look back with wonder and pity as if reading the memoir of another. I know that spells of self-forgiveness come to us mercifully."

"When I listen to you, and hear in the tones of your voice more even than in your words that you are my friend, that you really care for me, that it will be a real joy to you to see me rise above myself, I feel that I can live and strive and be something more than a galvanized corpse. You give me strength. I wonder if I shall ever be able to prove to you what you have done for me. Stand by me, and I will try to put the past under my feet. I do not wish to presume on the great goodness you have shown me nor to forget the difference between us socially, but oh! let me believe you love me—even me—with the kindly affection that can forgive even while it blames."

"Be assured of that, Rachel," cried Katherine, her eyes moist and beautiful with the divine light of kindness and sympathy, as she stretched out her hand to clasp Rachel's. "I have from the first been drawn to you strangely—it is something instinctive—and I have firm belief in your future, if you will but believe in yourself. You are a strong, brave woman, who can dare to look truth in the face. You will be useful and successful yet."

Rachel held her hand tightly for a minute in silence; then she said, in a low but firm voice: "I will try to realize your belief. I should be too unworthy if I failed to do my very best. There! I have discarded the past; you shall hear of it no more."

They were silent for a while; then a solemn old eight-day clock with a fine tone struck loudly and deliberatedly in the room below. Katherine, with a smile, counted each stroke. "Nine!" she exclaimed, when the last had sounded; "and though it is 9 P.M., let it be the first hour of your new life." She rose, and passing her arm over Rachel's shoulder, kissed her once more with sisterly warmth. "Mr. Payne is waiting for me, so I must leave you. I have sent you some books; I have but few here. One will amuse you, I am sure, though it is old enough—a translation of the Memoirs of Madam d'Abrantes. It is full of such quaint pictures of the great Napoleon's court, and does not display much dignity or nobility, yet it is an honest sort of book."

"Thank you. I don't want novels now; they generally pain me. But my greatest solace is to forget myself in a book."

Bertie Payne's visit was a very happy one. The boys adored him, and subjects of discussion and difference of opinion never failed between Katherine and himself. She consulted him as to what school would be best for Cecil, and he advised that he should be left as a boarder at the one which he now attended, and where he had made fair progress, when Miss Payne and Katherine returned to town.

Bertie looked a new man when he bade them good-by, promising to come again soon.

Beyond sending a newspaper which recorded his victory in the Barton Towers steeple-chase De Burgh made no sign, and life ran smoothly in its ordinary grooves at Sandbourne.

Rachel Trant revived marvellously. The change of scene, the fresh salt-air, above all the society of Katherine, who frequently visited and walked with her, all combined to give her new life—even emboldening her to look at the future. Her manner, always grave and respectful, won reluctant approval from Miss Payne. And the boys were always pleased to run to the boatman's cottage with flowers or fruit, and talk to, or rather question, their new friend. Rachel seemed always glad to see them, though she evidently shrank from returning their visits. She was never quite herself, or off guard, except when alone with Katherine. Then she spoke out of her heart, and uttered thoughts and opinions which often surprised Katherine, and set her thinking more seriously than she had ever done before. Finally, hearing from her good old landlady that some of her customers had returned to town and were inquiring for her, Rachel said it was time her holiday came to an end.

"I feel now that I can bear to live and try to be independent. Indeed my life is yours; you have given it back to me, and I will yet prove to you that I am not unworthy of your wonderful generosity," she said, the morning of the day she was to start for London, as she sat with Katherine among the rocks at the point. "The idea of an establishment such as Mr. Payne suggests is excellent. It ought to be your property, and good property—I need only be your steward—while it may be of great use to others."

"I feel quite impatient to carry out the project, and we will set about it as soon as I return to town," returned Katherine.

"Will you write to me sometimes?" asked Rachel, humbly. "I feel as if I dare not let you go: all of hope or promise that can come into my wrecked life centres in you. While you are my friend I can face the world."

"Yes, Rachel, write to me as often as you like, and I will answer your letters. Trust me: I will always be your true friend."



CHAPTER XXII.

"WARP AND WOOF."

When the rough weather of a stormy autumn obliged Katherine to keep in-doors she began to feel the monotony of existence by the sad sea waves, and to wish for the sociability of London. The end of October, then, saw Miss Payne and party re-established in Wilton Street, having left Cecil at school. With Charlie, Katherine could not part just yet. She intended to keep him till after Christmas, when he was to go to school with his brother.

Though town was empty as regarded "society," there was plenty of life and movement in the streets, and Katherine, always thankful for occupation which drew her thoughts away from her profound regret for the barrier which existed between Errington and herself, was glad to be back in the great capital. She threw herself into the scheme of establishing Rachel Trant as a "court dressmaker" most heartily, and Bertie Payne spared time from his multifarious avocations to give important assistance. Rachel herself, too, proved to be a wise counsellor, her previous training having given her some experience in business. Katherine therefore found interesting employment in looking for a small house suited to the undertaking.

Mr. Newton was writing busily in his private room one foggy afternoon when he was informed that Miss Liddell wished to speak to him.

"Show her in at once," he said, cheerfully, as if pleased, and he rose to receive her. "Glad to see you, Miss Liddell, looking all the better for your sojourn by the sea-side. Why, it must be nearly six months since I saw you."

"Yes, quite six months, Mr. Newton. I suppose you have been refreshing yourself too, after the fatigues of the season. You must try Sandbourne next year. It is a very nice little place."

"Sandbourne? I don't think I know it. But now what do you want, my dear young lady? I don't suppose you come here merely for pleasure."

"I assure you it always gives me great pleasure," said Katherine, with a sweet, sunny smile. "You have always been my very good friend."

"Well, a sincere one, at all events," returned the dry old lawyer, whose aridity was not proof against the charm of his young client.

"I must not waste your time," she resumed, drawing her chair a little nearer the table behind which he was ensconced. "I want to buy a house which I have seen, and I want you to attend to all details connected with it."

"Oh—ah! Well, a good house would not be a bad investment; it would be very convenient to have a residence in London."

"It is not for myself; it is a speculation."

"A speculation? What put that into your head?"

Whereupon Katherine told him her story.

"I think it rather a mad undertaking," was Mr. Newton's verdict. "These projects seldom succeed. I don't care for clever interesting young women who have no one belonging to them and cannot corroborate their stories. How do you know she was not dismissed from Blackie & Co.'s for theft?"

Katherine laughed. "I certainly do not know," she said, "but I feel it is quite as impossible for her to steal as it is for myself."

"Feel!—feel!" (impatiently). "Just so: impostors thrive on the good feelings of—of the simple."

"You were going to say fools," said Katherine. "Don't let us waste time, my dear Mr. Newton," she went on, with good-humored decision. "We shall never agree on such a topic; and I am going to buy this house, or another of the same kind if this proves not to be desirable; and I should be very sorry to employ any one but you to arrange the purchase."

"Oh, you know your own mind, and how to threaten—eh, Miss Liddell?" he returned, with a smile. "I must know more about the tenement before I can consent to act for you."

"It is an ordinary three-storied house, with a couple of rooms built out at the back, in a small street where there are a few shops; but it is near Westbourne Terrace, and therefore in a region of good customers. The late owner has been succeeded by a son, who seems very anxious to get rid of it. The price asked is seven hundred and fifty pounds, and I believe the taxes are under ten pounds. Do, dear Mr. Newton, look into the matter, and get it settled as soon as possible, and on the best terms you can."

"Hum! and the furniture? Do you undertake that too?"

"Of course. Don't you see, I can do it all out of the money I have not been able to use. There is quite three thousand pounds on deposit in the bank. You know you wrote to me only a month ago about letting the money lie idle. I shall employ it now, for my protegee, Miss Trant, will be my only manager. I will pay her wages, and whatever profit after comes to me."

"A very unknown quantity," said the lawyer, drily. "Still, the house can't run away, and I suppose will aways let for fifty or sixty pounds a year."

"Fifty, I think."

"Then I will look into the matter. Is it in habitable repair?"

"It seems so. Do your best to have the purchase completed as soon as possible, dear Mr. Newton. I want to start my modiste in good time to catch the home-coming people."

"Believe me, it is an unwise project," said Newton, thoughtfully.

"I know you think so, and you are right to counsel me according to your conscience; but as I am quite determined, you must not let me go to a stranger for help."

"Very well; give me the address."

"Seven Malden Street, Paddington. Bell & Co., house agents, in Harrow Road, have it on their books."

"Good! I'll get a surveyor to see to sanitary arrangements, etc. Now that, as usual, you have conquered again and again, tell me something of yourself. Are you tired of the little nephews yet?"

"No, indeed. I have been happier with them than I dared hope to be when I was left alone nearly a year ago, yet"—Her voice faltered and her soft dark eyes filled.

"Yes, yes," hastily, with a man's dread of tears; "you couldn't get over that all at once. But you know it is a very Quixotic business taking those boys; and Mrs. Ormonde is not the woman to relieve you should any difficulty arise."

"But when boys are well provided for there never can be a difficulty. Ah, Mr. Newton, what a wonderful magician money is! What would become of me without it? It is almost worth risking anything to get it."

"Or, apparently, to get rid of it," remarked Mr. Newton. "By-the-way, that was a tremendous smash of Errington's. Did you hear anything about him?"

"Yes," rather faintly.

"The reason I mention him is that, curiously enough, he was the man your uncle left everything to in that will he very fortunately destroyed. Of course I should only mention it to you: though now all is passed and gone, it is of no importance. He has behaved very well. I am told he has turned to literature. It's a pity he did not follow his profession; but it would be rather late in the day for that. I think you must find these rooms rather stuffy and warm after the sea-breezes, for you are looking pale and fagged again."

"I feel a headache coming on," said Katherine, pulling herself together. "I hope you will pay me a visit someday. I should like to show you my dear little Charlie. He has a great look of my mother, especially his eyes; they are just like hers."

"If you will allow me to come some Sunday——"

"Certainly. You will sympathise with Miss Payne. She shares your deep-rooted distrust of your fellow-creatures. Yet even she has some faint faith in Rachel Trant."

"That is the best symptom about the affair I have yet heard of. By-the-bye, this Miss Payne has made you comfortable? she has been a successful experiment?"

"Very successful indeed. I quite like her, and respect her; but I shall not stay longer than the time I agreed for. I want to make a home for the boys and myself."

"What! Will Mrs. Ormonde give them up?"

"Not avowedly, but they will ultimately glide into my hands."

"I trust you will not regret the charge you are taking on yourself."

"I do not fear failure. These children are a great source of pleasure to me."

A few more words, a promise on Mr. Newton's part to hurry matters, and Katherine, bidding him adieu for the present, descended to the brougham which she usually hired for distant expeditions. Ordering the coachman to stop at Howell& James', Katherine leaned back and reflected on the interview with Mr. Newton. No doubt he thought he had given her a good deal of curious information. If he only knew what a living lie she was! Her duplicity met her at every turn, and cried shame upon her. However, she had the pardon and permission of him against whom she had chiefly offended; that counted for much. Still, it was too hard a punishment that the ghost of her transgression should thus cry out against her, and she had done her best to rectify it. She felt profoundly depressed. It was an effort to execute the commissions intrusted to her by Miss Payne. These performed, she was leaving the shop, when a gentleman who was passing rapidly almost ran against her. He paused and raised his hat as if to apologize. It was Errington.

"Miss Liddell!" he exclaimed, a startled, pleased look animating his eyes. "I understood you were out of town. I hardly hoped to meet you again."

Katherine flushed up, and then grew white. "I have been out of town ever since—" Since what?—that turning-point in her life when she confessed all to him?

"And I have been in town," rejoined Errington. "It is not nearly so bad as some people imagine. Where are you staying?"

"Oh, I am always with Miss Payne, in Wilton Street."

"I remember. But I am keeping you standing. May I come and see you?"

"Oh no; I would rather not," cried Katherine, with an irresistible impulse which she regretted the next moment.

"You are always frank," said Errington, with a kind smile, yet in a disappointed tone. "I will not intrude, then. How are your nephews, and Mrs. Ormonde? I seem to have lost sight of every one, for I have become a very busy man."

"Yes, I know," she returned, her color going and coming, her heart beating so fast she could hardly speak. "I must seem so rude! But I have read some of your papers in The Age. It must, indeed, take time and study to produce such articles."

"And patience on the part of a young lady to wade through them."

"No; they always interest me, even when a little over my head. Though I do not want you to come and see me, I am always so glad to hear about you, to know you are well."

"Then why avoid me?"

"How can I help it?"—looking at him with dewy eyes and quivering lips.

"Well, I must accept your decision. I wish—But I will not detain you." He opened the carriage door and handed her in.

For an instant her eyes sought his with a wistful, deprecating look, then she said, "Tell him 'home,' please," and she drove off.

The encounter unhinged her for the day. Why had he crossed her path, and why had she allowed herself to reject his friendly offer to come and see her? Yet it would have made her miserable to bear the quiet scrutiny of his eyes through a whole visit. He had evidently quite forgiven her, but that could not restore her self-respect or render her less keenly alive to the silent reproach of his presence. And yet it was pleasant to hear him speak, his voice was so clear, so well modulated, so intelligent. And how well he looked!—better and brighter than she had ever seen him. It was evident that he was not breaking his heart about Lady Alice. How could she have given him up?

Though nothing was more natural or probable than that they should meet when both lived in the same town, huge as it is, it was an immense surprise to Katherine, who had somehow come to the conclusion that they were never to set eyes on each other again. This impression upset her. She was constantly on the outlook for Errington wherever she drove or walked, and the composure which she had been diligently, and with a sort of sad resignation to Errington's wishes, building up, was replaced by a feverish, restless anticipation of she knew not what.

The result was increased eagerness to see the completion of her dressmaking scheme, and she made Mr. Newton's life a burden to him till all was accomplished.

In this she found a shrewd assistant in Mrs. Needham, who took up the cause furiously, and drove hither and thither, exhorting, entreating, commanding, and really bringing in customers, somewhat to Katherine's surprise, as she did not expect much wool from so great a cry.

Shortly before Christmas Miss Trant's establishment was in full working order, a couple of clever assistants had been engaged, and Rachel herself seemed to wake up to the full energy of her nature under the spur of responsibility.

The affair was not brought to a conclusion, however, without a struggle on the part of Mr. Newton against Katherine's resolution not to appear in the matter. The house was bought in Rachel Trant's name, the sale was made to her, and Miss Liddell's name never appeared. Newton declared it to be sheer madness; even Bertie Payne considered it unwise; but Katherine was immovable.

"I am Miss Trant's creditor," she said. "If successful, she will pay me: if not, why, she will give up the house to me. I have full faith in her, and I wish her to be perfectly unshackled in the undertaking. As the owner of a house she will more readily obtain any credit she may need."

"Which means," said Mr. Newton, crossly, "that you will have to pay her debts if you ever intend to get possession of the house."

"Well, I have made up my mind to the risk," returned Katherine, with smiling determination; "so we will say no more about it."

The unexpected meeting with Errington haunted Katherine for many a day, and many a night was broken by unpleasant dreams. She was filled with regret for having so hastily refused his proffered visit. Yet had he come she would have been uneasy in his presence. She longed to see him again; she came home from driving or walking each day with aching eyes and dulled heart because she had been disappointed in encountering him. Yet she dreaded to meet him, and trembled at the idea of speaking to him. She was dismayed at the restless dissatisfaction of her own mind. Was she never to find peace? never to know real enjoyment in her ill-gotten fortune? Why was it that the image of this man was perpetually before her, the sound of his voice in her ears? Then the answer of her inner consciousness came to overwhelm her with shame and confusion: "Because you love him with all the strength and fervor of a heart that has never frittered away its force in senseless flirtations or passing fancies." This was the climax of misfortune. To know that the one of all others she most looked up to must, in spite of his kind forbearance, despise her as a cheat. Surely it was a sufficient punishment for a delicately proud woman to know that she had given her love unasked. All that remained for her was to hide her deep wounds, that by stifling the new and vivid feelings which troubled her they would die out, and so leave her in a state of monotonous repose. She would endeavor by all possible means to win forgetfulness.

When Cis came back for the Christmas holidays, therefore, he found his auntie ready to go out with Charlie and himself to circus and pantomime, Polytechnic and wax-works, to his heart's content. It was not a brisk frosty Christmas, or she would no doubt have been with them on the ice, and the round of boyish dissipations called forth an oracular sentence from Miss Payne. "It's just as well those boys are going back to school, Katherine. You are more foolish about them than you used to be, and if they staid on you would completely ruin them."

Just before the holidays were over, Mrs. Ormonde visited London, or rather paused in passing through from the distinguished Christmas gathering to which, to her pride and satisfaction, she had been invited at Lady Mary Vincent's. The little boys were indifferently glad to see her, and with the jealousy inherent in a disposition such as hers she was vexed at not being first with her own boys, yet delighted to hand over the care and trouble of them to any one who would undertake it. These mixed feelings ruffled the bright surface of her self-content, inflated as it was by her increasing social success.

She chose to put up at a quiet hotel in Dover Street rather than accept Katherine's and Miss Payne's joint invitation to Wilton Street.

"I know you will not mind, Katie dear," she said, as she sat at tea (to which refreshment she had invited her sister-in-law). "You see if it were your own house, quite your own, I should prefer staying with you to going anywhere else. As it is——"

"You are quite right to please yourself," put in Katherine.

"Yes, you are always kind and considerate. But, do you know, both Colonel Ormonde and I are very anxious you should establish yourself on a proper footing. Believe me, you do not take the social position you ought, living with an obscure old maid like Miss Payne"—this in a tone of strong common-sense. "The proper place for you is with us at Castleford in the autumn and winter, and a house in town with us in the spring. Then you and I might go abroad sometimes together, and leave Ormonde to his turnips and hunting. You would be sure to marry well—quite sure."

"But I am going to settle myself in a house of my own this spring," said Katherine, smiling.

Against this project Mrs. Ormonde exhausted herself in eloquent if contradictory argument: but finding she made no impression, suddenly changed the subject. "That is a very expensive school you have chosen for the boys, Katherine. 'Duke thinks it ridiculous. Sixty pounds a year for such a little fellow as Cis! and now Charlie will cost as much."

"It is not cheap, certainly; but it is, I think, worth the money. Cecil has improved marvellously, and Sandbourne agrees so well with them both."

"You will do as you think best, of course. We have the highest regard for your opinion. But you must remember that what with clothes and travelling and—oh, and doctors!—it all comes to more than three hundred a year, and at Castleford I could keep them for next to nothing, while the stingy trustees you have chosen only allow me four hundred and fifty."

"So you have only about a hundred and fifty out of the total for your personal expenses, eh?" said Katherine, laughing. "Then you have a husband behind you."

"Oh, I assure you that does not count for much. 'Duke doesn't care to spend money, and my having something of my own makes matters wonderfully smooth. I am sure you would not like to make any unhappiness between us."

"No, certainly not. I think it quite right, as my brother's widow, you should have something for yourself as long as you live."

"You really have a great sense of justice, Katherine, I must say! Living as you do, dear, you can form no idea what it costs to present an appearance when you are in a certain set."

"I don't suppose I ever shall, though I like nice clothes too."

"And look so well in them!" added Mrs. Ormonde, who was always ready, when she deemed it necessary, to burn the incense of flattery on her sister-in-law's shrine. "By-the-way, that is a very pretty, well-made costume you have on. I think you are slighter than you used to be."

"The effect of a good fit. I wish you would employ my dressmaker. She is very moderate."

"Is she?"

A short discussion of prices followed, and Mrs. Ormonde declared she would call on Miss Trant that very afternoon and bespeak two dresses, for all she had were quite familiar to the eyes of her associates.

"I suppose you have heard or seen nothing of De Burgh lately?" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, suddenly.

"No, not for a long time."

"He has been away—somewhere in Hungary, hunting or shooting—and then he has been staying with old Lord de Burgh. They used hardly to speak, and now he seems taken into favor. He is a curious sort of man, and he can be so insolent! How he will put his foot on people's necks when he gets the old man's title and wealth!"

"If they let him," said Katherine, quietly.

"As he is in town, I thought he might have called on you. He was always running down to that stupid place in the summer, so I——"

"Mr. De Burgh!" said a waiter, opening the door with a burst.

"Talk of an angel!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, rising to receive him with a welcoming smile. "My sister was just saying it was a long time since she had seen you."

Katherine felt annoyed at the thoughtless speech—if it was thoughtless. However, she kept a composed air, though the varying color which she never could regulate told De Burgh that she was not unmoved.

"And probably hoped it would be longer," he replied, as he shook hands with Mrs. Ormonde, but only bowed to Miss Liddell.

"Don't answer him," cried the former; "such decided fishing does not deserve success."

"I will not," said Katherine, with a kind smile. She was too thorough a woman not to have a soft corner in her heart for the man who had professed, with so convincing an air of sincerity, to love her with all his heart.

It did not, however, seem to please or displease him, for he sat down beside the tea-table with his usual unaffected ease, and addressed his conversation to Mrs. Ormonde.

"Just heard from Carew that you were in town, and I have only escaped from Pontygarvan, where I have been playing the dutiful kinsman to my immortal relative. I don't know which is most to be avoided, his enmity or his liking. He is an amusing old cynic at times, but a born despot. He only let me away to prosecute a scheme that he has taken up, and which I have gone pretty deeply into myself."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, handing him some tea. "Have you turned promoter, or—"

"Well, I am going to be my own promoter; time only will show how I'll succeed. You must both give me your best wishes."

"I am sure I do," said Mrs. Ormonde.

De Burgh raised his eyes slowly to Katherine's. She had not spoken. "Don't you wish me success? No; I thought you didn't."

"I wish you all possible happiness," she said, in a low tone.

"Have you quarrelled with Katherine, or offended her, that she is so implacable?" asked Mrs. Ormonde.

"Neither, I hope. Now what are you doing in the way of amusement? Have you seen a play since you came up? The pantomimes are still on at the big theatres. But I want you to come and see Ours at the Prince of Wales on Thursday; it's very good in parts. Then if you'll sup with me after, at my rooms, I'll get Carew and Brereton and one or two others to meet you."

"It would be very nice!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde.

"Thank you," returned Katherine. "I am, strange to say, going to a party on Thursday."

"To a party! How extraordinary! Where, Katherine?"

"To Lady Barrington's—a lady I knew in Florence, and who has invited me repeatedly."

"I am sure I am very glad you are coming out of your shell at last. Where does this Lady Barrington live?"

"In Lancaster Square, not far from my abode."

"Well, let us say Friday for Ours," said De Burgh; "for I too am going to Lady Barrington's on Thursday."

"Then why did you invite us for that evening?" cried Mrs. Ormonde.

"I could have gone afterwards. Lady Barrington's gatherings are always late."

"You really know every one."

"Oh, not every one, Mrs. Ormonde."

"Then our 'play' is not to come off unless Katherine is to be of the party"—rather pettishly.

"If you like I will take you on Thursday, and Miss Liddell (if she will allow me) on Friday."

"What nonsense! We will all go together on Friday. Katie, do you think this friend of yours would invite me? I don't care to mope here when you are out enjoying yourself."

"I am sure she would be very pleased to see you. I will write and ask her for an invitation as soon as I go home." Katherine rose as she spoke.

"Do, like a good girl; and I will go and interview this dressmaker of yours. Till to-morrow, then."

The little woman stood on tiptoe to kiss her tall sister-in-law, who left the room, followed by De Burgh.

"Haven't I been a reasonable, well-behaved fellow not to have haunted or worried you all these months? Will you let me come and tell you how wise and staid and prudent I have become?" he said.

He spoke half in jest, but there was a wonderfully appealing look in his eyes.

"I am very glad to hear it, Mr. De Burgh. I hope you will go on and prosper."

"And will you shut your doors against me if I call?"

"No; why should I?"

"Thanks! How heavenly it is to see you again! though you don't look quite as bright as you did at Sandbourne. Is this your carriage? I see you have not started a turn-out of your own yet."

"And never shall, probably."

"Not, at all events, till you have appointed your 'master of the horse.' Good-by till to-morrow night."

He handed her carefully into the brougham, and stood looking after it as she drove away.



CHAPTER XXIII.

A WANDERER RETURNS.

It was quite an event in Katherine's quiet life to go to a party. She had never been at one in London, and anticipated it with interest. Both in Florence and Paris she had mixed in society and greatly enjoyed it. Now she felt a little curious as to the impression she might make and receive. Her nature was essentially vigorous and healthy, and threw off morbid feelings as certain chemicals repel others inimical to them. She would have enjoyed life intensely but for the perpetually recurring sense of irritation against herself for having forfeited her own self-respect by her hasty action. It would have been somewhat humiliating to have taken charity from the hands of Errington, but this was as nothing to the crushing abasement of knowing that she had cheated him. Still, no condition of mind is constant—except with monomaniacs—and Katherine was often carried away from herself and her troubles.

She was glad, on the whole, that De Burgh was to be at Lady Barrington's reception.

She was too genial, too responsive, not to find admiration very acceptable. Nor could she believe that a man like De Burgh, hard, daring, careless, could suffer much or long through his affections. It flattered her woman's vanity, too, that with her he dropped his cynical, mocking tone, and spoke with straightforward earnestness. He might have ended by interesting and flattering her till she loved him—for he had a certain amount of attraction—if her carefully resisted feeling for Errington had not created an antidote to the poison he might have introduced into her life.

Altogether she dressed with something of anticipated pleasure, and was not displeased with the result of her toilette.

Her dress was as deeply mourning as it was good taste to wear at an evening party. A few folds of gauzy white lisse softened the edge of her thick black silk corsage, a jet necklet and comb set off her snowy, velvety throat and bright golden brown hair.

"I had no idea you would turn out so effectively!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, examining her with a critical eye as they took off their wraps in the ladies' cloak-room. "Your dress might have been cut a little lower, dear; with a long throat like yours it is very easy to keep within the bounds of decency. I wonder you do not buy yourself some diamonds; they are so becoming."

"I shall wait for some one to give them to me," returned Katherine, laughing.

"Quite right"—very gravely—"only if I were you I should make haste and decide on the 'some one.'"

"Mrs. Ormonde and Miss Liddell!" shouted the waiters from landing to door, and the next moment Lady Barrington, a large woman in black velvet and a fierce white cap in which glittered an aigret of diamonds, was welcoming them with much cordiality.

"Very happy to see any friend of yours, my dear Miss Liddell! I think I had the pleasure of meeting you, Mrs. Ormonde, at Lord Trevallan's garden-party last June?"

"Oh yes; were you there?" with saucy surprise.

"Algernon," continued Lady Barrington, motioning with her fan to a tall, thin youth. "My nephew, Mrs. Ormonde, Miss Liddell. I think Algernon had the pleasure of meeting you at Rome?" Katherine bowed and smiled. "Take Mrs. Ormonde and Miss Liddell in and find them seats near the piano. Signor Bandolini and Madam Montebello are good enough to give us some of their charming duets, and are just going to begin. I was afraid you might be late."

So Mrs. Ormonde and Miss Liddell were ushered to places of honor, and the music began.

"I don't see a soul I know," whispered Mrs. Ormonde, presently. "Yet the women are well dressed and look nice enough, but the men are decidedly caddish."

"London is a large place, with room in it for all sorts and conditions of men. But we must not talk, Ada."

Mrs. Ormonde was silent for a while; and then opening her fan to screen her irrepressible desire to communicate her observations, resumed:

"I am sure I saw Captain Darrell in the doorway only for a minute, and he went away. I hope he will come and talk to us. You were gone when he came back from leave—to Monckton, I mean. He is rather amu—" A warning "hush-sh" interrupted her.

"What rude, ill-bred people!" she muttered, under her breath. And soon the duet—a new one, expressly composed to show off the vocal gymnastics of the signore and madame—came to an end; there was a rustle of relief, and every one burst into talk.

"How glad they are it is over!" said Mrs. Ormonde. "Look at that tall girl in pink. You see those sparkles in the roses on her corsage and in her hair; they are all diamonds. I know the white glitter. What airs she gives herself! I suppose she is an heiress, and, I dare say, not half as rich as you are."

"Don't be too sure. I am no millionaire," began Katherine, when she was interrupted by a voice she knew, which said, "I had no idea it was to be such a ghastly concern as this!" and turning, she found De Burgh close behind her.

"What offends you?" she asked, smiling.

"All this trilling and shrieking. There's tea or something going on downstairs. You had better come away before they have a fresh burst; they are carrying up a big fiddle."

"Tea!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde. "Oh, do take me away to have some!"

"Here, Darrell," said De Burgh, coolly, turning back to speak to some one who stood behind him. "Here's Mrs. Ormonde dying for deliverance and tea. Come, do your devoir."

Darrell hastened forward, smiling, delighted. With a little pucker of the brow and lifting of the eyebrows Mrs. Ormonde accepted his arm.

"Now, Miss Liddell," said De Burgh, offering his; and not sorry to escape from the heated, crowded room, Katherine took it and accompanied him downstairs.

"I did not think you knew Lady Barrington," said Katherine, as he handed her an ice.

"Know her? Never heard of her till you mentioned her name the day before yesterday."

"How did she come to ask you to her house, then?"

"Let me see. Oh, I went down to the club and asked if any one knew Lady Barrington, and who was going to her party. At last Darrell said he was a sort of relation, and that he would ask for a card. He did, and here I am."

"But you said you were coming."

"So I was. I made up my mind to come as soon as you said you were."

"You are very audacious, Mr. De Burgh!" said Katherine, laughing in spite of her intention to be rather distant with him.

"Do you think so? Then I have earned the character cheaply. Are they going to squall and fiddle all night? I thought it might turn into a dance."

"I did not imagine you would condescend to dance."

"Why? I used to like dancing, under certain conditions. Don't fancy I haven't an ear for music, Miss Liddell, because I said the performance upstairs was ghastly. I am very fond of music—real sweet music. I liked your songs, and I should have liked a waltz with you—immensely. You know I never met you in society before—" He stopped abruptly and looked at her from head to foot, with a comprehensive glance so full of the admiration he did not venture to speak that Katherine felt the color mount to her brow and even spread over her white throat, while an odd sense of uneasy distress fluttered her pulses. She only said, indifferently: "I might not prove a good partner. I have never danced much."

"I might give you a lesson in that too, as well as in handling the ribbons. And for that there will be a grand opportunity next week. Lord De Burgh is coming up, and I shall have the run of his stables, which I will take good care shall be well filled. We'll have out a smart pair of cobs, and you shall take them round the Park every morning, till you are fit to give all the other women whips the go-by."

"Do you seriously believe such a scheme possible?"

"It shall be if you say yes. Do you know that you have brought me luck? You have, 'pon my soul! I am A-1 with old De Burgh, and I won a pot of money up in Yorkshire, paid a lot of debts, sold my horses. Now, don't you think you ought to be interested in your man Friday? You remember our last meeting at Sandbourne—hey? Don't you think I am going to succeed all along the line?"

"It is impossible to say," returned Katherine. "You know there is a French proverb—" She stopped, not liking to repeat it as she suddenly remembered the application.

"Yes, I do know the lying Gallic invention! Heureux au jeu, malheureux en amour. I don't believe it. If luck's with you, all goes well; but then Fortune is such a fickle jade!"

"I trust you will always be fortunate, Mr. De Burgh," said Katherine, gently.

"I like to hear you say so. Now I don't often let my tongue run on as it has, but if you'll be patient and friendly, I'll be as mild and inoffensive as a youngster fresh from school."

"Very well," said Katherine, smiling and confused. Here she was interrupted by the sudden approach of Mrs. Needham, her dark eyes gleaming with pleased recognition, and her high color heightened by the heat of the rooms. She was gorgeous in red satin, black lace and diamonds. "My dear Miss Liddell! I have been looking for you everywhere! I want so much to speak to you about a project I have for starting a new weekly paper, to be called The Woman's Weekly. There is an empty sofa in that little room at the other side of the hall. Do come, and I will explain it all. It is likely to do a great deal of good, and to be a paying concern into the bargain. You will excuse me for running away with Miss Liddell"—to De Burgh—"but we have some matters to discuss. We shall meet you upstairs afterwards." She swept Katherine away, while De Burgh stood scowling. Who was this audacious pirate who had cut out his convoy from under the fire of his angry eyes?

"You see, my dear," commenced Mrs. Needham, in a low voice and speaking rapidly, "there is an immense field to be cultivated in the humble strata of the better working-class, and the paper I wish to establish will be quite different from The Queen, more useful and less than half-price. No stuff about fashionable marriages in print that is enough to blind an eagle, but useful receipts and work patterns, domestic information, and a story—a story is a great point—a description of any great events, and fashion plates, etc." And she poured forth a torrent of what she was pleased to term "facts and figures" till Katherine felt fairly bewildered.

"It seems a great undertaking," she replied, when she could get a word in. "I shall require a great deal of explanation before I can comprehend it. Will you not come and see me when we shall be alone, and we can discuss it quietly?"

"Certainly, my dear Miss Liddell—to-morrow. No; to-morrow I have about seven or eight engagements between two and six-thirty. Let me see. I am terribly pressed just now; I will write and fix some morning if you will come and lunch with me. If you could see your way to taking a few shares it would be a great help. Money—money—money. Without the filthy lucre nothing can be begun or ended. Now tell me how you have been. I have been coming to see you for months, but never get a moment to myself; but I have heard of you from Mr. Payne. What a good fellow he is! How is Miss Payne?" Katherine replied, and Mrs. Needham rushed on: "Nice party, isn't it? There are several literary people here to-night. I did not know Lady Barrington went in for literary society, but one picks up a little of all sorts when you live abroad for a while. Here is a very interesting man. He is coming very much to the front as a political and philosophic writer. It is said he is to be the editor of The Empire, that new monthly which they say is to take the lead of all the magazines. I met him at Professor Kean's last week. I don't think he sees me—Good-evening! Don't think you remember me—Mrs. Needham. Had the pleasure of meeting you at Professor Kean's last Monday. Mr. Errington, Miss Liddell!"

"I have already the pleasure of knowing Miss Liddell," he returned, with a grave smile and stately bow, as he took the hand Katherine hesitatingly held out.

"Oh, indeed; I was not aware of it." Errington stood talking with Mrs. Needham, or, rather, answering her rapid questions respecting a variety of subjects, until she suddenly recognized some one to whom she was imperatively compelled to speak. With a hasty, "Will you be so good as to take Miss Liddell to her friends?" she darted away with surprising lightness and rapidity, considering her size and solidity.

"Would you like to go upstairs?" asked Errington.

"If you please." Katherine was quivering with pain and pleasure at finding herself thus virtually alone with the man whose image haunted her in spite of her constant determined efforts to banish it from her mind.

On the first landing was a conservatory prettily lit and decorated, and larger than those ordinarily appended to London houses. "Suppose we rest here," said Errington. "From the quiet which reigns above, I think some one is reciting and that is not an exhilarating style of amusement."

"I should think not. I have never heard any one attempt to recite in England."

"May you long be preserved from the infliction! There are very few who can make recitation endurable."

After some enquiries for Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde, and a few observations on the beautiful, abundant flowers, Errington said: "Won't you sit down? If it is not unpleasant to you, I should like to improve this occasion, as I rarely have an opportunity of seeing you."

Katherine complied, and sat down on a settee which was behind a central group of tall feathery ferns. She was another creature from the bright and somewhat coquettish girl who was always ready to answer De Burgh or Colonel Ormonde with keen prompt wit. Silent, downcast, scarcely able to raise her eyes to Errington's, yet too fascinated to resist his wish to continue their interview.

"I am very glad to meet you here," began Errington in his calm, melodious voice. "It is so much better for you to mix with your kind; it has a wholesome, humanizing influence, and may I venture to say that you are inclined to be morbid?"

"Can you wonder?" said Katherine, soft and low.

"Yes, I do. There is no reason why you should not be bright and happy, and enjoy the goods the gods—"

"No," she interrupted, playing nervously with the flowers in her bouquet; "not given by the gods! Stolen from you!" She did not raise her eyes as she spoke.

"I do beg you to put that incident out of your mind. We have arranged the question of succession, as only I had a right to do. No one else need know, and you will, I am sure, make a most excellent use of what is now really yours. Forget the past, and allow me to be your friend."

"I am always thinking of you," she said, almost in a whisper. "Yet it is always a trial to meet you. I think I would rather not. Tell me," with a sudden impulse of tenderness and contrition, looking up to him with humid eyes, "are you well and happy? How have you borne the terrible change in your life?"

"I am perfectly well and quite happy," returned Errington, with a slight smile. "The terrible change, as you term it, has affected me very little. I find real work most exhilarating, and slight success is sweet. Since I knew that the tangle of my poor father's affairs was satisfactorily unravelled, I have been at ease, comparatively. Life has many sides. I miss most my horses."

"Ah, yes, you must miss them! Well, from what I hear, you seem to be making a place for yourself in literature. I am so glad!"

"Thank you. And you, may I ask, what are your plans?"

"If you are so good as to care, I am going to take a house and make a home for myself and my little nephews. Without any formal agreement, Mrs. Ormonde leaves them very much to me. They are a great interest to me. And as you are so kind in wishing me to be happy and not morbid, I will try to forget. I think I could be happier if you would promise me something."

"What?"

"If ever—" She hesitated; her voice trembled. "If you ever want anything," she hurried on, nervously, "anything, even to the half of my kingdom, you will deign to accept it from me?"

"I will," said Errington, with a kind and, as Katherine imagined, a condescending smile.

"He thinks me a weak, impulsive child, who must be forgiven because she is scarcely responsible," she said to herself.

"And this preliminary settled, you will admit me to the honor of your acquaintance?"

"Oh, Mr. Errington, do not think me ungrateful. But can you not understand that, good and generous as you are, your presence overwhelms me?"

"Then I will not intrude upon you. Gently and very gravely I accept your decree."

They were silent for a moment; then Katherine said, "I was sure you would understand me." As she spoke, De Burgh suddenly came round the group of ferns and stood before them with an air of displeased surprise.

"Why, Miss Liddell! I thought that desperate filibuster in red satin had carried you off. I have sought you high and low. How d'ye do, Errington? Haven't seen you this age. Mrs. Ormonde wants to go home, Miss Liddell."

"I suppose the recitation is over," said Errington, coolly. "I will take Miss Liddell to Mrs. Ormonde, whom I have not seen for some time."

De Burgh, therefore, had nothing for it but to walk after the man whom he at once decided was a dangerous rival, as indeed he would have considered any one in the rank of a gentleman.

Mrs. Ormonde was quite charmed to see Errington. She had put him rather out of her mind. It was a pleasant surprise to meet him once more in society, for she had a sort of dim idea his ruin was so complete that he must have sold his dress clothes to provide food, and could never, therefore, hold up his head in society again.