"I had; and remember you were expected there."

"Miss Jennings married a relation of mine, and I see her very often, at least often for London. She really looks younger, if possible, than formerly," etc., etc., and their talk flowed in the Jennings channel for a few minutes.

Meantime Mrs. Needham, passing her arm through Katherine's, led her away to a very diminutive back room, draped and carpeted with Oriental stuffs, then beginning to be the fashion, and crammed with all imaginable ornaments and specimens, from bits of rare "Capo di monti" to funny sixpenny toys. "I have just found such a treasure," she exclaimed; "a real saucer of old Chelsea, and only a small bit out of this side. Isn't Angela Bradley handsome? She is a very remarkable girl, or perhaps I ought to say woman. She speaks four or five languages, and plays divinely; then she is a capital critic. It was she who advised her father to publish that very singular book, The Gorgon's Head; every publisher in London had refused it. He took it, and has cleared—oh, I'd be afraid to say how much money by it."

"I hope the writer got a fair share," said Katherine, smiling.

"Hum! ah, that's another matter; but I dare say Bradley will treat him quite as fairly as any one else. She will have a big fortune one of these days. Her father perfectly adores her."

"I wish I could write," said Katherine, with a sigh. "It must be a charming way to earn money."

"Why don't you try? You seem to me to have plenty of brains; and I suppose you will have to do something. I was so sorry—" Mrs. Needham was beginning, when dinner was announced, and her sympathetic utterances were cut short.

The repast was admirable, erring perhaps on the side of plenteousness, and well served by two smart young women in black, with pink ribbons in their caps. Nor was there any lack of bright talk a good deal beyond the average. Miss Bradley was an admirable listener, and often by well-put questions or suggestions kept the ball rolling. Dinner was soon over, and coffee was served in the drawing-room.

"Now, Miss Payne, I should like to consult with you," said Miss Bradley, putting her cup on the mantel-piece, and resuming her seat on the sofa, where she invited Miss Payne by a gesture to sit beside her, "about the daughter of an old friend of mine, who does not want her to join him in India, as she is rather delicate, and he cannot retire for a couple of years. It is time she left school, and the question is, where shall she go?"

While Miss Bradley thus attacked the subject uppermost in her mind, Mrs. Needham settled herself in an arm-chair as far as she could from the speakers, and asked Katherine to sit down beside her.

"Let them discuss their business without us," she said, "and I want to talk to you. Here, these are some rather interesting photographs. They are all actors or singers on this side; you'll observe the shape of the heads, the contour generally; these are politicians, and have quite a different aspect. Remarkable, isn't it? But I was just saying when we went down to dinner that I was awfully sorry to hear of all your troubles—of course we must not regret that the man is alive; though if he is a cross-grained creature, as he seems to be, life won't be much good to him—and I shall be greatly interested if you care to tell me what your plans are."

"I really have none. There are several things I could do pretty well. I could teach music and languages, but it is so difficult to find pupils. Then I am still in great uncertainty as to what my cousin may do."

"He is a greedy savage," said Mrs. Needham, emphatically; "but he will not dare to demand the arrears. He would raise a howl of execration by such conduct. Now, as you have nothing settled, and if Angela Bradley and Miss Payne make it up, you will have to leave where you are. Suppose you come to me?"

"To you? My dear Mrs. Needham, it would be delightful."

"Would it? It is not a very magnificent appointment, I assure you. You see, I have so much to do that I really must have help. I had a girl for three or four months. I gave her twenty-five pounds a year, and thought she would be a great comfort, but she made a mess of my room and my papers, and could not write a decent letter; besides, she was discontented, so she left me, and I have been in a horrid muddle for the last fortnight. Now if you like to come to me, while you are looking out for something better, I am sure I shall be charmed, and will do all I can to push you. It's a miserable sort of engagement, but there it is; only I'll want you to come as soon as you can, for there are heaps to do."

"Indeed I am delighted to be your help, or secretary, or whatever you choose to call me, and as for looking for something better, if I can only save enough to provide for the boys, I would rather work with you for twenty-five pounds a year than any one else for—"

"For five hundred?" put in Mrs. Needham, with an indulgent smile, as she paused.

"No, no. Five hundred a year is not to be lightly rejected," returned Katherine, laughing. "But as I greatly doubt that I could ever be worth five hundred a year to any one, I gladly accept twenty-five."

"Remember, I do not expect you to stay an hour after you find something better. Now do me tell how matters stand with you."

Katherine therefore unbosomed herself, and among other things told how well and faithfully Rachel Trant had behaved toward her, of the fatherly kindness shown her by her old lawyer, and wound up by declaring that the world could not be so bad a place as it is reckoned, seeing that in her reverse of fortune she had found so much consideration. "Of course," she concluded, "there are heaps of people who, once I drop from the ranks of those who can enjoy and spend, will forget my existence; but I have no right to expect more. They only want playfellows, not friends, and ask no more than they give."

"Quite true, my young philosopher. Tell me, can you come on Saturday—come to stay?"

"I fear not. Besides I have a superstition about entering on a new abode on Saturday. Don't laugh! But I will come to-morrow, if you like, and write and copy for you. I will come each day till Monday next, and so help you to clear up."

"That is a good child! I wish I could make it worth your while to stay; but we don't know what silver lining is behind the dark clouds of the present."

Katherine shook her head. Mrs. Needham's suggestion showed her that peace and a relieved conscience was the highest degree of silvery brightness she anticipated in the future. One thing alone could restore to her the joyousness of her early days, and that was far away out of her reach.

"Mr. Errington and Mr. Payne," said one of the smart servants, throwing open the door.

"Ah, yes! Mr. Errington, of course," exclaimed Mrs. Needham, under her breath. "I might have expected him. And you too, Mr. Payne?" she added aloud. "Very glad to see you both."

As soon as they had paid their respects to the hostess, Errington spoke to Katherine, while Payne remained talking with Mrs. Needham.

"I am glad to see you looking better than when we last spoke together," said Errington, pausing beside Katherine's chair. "Have you had any communication from Newton yet?"

"I have heard nothing from him, and feel very anxious to know George Liddell's decision. I had a note from Mrs. Ormonde, written in a much more friendly spirit than I had expected, but still in despair. She, with the Colonel, had been to demand explanations from Mr. Newton, and do not seem much cheered by the interview."

"No doubt the appearance of your cousin was a tremendous blow, but they have no right to complain."

"However that may be, I will not quarrel with the boys' mother, in spite of her unkindness. I fear so much to create any barrier between us."

"Those children are very dear to you," said Errington, looking down on her with a soft expression and lingering glance.

"They are. I don't suppose you could understand how dear."

"Why? Do you think me incapable of human affection?" asked Errington, smiling.

"No, certainly not; only I imagine justice is more natural to you than love, though you can be generous, as I know."

Errington did not answer. He stood still, as if some new train of thought had been suddenly suggested to him, and Katherine waited serenely for his next words, when Miss Bradley, who had not interrupted her conversation, or noticed the new-comers in any way, suddenly turned her face toward them, and said, with something like command, "Mr. Errington!"

Errington immediately obeyed. Katherine watched them speaking together for some minutes with a curious sense of discomfort and dissatisfaction. Miss Bradley's face looked softer and brighter, and a sort of animation came into her gestures, slight and dignified though they were. They seemed to have much to say, and said it with a certain amount of well-bred familiarity. Yes, they were evidently friends; very naturally. How happy she was to be thus free from any painful consciousness in his presence! She was as stainless as himself, could look fearlessly in his eyes and assert herself, while she (Katherine) could only crouch in profoundest humility, and gratefully gather what crumbs of kindness and notice he let fall for her benefit. It was quite pitiable to be easily disturbed by such insignificant circumstances. How pitiably weak she was! So, with an effort, she turned her attention to Mrs. Needham and Bertie, who had slipped into an argument, as they often did, respecting the best and most effective method of dealing with the poor. In this Katherine joined with somewhat languid interest, quite aware that Errington and Miss Bradley grew more and more absorbed in their conversation, till Miss Payne, feeling herself de trop, left her place to speak with Mrs. Needham, while Katherine and Bertie gradually dropped into silence.

"Miss Bradley's carriage," was soon announced, and she rose tall and stately, nearly as tall as Errington.

"Will you excuse me for running away so soon, dear Mrs. Needham?" she said, "but I promised Mrs. Julian Starner to go to her musical party to-night. I am to play the opening piece of the second part, so I dare not stay longer. You are going?"—to Errington, who bowed assent. "Then I can give you a seat in my brougham," she continued, with calm, assured serenity.

"Thank you," and Errington, turning to Katherine, said quickly: "Will you let me know when you hear from Newton? I am most anxious as regards Liddell's decision."

"I will, certainly. Good-night." She put her hand into his, and felt in some occult manner comfort by the gentle pressure with which he held it for half a moment. Yes, beaten, defeated, punished as she was, he felt for her with a noble compassion. Ought not that to be enough?

"Good-night, Miss Liddell. I hope you will come and see me. I am always at home on Tuesday afternoons; and Miss Payne, when I have seen the grandmother of the girl we have been speaking about, I will let you know, and you will kindly take into consideration the points I mentioned. Good-night." And she swept away, leaning on Errington's arm.

"Now that we are by ourselves," said Mrs. Needham, comfortably, "I must tell you what I have been proposing to Miss Liddell. I should like you to know all about it," and she plunged into the subject. "I know it is but a poor offer," she concluded; "but for the present it is better than nothing, and she can be on the lookout for something else."

Bertie wisely held his tongue. Katherine declared herself ready and willing to accept the offer, and Miss Payne, with resolute candor, declared that the remuneration was miserable, but that it was as well to be doing something while waiting for a better appointment.

Poor Katherine was terribly distressed by this frankness, but Mrs. Needham was quite unmoved. She said she saw the force of what Miss Payne said, but there it was, and it remained with Miss Liddell to take or leave what she suggested.

Then Miss Payne's prospects came under discussion, and the doubtful circumstances connected with Miss Bradley's proposition.

"Now it is long past ten o'clock, and we must say good-night," remarked Miss Payne. "Really, Mrs. Needham, you are a wonderful woman! You have nearly 'placed' us both. How earnestly I hope there are better and brighter days before my young friend, whom I shall miss very much!"

"That I am quite sure. Well, she can go and see you as often as you like. Now tell me, isn't Angela Bradley a splendid creature?"

"She is indeed," murmured Katherine.

"Well, there is a good deal of her," said Miss Payne, with a sniff.

"Not too much for Mr. Errington, I think," exclaimed Mrs. Needham with a knowing smile. "I fancy that will be a match before the season is over. It will be a capital thing for Errington. Old Bradley is im-mensely rich, and I am sure Errington is far gone. Well, good-night, my dear Miss Payne. I am so glad to think I shall have Miss Liddell for a little while, at all events. You will come the day after to-morrow at ten, won't you, and help me to regulate some of my papers? Good-night, my dear, good-night."

Mr. Newton came into his office the afternoon the day following Mrs. Needham's little dinner. His step was alert and his head erect, as though he was satisfied with himself and the world. A boy who sat in a box near the door, to make a note of the flies walking into the spider's parlor, darted out, saying, "Please sir, Miss Liddell is waiting for you."

"Is she? Very well." And the old lawyer went quickly along the passage leading to the other rooms, and opening the door of his own, found Katherine sitting by the table, a newspaper, which had evidently dropped from her hand, lying by her on the carpet. She started up to meet her good friend, who was struck by her pallor and the sad look in her eyes.

"Well, this is lucky!" exclaimed Newton, shaking hands with her cordially. "I was going to write to you, as I wanted to see you, and here you are."

"I was just beginning to fear I might be troublesome, but I have been so anxious."

"Of course you have. And you have been very patient, on the whole. Well"—laying aside his hat, and rubbing his hands as he sat down—"I have just come from consulting with Messrs. Compton, and I am very happy to tell you it is agreed that George Liddell shall withdraw his claim to the arrears of income, but not to the savings you have effected since your succession to the property, also the balance standing to your name at your banker's is not to be interfered with; so I think things are arranging themselves more favorably, on the whole, than I could have hoped."

"They are, indeed," cried Katherine, clasping her hands together in thankfulness. "What an immense relief! I have more than three hundred pounds in the bank, and I have found employment for the present at least, so I can use my little income for the boys. How can I thank you, dear Mr. Newton, for all the trouble you have taken for me?" And she took his hard, wrinkled hand, pressing it between both hers, and looking with sweet loving eyes into his.

"I am sure I was quite ready to take any trouble for you, my dear young lady; but in this matter Mr. Errington has done most of the work. He has gained a surprising degree of influence over your cousin, who is a very curious customer; but for him (Mr. Errington, I mean), I fear he would have insisted on his full rights, which would have been a bad business. However, that is over now. Nor will Mr. Liddell fare badly. Your savings have added close on three thousand pounds to the property which falls to him. I am surprised that he did not try at once to make friends with you, for his little girl's sake. I hear he is in treaty for a grand mansion in one of the new streets they are building over at South Kensington. He is tremendously fond of this little girl of his. It seems Liddell was awfully cut up at the death of his wife, about a year and a half ago. He fancies that if he had known of his father's death and his own succession he would have come home, and the voyage would have saved her life. This, I rather think, was at the root of his rancor against you."

"How unjust! how unreasonable!" cried Katherine. "Now tell me of your interview with Mrs. Ormonde and her husband."

"Well—ah—it was not a very agreeable half-hour. I have seldom seen so barefaced an exhibition of selfishness. However, I think I brought them to their senses, certainly Mrs. Ormonde, and I am determined to make that fellow Ormonde pay something toward the education of his wife's sons."

"I would rather not have it," said Katherine.

"Nonsense," cried the lawyer, sharply. "You or they are entitled to it, and you shall have it. Mrs. Ormonde evidently does not want to quarrel with you, nor is it well for the boys' sake to be at loggerheads with their mother."

"No, certainly not; but, Mr. Newton, I can never be the same to her again. I never can forgive her or her husband's ingratitude and want of feeling."

"Of course not, and they know you will not; still, an open split is to be avoided. Now, tell me, what is the employment you mentioned?"

Katherine told him, and a long confidential conversation ensued, wherein she explained her views and intentions, and listened to her old friend's good advice. Certain communication to Mrs. Ormonde were decided on, as Katherine agreed with Mr. Newton that she should have no further personal intercourse concerning business matters with her sister-in-law.

"By-the-way," said Newton, "one of the events of the last few days was a visit from your protegee, Miss Trant. I was a good deal struck with her. She is a pretty, delicate-looking girl, yet she's as hard as nails, and a first-rate woman of business. She seems determined to make your fortune, for that is just the human touch about her that interested me. She doesn't talk about it, but her profound gratitude to you is evidently her ruling motive. I am so persuaded that she will develop a good business, and that you will ultimately get a high percentage for the money you have advanced—or, as you thought, almost given—that I am going to trust her with a little of mine, just to keep the concern free of debt till it is safely floated."

"How very good of you!" cried Katherine. "And what a proof of your faith in my friend! How can you call her hard? To me she is most sympathetic."

"Ay, to you. Then you see she seems to have devoted herself to you. To me she turned a very hard bit of her shell. No matter. I think she is the sort of woman to succeed. You have not seen her since—since her visit to me?"

"No. I have not been to see her because—not because I was busy, but idle and depressed. I will not be so any more. So many friends have been true and helpful to me that I should be ashamed of feeling depressed. I will endeavor to prove myself a first-rate secretary, and be a credit to you, my dear good friend."

"That you will always be, I'm sure," returned Newton, warmly.

"Now you must run away, my dear young lady, for I have fifty things to do. Your friend Miss Trant will tell you all that passed between us, and what her plans are."

"I am going to pay her a visit this evening. I do not like to trouble her either in the morning or afternoon, she is so busy. But I always enjoy a talk with her. She is really very well informed, and rather original."

"I believe she will turn out well. Good-by, my dear Miss Liddell. I assure you, you are not more relieved by the result of the morning's consultation than I am."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

KATHERINE IN OFFICE.

The beginning of a new life is rarely agreeable, and when the newness consists of poverty in place of riches, of service instead of complete freedom, occupations not particularly congenial instead of the exercise of unfettered choice, in such matters—why, the contrast is rather trying.

A fortnight after the interview just described, Katherine was thoroughly settled with Mrs. Needham.

Although she justly considered herself most fortunate in finding a home so easily, with so pleasant and kindly a patroness, she would have been more or less than human had she not felt the change which had befallen her. Mrs. Ormonde's conduct, too, had wounded her, more than it ought, perhaps, for she always knew her sister-in-law to be shallow and selfish, but not to the degree which she had lately betrayed.

Her constant prayer was that she should be spared the torture of having to give up her dear boys to such a mother and such a step-father. She thought she saw little, loving, delicate Charlie shrinking into himself, and withering under the contemptuous indifference neglect of the Castleford household; and Cis—bolder and stronger—hardening into defiance or deceit under the same influence.

By the sort of agreement arrived at between Mr. Newton and Mrs. Ormonde, it was decided that so long as Katherine provided for the maintenance of her nephews, their mother was only entitled to have them with her during the Christmas holidays; and Colonel Ormonde was with some difficulty persuaded to allow the munificent sum of thirty pounds a year toward the education of his step-sons.

This definite settlement was a great relief to Katherine's heart. How earnestly she resolved to keep herself on her infinitesimal stipend, and save every other penny for her boys! Of the trouble before her, in removing them from Sandbourne to some inferior, because cheaper, school, she would not think. Sufficient to the day was the evil thereof.

She therefore applied herself diligently to her duties. These were varied, though somewhat mechanical.

Mrs. Needham's particular den was a very comfortable, well-furnished room at the back of the house, crowded with books and newspapers, and prospectuses, magazines, and all possible impedimenta of journalism, on the outer edge of which women were beginning with faltering footsteps tentatively to tread. Mrs. Needham not only wrote "provincial letters" (with a difference!), but contributed social and statistical papers to several of the leading periodicals; and one of Katherine's duties was to write out her rough notes, and make extracts from the books, Blue and others, the reports and papers which Mrs. Needham had marked. Then there were lots of letters to be answered and MSS. to be corrected.

Besides these, Mrs. Needham asked Katherine as a favor to help her in her house-keeping, as it was a thing she hated; "and whatever you do," was her concluding instructions, "do not see too much of cook's doings. She is a clever woman, and after all that can be said about the feast of reason, the success of my little dinners depends on her. I don't think she takes things, but she is a little reckless, and I never could keep accounts."

Katherine therefore found her time fully filled. This, however, kept her from thinking too much, and her kind chief was pleased with all she did. Her mind was tolerable at rest about the boys, her friends stuck gallantly to her through the shipwreck of her fortune, and yet her heart was heavy. She could not look forward with hope, or back without pain. She dared not even let herself think freely, for she well knew the cause of her depression, and had vowed to herself to master it, to hide it away, and never allow her mental vision to dwell upon it. Work, and interest—enforced, almost feverish interest—in outside matters, were the only weapons with which she could fight the gnawing, aching pain of ceaseless regret that wore her heart. How insignificant is the loss of fortune, and all that fortune brings, compared to the opening of an impassable gulf between one's self and what has grown dearer than self, by that magic, inexplicable force of attraction which can rarely be resisted or explained!

Life with Mrs. Needham was very active, and although Katherine was necessarily left a good deal at home, she saw quite enough of society in the evening to satisfy her. The all-accomplished Angela Bradley showed a decided inclination to fraternize with Mrs. Needham's attractive secretary, but for some occult reason Katherine did not respond. She fancied that Miss Bradley was disposed to look down with too palpably condescending indulgence from the heights of her own calm perfections on those storms in a teacup amid which Mrs. Needham agitated, with such sincere belief in her own powers to raise or to allay them. Yet Miss Bradley was a really high-minded woman, only a little too well aware of her own superiority. She was always a favored guest at the "Shrubberies," as Mrs. Needham's house was called, and of course an attraction to Errington, who was also a frequent visitor. The evenings, when some of the habitues dropped in on their way to parties, or returning from the theatre (Mrs. Needham never wanted to go to bed!), were bright and amusing. Moreover, Katherine had complete liberty of movement. If Mrs. Needham were going out without her secretary, Katherine was quite free to spend the time with Miss Payne, or with Rachel Trant, whom she found more interesting. At the house of the former she generally found Bertie ready to escort her home, always kindly and deeply concerned about her, but more than ever determined to convert her from her uncertain faith and worldly tendencies, to Evangelicalism and contempt for the joys of this life.

Already the days of her heirship seemed to have been wafted away far back, and the routine of the present was becoming familiar. There was nothing oppressive in it. Yet she could not look forward. Hope had long been a stranger to her. Never, since her mother's death, since she had fully realized the bearings of her own reprehensible act, had she known the joy of a light heart. Some such ideas were flitting through her mind as she was diligently copying Mrs. Needham's lucubrations one afternoon, when the parlor maid opened the door and said, as she handed her a card, "The lady is in the drawing-room, ma'am."

The lady was Mrs. Ormonde.

"Is Mrs. Needham at home?"

"No, ma'am."

It was rather a trial, this, meeting with Ada, but Katherine could not shirk it. She did not want to have any quarrel with the boys' mother, so she ascended to the drawing-room.

There stood the pretty, smartly dressed little woman, all airy elegance, but the usually smiling lips were compressed, and the smooth white brow was wrinkled with a frown. She was examining a book of photographs—most of them signed by the donors.

"Oh, Katherine! how do you do?" she said, sharply, and not in the least abashed by any memory of their last meeting. "I am up in town for a few days, and I couldn't leave without seeing you. You see I have too much feeling to turn my back on an old friend, however injured I may be by circumstances over which you had no control. You are not looking well, Katie; you are so white, and your eyes don't seem to be half open."

"I am quite well, I assure you," said Katherine, composedly, and avoiding a half-offered kiss by drawing a chair forward for her visitor.

"I wish I could say as much," returned Mrs. Ormonde, with a deep sigh, throwing herself into it. "I am perfectly wretched; Ormonde is quite intolerable at times since everything has collapsed. I am sure I often wish you had never done anything for the boys or me, and then we should never have fancied ourselves rich. Of course I don't blame you; you meant well, but it is all very unfortunate."

"It is indeed; but is it possible that Colonel Ormonde is so unmanly as to—"

"Unmanly?" interrupted his wife. "Manly, you mean. Of course he revenges himself on me. Not always. He is all right sometimes; but if anything goes wrong, then I suffer. Fortunately I was prudent, and made little savings, with which I am—but"—interrupting herself—"that is not worth speaking about."

"I am sorry you are unhappy, Ada," said Katherine, with her ready sympathy.

"Oh, don't think I allow myself to be trodden on," cried Mrs. Ormonde, her eyes suddenly lighting up. "It was a hard fight at first, but I saw it was a struggle for life; and when we knew the worst, and Ormonde raved and roared, I said I should leave him and take baby (I could, you know, till he was seven years old), and that the servants would swear I was in fear of my life; and I should have done it, and carried my case, too! I'm not sure it would not have been better for me. But he gave in, and asked me to stay. I felt pretty safe then. Now, when he is disagreeable, I burst into tears at dinner, and upset my glass of claret on the table-cloth, and totter out of the room weak and tremulous. I can see the butler and James ready to tear him to pieces. When he is good-humored, so am I; and when he tries to bully, why, what with trembling so much that I break something he likes, and fits of hysterics, and being awfully frightened before strangers, and making things go wrong when he wishes to create a great effect on some one, I think he begins to see it is better not to quarrel with me. Still, it is awfully miserable, compared with what it used to be when I really thought he loved me. How pleasant we all were together at Castleford before this horrid man turned up! Why didn't that awkward bush-ranger take better aim?"

"I dare say George Liddell is not quite of your opinion," said Katherine, smiling at her sister-in-law's candor.

"He was quite rich before," continued Mrs. Ormonde, querulously. "Why couldn't he be satisfied to stay out there and spend his own money? I hate selfishness and greed!"

"They are odious in every one," said Katherine, gravely.

"Now that I feel satisfied you are well and happy," resumed Mrs. Ormonde, who had never put a single question respecting herself to Katherine, "there are one or two things I wanted to ask you. Where are the boys?"

"They are still at Sandbourne; but they leave, I am sorry to say, at Easter."

"Oh, they do! It is an awfully expensive school. Are you quite sure, Katherine, they will not send in the bill to me?"

"Quite sure, Ada, for I have paid in advance."

"That was really very thoughtful, dear. Then—excuse my asking; I would not interfere with you for the world—but what are you going to do with them in the Easter holidays? I dare not have them at Castleford. I should lose all the ground I have gained if such a thing was even hinted to the Colonel."

"Why apologize for inquiring about your own children? Do not be alarmed, they shall not go. I am just now arranging for them to go to a school at Wandsworth, and for the Easter holidays Miss Payne has most kindly invited them."

"Really! How very nice! I will send her a hamper from Castleford. I can manage that much. This is rather a nice little place," continued Mrs. Ormonde, evidently much relieved and looking round. "What lots of pretty things! Is Mrs. Needham nice? She seemed rather a flashy woman. You must feel it an awful change from being an heiress, and so much made of, to being a sort of upper servant! Do you dine with Mrs. Needham?"

"Yes, I really do, and go out to evening parties with her."

"No, really?"

"It is a fact. She is a kind, delightful woman to live with. I am most fortunate."

"Fortunate? You cannot say that, Katie! You are the most unfortunate girl in the world. You know how penniless women are looked upon in society. I remember when Ormonde thought himself such a weak idiot for being attracted to me, all because I had no money. It makes such a difference! Why, there is Lord De Burgh; I met him yesterday, and asked him to have a cup of tea with me, and he never once mentioned your name."

"Why should he? I never knew Lord De Burgh," said Katherine.

"Yes, you did, dear! Why, you cannot know what is going on if you have not heard that old De Burgh died nearly a fortnight ago in Paris, and our friend has come in for everything. He had just returned from the funeral, so he said, and is looking darker and glummer than ever. Well, you know how he used to run after you. I assure you he never made a single inquiry about you. Heartless, wasn't it? I said something about that horrid man coming back, and—would you believe it?—he laughed in that odious, cynical way he has, and called me a little tigress. The only sympathetic word he spoke was to call it an infernal business. He doesn't care what he says, you know. Then he asked if Ormonde was tearing his hair about it. What a pity you did not encourage him, Katie, and marry him! Once you were his wife he could not have thrown you off. Now I don't suppose you'll ever see him again. I rather think Mrs. Needham does not know many of his set."

"She knows an extraordinary number of people—all sorts and conditions of men; Mr. Errington often dines here."

"Does he? But then he is a sort of literary hack now. Just think what a change both for you and him!"

"It is very extraordinary; but he keeps his position better than I do."

"Of course. Men are always better off. Now, dear, I must go. I am quite glad to have seen you, and sorry to think that my husband is absurdly prejudiced against you from the way you spoke to him last time. It was by no means prudent."

"Well, Ada, should Colonel Ormonde so far overcome his objection to me as to seek me again, I think it very likely I may say more imprudent things than I did last time. Pray, what do I owe him that I should measure my words?"

"Really, Katherine, when you hold your head up in that way I feel half afraid of you. There is no use trying to hold your own with the world when your pocket is empty. You see nobody troubles about you now, whereas—"

"Miss Bradley!" announced the servant; and Angela entered, in an exquisite walking dress of dark blue velvet; bonnet and feathers, gloves, parasol, all to match. Mrs. Ormonde gazed in delighted admiration at this splendid apparition.

"My dear Miss Liddell!" she exclaimed, shaking hands cordially. "I have rushed over to tell you that we have secured a box for Patti's benefit on Thursday, and I want you to join us. I know Mrs. Needham has a stall, but she will sup with us after. Mr. Errington and one or two musical critics are coming to dine with me at half past six, and we can go together."

"You are very good," said Katherine, coloring. She did not particularly care to go with Miss Bradley, and she was amused at Mrs. Ormonde's expression of astonishment. "Of course I shall be most happy."

"Now I must not stay; I have heaps to do. Will you be so kind as to give me the address of the modiste you mentioned the other day who made that pretty gray dress of yours? Madame Maradan is so full she cannot do a couple of morning dresses for me, so I want to try your woman."

"I shall be so glad if you will," cried Katherine. "I will bring you one of her cards. Let me introduce my sister-in-law to you. Mrs. Ormonde, Miss Bradley." She left the room, and Miss Bradley drew a chair beside her. "I think I had the pleasure of seeing you at Lady Carton's garden party last July?" she said, courteously.

"Oh, dear me, yes! I thought I knew your face. Lady Carton introduced you to me. Lady Carton is a cousin of Colonel Ormonde's."

"Oh, indeed! Miss Liddell was not there?"

"No; she chose to bury herself by the sea-side for the whole season."

Here Katherine returned with the card.

"I am so glad you are going to give my friend Rachel Trant a trial. I am sure you will like her. She has excellent taste."

"Now I must not wait any longer. So good-by. Shall you be at Madame Caravicelli's this evening?"

"I am not sure. I don't feel much disposed to go."

"Good-by for the present, then. Good-morning," to Mrs. Ormonde, and Miss Bradley swept out of the room.

"Well, Katherine!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, when her sister-in-law returned, "you seem to have fallen on your feet here. Pray who is that fine, elegant girl who seems so fond of you?"

"She is the daughter of a wealthy publisher, and has been very kind to me."

"Ah, yes! I remember now, Lady Carton said she would have a large fortune; and so she is your intimate friend?"

"Well, a very kind friend."

"Now I must bid you good-by. I am sure I am very glad you are so comfortable. I am going back to Castleford to-morrow, or I should call again. You are going to be Lucky Katherine, after all; I am sure you are;" and with many sweet words she disappeared.

"Lucky," repeated Katherine, as she returned to her task, "mine has been strange luck."

* * * * *

Despite Mrs. Ormonde's assurances that De Burgh had quite forgotten her, the news that he was once more in town disturbed Katherine. Unless some new fancy had driven her out of his head, she felt sure that his first step in the new and independent existence on which he had entered would be to seek her out and renew the offer he had twice made before. Money or no money, position, circumstances, all were but a feather-weight compared to the imperative necessity of having his own way.

It would be very painful to be obliged to refuse him again, for, in spite of her grave disapprobation of him in many ways, she liked him, and had a certain degree of confidence in him. There were the possibilities of a good character even in his faults, and it grieved her to be obliged to pain him.

"After all, I may be troubling myself about a vain image; it is more than a month since I saw him. He is now a wealthy peer, and it is impossible to say how circumstances may have changed him."

When Mrs. Needham had dressed for the dinner which was to precede Madam Caravicelli's reception, Katherine put on her bonnet and cloak and set off to spend a couple of hours with Rachel Trant, not only to avoid a lonely evening, but to change the current of her thoughts—loneliness and thought being her greatest enemies at present.

She had grown quite accustomed to make her way by omnibus, and as the days grew longer and the weather finer, she hoped to be able to walk across Campden Hill, not only shortening the distance but saving the fare. A visit to Rachel amused Katherine and drew her out of herself more than anything; the details of the business and management of property which she felt was her own had a large amount of interest—real, living interest. The state of the books, the increase of custom, the addition to the small capital which Rachel was gradually accumulating—all these were subjects not easily exhausted. Both partners agreed that their great object, now that the undertaking was beginning to maintain itself, was to lay by all they could, for of course bad debts and bad times would come.

"It is a great satisfaction to think that though people may do without books or pictures or music, they must wear clothes; and if you fit well, and are punctual, you are certain to have customers. Of course if you give credit you must charge high; people are beginning to see that now. You cannot get ready money in the dressmaking trade except for those costumes you give for a certain fixed price; but I stand out for quarterly accounts."

"And do you find no difficulty in getting them paid?"

"Not much; you see, I deduct five per cent. for punctual payment. Every one tries to save that five per cent. But talking of these things has put a curious incident out of my head, which I was longing to tell you. You remember among my first customers were Mrs. Fairchild and her daughters. They keep a very high class ladies' school in Inverness Terrace, and have been excellent customers. Yesterday Miss Fairchild called and said that she wanted an entire outfit for a little girl of ten or eleven, who was to be with them. They did not wish for anything fine or showy; at the same time, cost was no object. I was to furnish everything, to save time. This morning they brought the child to be fitted; she is very tall and thin, but lithe and supple, with dark hair, and large, bright, dark-brown eyes. She will be very handsome. I could not quite make her out; she is not an ordinary gentlewoman, nor is she the very least vulgar or common. She gives me more the idea of a wild thing not quite tamed. When all was settled I was told to address the account to Mr. George Liddell, Grosvenor Hotel."

"Why, it must be my cousin George!" cried Katherine. "How strange that in this huge town they should fix on you amongst the thousands of dressmakers! You must make my little cousin look very smart, Rachel."

"She is not little. She is wonderfully mature for ten years old, something like a panther."

"I should like to see her. I believe she is a great idol with her father. I wish," added Katherine, after a pause, "he were not so unreasonably prejudiced against me. You may think me weak, Rachel, but I have a sort of yearning for family ties."

"Why should I think you weak? It is a natural and I suppose a healthy feeling. I don't understand it myself because I never had any. Isolation is my second nature. The only human being that ever treated me with tenderness and loyal friendship is yourself, and what you have been to me, what I feel toward you, none can know, for I can never tell."

"Dear Rachel! How glad I am to have been of use to you! And you amply repay me, you are looking so much better. Tell me, are you not feeling content and happy?"

Rachel smiled, a smile somewhat grim in spite of the soft lips it parted. "I am resigned, and I have found an object to live for, and you know what an improvement that is compared to the condition you found me in. But I don't think I am really any more in love with life now than I was then. However, I am more mistress of myself." She paused, and her face grew very grave as she leaned back in her chair, her arm and small hand, closely shut, resting on the table beside her.

"All the minute details, the thought and anxiety, my business, or rather our business, requires an enormous help—it is such a boon to be too weary at night-time to think! But no amount of work, of care, can quite shut out the light of other days. It is no doubt wrong, immoral, unworthy of a reformed outcast, but if my real heart's desire could be fulfilled, I would live over again those few months of exquisite happiness, and die before waking to the terrible reality of my insignificance in the sight of him who was more than life to me—die while I was still something to be missed, to be regretted. He would have tired of me had I been his wife, and that would have been as terrible as my present lot—even more, for I must have seen his weariness day by day, and no amount of social esteem would have consoled me. As it is, my real self seems to have died, and this creature"—striking her breast—"was a cunningly contrived machine, that can work, and understand, but, save for one friend, cannot feel. I do not even look back to him with any regretful tenderness. I do not love him—that is dead. I do not hate him—I have no right. He did not deceive me; I voluntarily overstepped the line which separates the reputable and disreputable; as long as I was loved and cherished I never felt as if I had done wrong. I never felt humiliation when I was with him. When he grew tired of me he could not help it; he never did try to resist any whim or passion. But better, stronger men cannot hold the wavering will-o'-the-wisp they call 'love'; and once it flickers out, it cannot be relighted. No, I have no one to blame; I can only resign myself to the bitterest, cruelest fate that can befall a woman—to be loved and eagerly sought, won, and adored for a brief hour, then thrown carelessly aside—a mere plaything, unworthy of serious thought. Ah, I have forgotten my resolution not to talk of myself to you. It is a weakness; but your kind eyes melt my heart. Now I will close it up—I will think only of the task I have set myself, to make a little fortune for you, a reputation for my own establishment—not a very grand ambition, but it does to keep the machine going; and I am growing stronger every day, with a strange force that surprises myself. I fear nothing and no one. I think my affection for you, dear, is the only thing which keeps me human. Now tell me, are you still comfortable with Mrs. Needham?"

The tears stood in Katherine's eyes as she listened to this stern wail of a bruised spirit, but with instinctive wisdom she refrained from uttering fruitless expressions of sympathy. She would not encourage Rachel to dwell on the hateful subject; she only replied by pressing her friend's hand in silence, and she began to speak of Mrs. Ormonde's visit, and succeeded in making Rachel laugh at the little woman's description of the means she adopted of reducing Colonel Ormonde to reason.

"Real generosity and unselfishness is very rare," said Rachel. "The meanness and narrowness of men are amazing—and of women too; but somehow one expects more from the strength of a man."

"When men are good they are very good," said Kate, reflectively. "But the only two I have seen much of are not pleasant specimens—my uncle, John Liddell, and Colonel Ormonde. Then against them I must balance Bertie Payne, who is good enough for two."

"He is indeed! I owe him a debt I can never repay, for he brought you to me. I wish you could reward him as he would wish."

"I am not sure that he has any wishes on the subject," said Katherine, her color rising. "He thinks I am too ungodly to be eligible for the helpmeet of a true believer. Ah, indeed I am not half good enough for such a man!"



CHAPTER XXIX.

DE BURGH AGAIN.

That Rachel Trant should have drifted into communication George Liddell seemed a most whimsical turn of the wheel of fortune to Katherine, and she thought much of it.

Would it lead to any reconciliation between herself and her strange, unreasonable, half-savage kinsman? She fancied she could interest herself in his daughter, and towards himself she felt no enmity; rather a mild description of curiosity. Why should they not be on friendly terms?

But this and other subjects of thought were swallowed up in the anticipated pain of removing her nephews from their school at Sandbourne, where they had been so happy and done so well. Miss Payne's friendly offer to take them in for a week or two had relieved Katherine of a difficulty; and Mrs. Needham was most considerate in promising to give her ample time to prepare them for their new school.

What a difference, poor Katherine thought, between the present and the past! quite as great as between the price of Sandbourne and Wandsworth. There was a certain rough and ready tone about the latter establishment which distressed her; yet the school-master's wife seemed a kindly, motherly woman, and the urchins she saw running about the playground looked ruddy and happy enough. It was the best of the cheaper schools she had seen, and to Dr. Paynter's care she resolved to commit them. As Wandsworth was within an easy distance, she could often go to see them.

Another matter kept her somewhat on the qui vive. In spite of Mrs. Ormonde's assurance that De Burgh had forgotten her, Katherine had a strong idea that she had not seen the last of him.

Though Mrs. Needham's wide circle of acquaintances included many men and women of rank, she knew nothing of the set to which De Burgh belonged. Those of his class, admitted within the hospitable gate of the Shrubberies, were usually persons of literary, artistic, or dramatic leanings and connections, of which he was quite innocent.

It was a day or two after Katherine's last interview with Rachel Trant, and Mrs. Needham was "at home" in a more formal way than usual. Katherine was assisting her chief in receiving, when, in the tea-room, she was accosted by Errington. "Have you had tea yourself?" he asked, with his grave, sweet smile.

"Oh yes! long ago."

"Then, Miss Liddell, indulge me in a little talk. It is so long since I have had a word with you! It seems that since we agreed to be fast friends, founding our friendship on the injuries we have done each other, that we have drifted apart more than ever. Pray do not turn away with that distressed look. I am so unfortunate in being always associated with painful ideas in your mind."

"Indeed you are not. All the good of my present life I owe to you," and she raised her soft brown eyes, full of tender gratitude, to his. It was a glance that might have warmed any man's heart, and Errington's answer was:

"Come, then, and let us exchange confidences," the crowd round the door at that moment obliging him, as it seemed to her, to hold her arm very close to his side.

At the end of the hall, which was little more than a passage, was a door sheltered by a large porch. The door had been removed, and the porch turned into a charming nook, with draperies, plants, colored lamps, and comfortable seats. Here Errington and Katherine established themselves.

"First," he began, "tell me, how do you fare at Mrs. Needham's hands? I am glad to see that you seem quite at home; and if I may be allowed to say it, you bear up bravely under the buffets of unkindly fortune."

"I have no right to complain," returned Katherine. "As to Mrs. Needham, were I her younger sister she could not be kinder. I think the great advantage of the semi-Bohemian set to which she belongs, is that among them there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither bond nor free, for all are one in our common human nature. Were I to go down into the kitchen and cook the dinner, it would not put me at any disadvantage with my good friend. I should have only to wash my hands and don my best frock, and in the drawing-room I should be as much the daughter of the house as ever."

Errington laughed. There was a happy sound in his laugh. "You describe our kind hostess well. Such women are the salt of the social earth. And your 'dear boys.' How and where are they?"

"Ah! that is a trial. I go down to Sandbourne the day after to-morrow, to take them from that delightful school, and place them in a far different establishment."

"Ha! Does Mrs. Ormonde go with you?"

"Mrs. Ormonde? Oh no. You know—" she hesitated. "Well, you see, Colonel Ormonde is exceedingly indignant with me because I have lost my fortune, and I fancy he does not approve of Ada's having anything to do with me. Besides—" She paused, not liking to betray too much of the family politics. "They have agreed to give the boys over to me."

"I know. I paid Mr. Newton a long visit the other day, and he told me—perhaps more than you would like."

"I do not mind how much you know," said Katherine, sadly. "I am glad you care enough to inquire."

"I want you to understand that I care very, very much," replied Errington, in a low, earnest tone. "You and I have crossed each other's paths in an extraordinary manner, and if you will allow me, I should like to act a brother's part to you if—" He broke off abruptly, and Katherine, looking up to him with a bright smile, exclaimed, "I shall be delighted to have such a brother, and will not give you more trouble than I can help."

"Thank you." He seemed to hesitate a moment, and then, with a change of tone, observed: "You and Miss Bradley seem to have become intimate. You must find her an agreeable companion. I think she might be a useful friend."

"She is extremely kind. I cannot say how much obliged to her I am; but," continued Katherine, impelled by an unaccountable antagonism, "do you know, I cannot understand why she likes me. There is no real sympathy between us. She is so wise and learned. She never would do wrong things from a sudden irresistible impulse, and then devour her heart with, not repentance, exactly, but remorse which cannot be appeased."

"Probably not. She is rather a remarkable woman. Strong, yet not hard. I fancy we are the arbiters of our own fate."

"Oh no! no!" cried Katherine, with emotion. "Just think of the snares and pitfalls which beset us, and how hard it is to keep the narrow road when a heart-beat too much, a sudden rush of sorrow or of joy, and our balance is lost: even steady footsteps slide from the right way. Believe me, some never have a fair chance."

Errington made a slight movement nearer to her, and after a brief pause said, "I should like to hear you argue this with Angela Bradley."

It sounded strange and unpleasant to hear him say "Angela."

"I never argue with her," said Katherine. "Mine are but old-fashioned weapons, while hers are of the latest fashion and precision. Moreover, we stand on different levels, I am sorry to say. I wonder she troubles herself about me. Is it pure benevolence? or"—with a quick glance into his eyes, which were unusually animated—"did you ask her of her clemency to throw me some crumbs of comfort? If so, she has obeyed you gracefully and well."

"Unreason has a potent advocate in you, Miss Liddell," said Errington; smiling a softer smile than usual. "But I want you to understand and appreciate Miss Bradley. She is a fine creature in every sense of the word. As friend, I am sure she would be loyal with a reasonable loyalty, and I flatter myself she is a friend of mine."

"Another sister?" asked Katherine, forcing herself to smile playfully.

"Yes," returned Errington, slowly, looking down as he spoke; "a different kind of sister."

Katherine felt her cheeks, her throat, her ears, glow, as she listened to what she considered a distinct avowal of his engagement to the accomplished Angela, but she only said, softly and steadily, "I hope she will always be a dear and loyal sister to you."

There was a moment's silence. Then Errington said, abruptly, his eyes, as she felt, on her face, "Have you seen De Burgh since his return?"

"No."

"No doubt you will. What a curious fellow he is! I wonder how he will act, now that he has rank and fortune? He has some good points."

"Oh yes, many," cried Katherine, warmly, "I could not help liking him. He is very true."

"And extremely reckless," put in Errington, coldly, as Katherine paused to remember some other good point.

"Certainly not calculating," she returned.

"Probably his new responsibilities may steady him."

"They may. I almost wish I dare——"

"My dear Katherine, I have been looking everywhere for you. I want you so much to play Mrs. Grandison's accompaniment. She is going to sing one of your songs, and no one plays it as well as you do. So sorry to interrupt your nice talk; but what can a wretched hostess do?"

"Oh, I am quite ready, Mrs. Needham," said Katherine; and she rose obediently.

"Will you come, Mr. Errington?" asked the lady of the house.

"To hear Mrs. Grandison murder one of Miss Liddell's songs, which I dare say I have heard at Castleford? No, thank you. I shall bid you good-night. I am going on to Lady Barbara Bonsfield's, where I shall not stay long."

"Horrid woman! she robbed me of Angela Bradley to-night!" exclaimed Mrs. Needham.

With a quick "Good-night," Katherine went to fulfil her duties in the drawing-room, and did not see Errington again for several days.

"I was vexed with you for not singing last night," said Mrs. Needham, as she sat at luncheon with her young friend the next morning. "You may not have a great voice, but you are much more thoroughly trained than half the amateurs whose squallings and screechings are applauded to the echo."

"I do not know why, but I really did not feel that I could sing, Mrs. Needham. I do not often feel miserable and choky, but I did last night. I am so anxious and uneasy about the boys and the school they are going to, that I was afraid of making a fool of myself. When the change is accomplished I shall be all right again, and not bore you with my sentimentality."

"You don't do anything of the sort. You are a capital plucky girl. Now I have nothing particular for you to do this afternoon, and I can't take you with me; so just go out and call on Miss Bradley or Miss Payne to divert your——"

"A gentleman for Miss Liddell;" said the parlor maid, placing a card beside Katherine.

"Lord de Burgh!" she exclaimed, in great surprise.

"Lord who?" asked Mrs. Needham.

"Lord de Burgh; he is a relation of Colonel Ormonde; I used to meet him at Castleford."

Mrs. Needham eyed her curiously. "Oh, very well, dear," she said, with great cheerfulness. "Go and see him, and give him some tea; only it is too early. I am sorry I cannot put in an appearance, but I have just a hundred and one things to do before I go to Professor Maule's scientific 'afternoon' at four. Give me my bag and note-book. I must go straight away to the 'Incubator Company's Office;' I promised them a notice in my Salterton letter next week. There, go, child; I don't want you any more."

"But I am in no hurry, Mrs. Needham. Lord de Burgh is no very particular friend of mine."

"Well, well! That remains to be seen. Just smooth your hair, won't you? It's all rough where you have leaned on your hand over your writing. It's no matter? Well, it doesn't much. Do you think he has any votes for the British Benevolent Institution for Aged Women? I do so want to get my gardener's mother—There, go, go, dear! You had better not keep him waiting." And Katherine was gently propelled out of the room.

In truth, she was rather reluctant to face De Burgh, although she felt gratified and soothed by his taking the trouble to find her out.

Katherine found her visitor pacing up and down when she opened the drawing-room door, feeling vexed with herself for her changing color and the embarrassment she felt she displayed. De Burgh was looking taller and squarer than ever, but his dark face brightened so visibly as his eyes met Katherine's, that she felt a pang as she thought how unmoved she was herself.

"I thought you had escaped from sight!" he exclaimed, holding her hand for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. "The first time I went to look for you in the old place, I was simply told you had left, by a stupid old woman who knew nothing. Then I called again and asked for Miss—you know whom I mean; she is rather a brick, and told me all about you. In the mean time I met Mrs. Ormonde. I was determined not to ask her anything—she is such a selfish little devil. Now here I am face to face with you at last." And he drew a chair opposite her, and was silent for a minute, gazing with a wistful look in her face.

"You have not a very high opinion of my sister-in-law," said Katherine, beginning as far away from themselves as she could.

"She is an average woman," he said, shortly. "But tell me, what is the matter with you? I did not think you were the sort of girl to break your heart over the loss of a fortune."

"But I have not broken my heart!" she exclaimed, somewhat startled by his positive tone.

"There's a look of pain in your eyes, a despondency in your very figure; don't you think I know every turn of you? Well, I won't say more if it annoys you. We have changed places, Katherine—I mean Miss Liddell. Fortune has given me a turn at last, and I have been tremendously busy. I had no idea how troublesome it is to be rich. There are compensations, however. This doesn't seem a bad sort of place"—looking round at the crowd of china and bric-a-brac ornaments and the comfortable chairs. "How did you come here, and what has been settled? Don't think me impertinent or intrusive; you know you agreed we should be friends, and you must not send me adrift!"

"Thank you, Lord de Burgh. I am sure you could be a very loyal friend. My story is very short." And she gave him a brief sketch of how her affairs had been arranged.

"By George! Ormonde is a mean sneak. To think of his leaving those boys on your hands! and he has plenty of money. I happen to know that his wife has been dabbling in the stocks, and turned some money too. Now where did she get the cash to do it with but from him? So I suppose you intend to starve yourself in order to educate the poor little chaps?"

"Oh no. On the contrary, I am living on the fat of the land, with the kindest mistress in the world."

"Mistress! Great heavens! Why will you persist in such a life?"

"My dear Lord de Burgh, don't you know that it is not always easy to judge or to act for another?

"Which means I am to mind my own business?"

"You have a very unvarnished style of stating facts."

"I know I have." A short pause, and he began again. "Where are those boys now?

"At Sandbourne. But, alas! I am going to take them away to-morrow. They are going to a school at Wandsworth."

"Going down to Sandbourne to-morrow? Is Miss Payne going with you?"

"Oh no; I don't need any one."

"Nonsense! you can't go about alone. I'll meet you at the station and escort you there."

Katherine laughed. "I am afraid that would never do. You have increased in importance and I have diminished, till the distance between our respective stations has widened far too much to permit of familiar intercourse, or—"

"I never thought I should hear you talking such rubbish. What difference can there be between us, except that you are a good woman and I am not a good man? I don't think it's quite fair that on our first meeting after ages—at least quite two months of separation—you should talk in this satirical way."

"I speak the words of truth and soberness, Lord de Burgh."

"Perhaps. I can't quite make you out. I am certain you have been in worse trouble than even want of money. I wish you'd confide in me. That's the right word, isn't it? Do you know, I can be very true to my friends, and silent as the grave. I could tell you everything."

"Thank you. I am sure you could be a faithful friend."

"Do you ever see Errington?" asked De Burgh, changing the subject abruptly.

"Oh yes. He often comes here."

"Indeed? To see you, or Mrs.—what's her name?"

"To see Mrs. Needham," returned Katherine, smiling.

"Hum! I suppose he has a taste for mature beauty?"

"I do not know. At all events Mrs. Needham knows charming girls—enough to suit all tastes, and Mr. Errington—"

"Is too superior a fellow to be influenced by such attractions, eh?" put in De Burgh.

"I am not so sure;" and she laughed merrily. "I think there is one fair lady for whom he is inclined to forego his philosophic tranquility."

"Ha! I thought so. Yourself?"

"Me! No, indeed! A young lady of high attainments and a large fortune."

"Indeed? I am glad of it. He must be awfully hard up, poor devil!"

"Mr. Errington can never be poor," cried Katherine, offended by the disparaging epithet. "He carries his fortune in his brain."

"Well, I am exceedingly thankful I carry mine in my pocket," returned De Burgh, laughing. "Evidently Errington can do no wrong in your eyes. Let us wish him success in his wooing. So I am not to be your escort to Sandbourne? You ought to let me be your courier, I have knocked about so much. I thought I'd take to the road in the modern sense, when I came to my last sou, if the poor old lord had not died. Now I am going to be a pattern man as landlord, peer, and sportsman. Can't give up that, you know."

"I do not see why you should."

"I see you are looking at the clock; that means I am staying too long. You don't know how delightful it is to sit here talking to you, without any third person to bore us."

"I don't mean to be rude, Lord de Burgh, but you see I have letters to write for my chief."

"The deuce you have! It is too awful to see you in slavery."

"Very pleasant, easy slavery."

"So this chief of yours gives parties, receptions, at homes. Why doesn't she ask me?"

"I am sure she would if she knew of your existence."

"Do you mean to say you have never mentioned me to her, nor enlarged upon my many delightful and noble qualities?"

"I am ashamed to say I have not."

Lord de Burgh rose slowly and reluctantly. "Are you going to bring the boys here?"

"No; Miss Payne has most kindly invited them to stay with her. As yet she has not found any one to replace me. Poor little souls, I shall be glad when their holidays are over, for I fear they are not the same joy to Miss Payne as they are to me."

"Ah! believe me, you want some help in bringing up a couple of boys. Just fancy what Cis will be six or seven years hence. Why, he'll play the devil if he hasn't a strong hand over him."

"I don't believe it!" cried Katherine, smiling. "Why should he be worse than other boys?"

"Why should he be better?"

"Well, I can but do my best for them," said Katherine with a sigh.

"I am a brute to prophesy evil, when you have enough to contend with already," cried De Burgh, taking her hand, and looking into her eyes with an expression she could not misunderstand.

"You must not exaggerate my troubles," returned Katherine, with a sweet bright smile on her lips and in her eyes that thanked him for his sympathy, even while she gently withdrew her hand.

"I wish you would let me help you," said De Burgh; and as her lips parted to reply, he went on, hastily: "No, no; don't answer—not yet, at least. You will only say something disagreeable, in spite of your charming lips. Now I'll not intrude on you any longer. I suppose there is no objection to my calling on the young gentlemen at Miss Payne's, and taking them to a circus, or Madame Tussaud's, or any other dissipation suited to their tender years?"

"My dear Lord de Burgh, what an infliction for you! and how very good of you to think of them! Pray do not trouble about them."

"I understand," said De Burgh. "I'll leave my card for your chief below; and be sure you don't forget me when you are sending out cards. By-the-way, I have a pressing invitation to Castleford. When I write to refuse I'll say I have seen you, and that I am going to take charge of the boys during the holidays."

"No, no; pray do not, Lord de Burgh," cried Katherine, eagerly. "You know Ada, and—"

"Are you ashamed to have me as a coadjutor?" interrupted De Burgh, laughing. "Trust me; I will be prudent. Good-by for the present."

Katherine stood in silent thought for a few moments after he had gone. She fully understood the meaning of his visit; though there had been little or nothing of the lover in his tone. He had come as soon as possible to place himself and all he had at her disposal. He was perfectly sincere in his desire to win her for his wife, and she almost regretted she could not return his affection: it might be true affection—something beyond and above the dominant whim of an imperious nature. And what a solution to all her difficulties! But it was impossible she could overcome the repulsion which the idea of marriage with any man she did not love inspired. There was to her but one in the world to whom she could hold allegiance, and he was forbidden by all sense of self-respect and modesty. How was it that, strive as she might to fill her mind to his exclusion, the moment she was off guard the image of Errington rose up clear and fresh, pervading heart and imagination, and dwarfing every other object?

"How miserably, contemptibly weak I am, and have always been! Why did I not stifle this wretched, overpowering attraction in the beginning?" Ay! but when did it begin?

This is a sort of question no heart can answer. Who can foresee that the tiny spring, forcing its way up among the stones and heather of a lonely hill-side, will grow into the broad river, which may carry peace and prosperity on its rolling tide to the lands below, or overwhelm them with destructive floods, according to the forces which feed it and the barriers which hedge it in?



CHAPTER XXX.

"CIS AND CHARLIE."

Again the spring sunshine was lending perennial youth even to London's dingy streets, and making the very best winter garments look dim and shabby. Hunting was over, and Colonel Ormonde found himself by the will of his wife, once more established in London lodgings—of a dingier and obscurer order than those in which they had enjoyed last season.

Mrs. Ormonde was neither intellectually nor morally strong, but she had one reflex ingredient in her nature, which was to her both a shield and spear. She knew what she wanted, and was perfectly unscrupulous as to the means of getting it. A woman who is pleasantly indifferent to the wants and wishes of her associates, if they happen to clash with her own, is tolerably sure to have her own way on the whole. Now and then, to be sure, she comes to grief; but in her general success these failures can be afforded.

When first the tidings of George Liddell's return and his assertion of his rights reached her, she was terrified and undone by Colonel Ormonde's fury against Katherine, herself, her boys, every one. In short, that gallant officer thought he had done a generous and manly thing, when he married the piquant little widow who had attracted him, although she could only meet her personal expenses and those of her two sons, without contributing to the general house-keeping. This sense of his own magnanimity, backed by the consciousness that it did not cost him too dear, had kept Colonel Ormonde in the happiest of moods for the first years of his married life. Terrible was the awakening from the dream of his own good luck and general "fine-fellowism"; and heavily would the punishment have fallen on his wife had she been a sensitive or high-minded woman. Being, however, admirably suited to the partner of her life, she looked round, as soon as the first burst of despair was over, to see how she could make the best of her position.

She was really vexed and irritated to find how little tenderness or regard her husband felt for her, for she had always believed that he was greatly devoted to her. To both of them the outside world was all in all, and on this Mrs. Ormonde counted largely. Colonel Ormonde could not put her away or lock her up because the provision made by Katherine for the boys failed her, so while she was mistress of Castleford she must have dresses and carriages and consideration. Knowing herself secure on these points, she fearlessly adopted the system of counter-irritation she described to Katherine; and to do her justice, her consciousness that the boys were safe under the care of their aunt, who would be sure to treat them well and kindly, made her the more ready to brave the dangers of her husband's wrath.

"He must behave well before people, or men will say he is a 'cad' to visit his disappointment on his poor little simple-hearted wife," she thought. "He knows that. Then it is an enormous relief that Katherine still clings to the boys, poor dears! She really is a trump; so I have only myself to think of; and Duke shall find that his shabbiness and ill-temper do him no good. It's like drawing his teeth to get my quarter's allowance, beggarly as it is, from him."

Colonel Ormonde's reflections, as he composed a letter to his steward, were by no means soothing. Though it was all but impossible for him to hold his tongue respecting his disappointment, whenever a shade of difference occurred between him and his wife, he was uncomfortably conscious that he often acted like a brute toward the mother of his boy, of whom he was so proud; he was not therefore the more disposed to rule his hasty, inconsiderate temper. The fact that Mrs. Ormonde had her own methods of paying him back disposed him to respect her, and it could not be doubted that in time the friction of their natures would rub off the angles of each, and they would settle down into tolerable harmony, whereas a proud, true-hearted woman in her place would have been utterly crushed and never forgiven.

Ormonde, then, was meditating on his undeserved misfortunes, when the door was somewhat suddenly and vehemently pushed open, and Mrs. Ormonde came in, her eyes sparkling, and evidently in some excitement.

"What's the matter?" asked her husband, not too amiably. "Has that rascally, intruding fellow Liddell kicked the bucket?"

"No; but whom do you think I saw as I was leaving Mrs. Bennett's in Hyde Park Square, you know?"

"How can I tell? The policeman perhaps."

"Nonsense, Duke! I had just come down the steps, and was turn turning toward Paddington, for, as it was early, I thought I would take the omnibus to Oxford Circus (see how careful I am!), when I saw a beautiful dark brougham, drawn by splendid black horse—the coachman, the whole turn-out, quite first rate—come at a dashing pace towards me. I recognized Lord de Burgh inside, and who do you think was sitting beside him?"

"God knows! The Saratoffski perhaps."

"Really, Ormonde, I am astonished at your mentioning that dreadful woman to me.

"Oh! are you? Well, who was De Burgh's companion?"

"Charlie! my Charlie! and Cis was on the front seat. Cis saw me, for he clapped his hands and pointed as they flew past. What do you think of that?"

"By George!" he exclaimed, in capital letters. "I believe he is still after Katherine. If so, she'll have the devil's own luck."

"Now listen to me. As Wilton Street was quite near, I went on there to gather what I could from Miss Payne. She was at home, and a little less sour and silent then usual. She was sorry, she said, the boys were out. They have been with her for a week, and Lord de Burgh had been most kind. He had taken them to the Zoological Gardens and Madame Tussaud's, and just now had called for them to go to the circus. Isn't it wonderful? Do try and picture De Burgh at Madame Tussaud's."

"There is only one way of accounting for such strange conduct," returned the Colonel, thoughtfully. "He means to marry your sister. This would change the face of affairs considerably."

"Yes; it would be delightful."

"I'm not so sure of that," returned Ormonde, seriously. "Now that he is in love—and you know he is all fire and tow—he makes a fuss about the boys; but wait till he is married, and he will try to shift them back on you. Why should he put up with his wife's nephews any more than I do with my wife's sons?"

"Because he is more in love, and a good deal richer," returned Mrs. Ormonde.

"More in love! Bosh! In the middle of the fever, you mean. Of course that will pass over."

"Really men are great brutes," observed Mrs. Ormonde, philosophically.

"And women awful fools," added her husband.

"Well, perhaps so," she returned, with a slight smile and a sharp glance.

"Seriously, though," resumed Colonel Ormonde, "it's all very well for Katherine to make a good match, and if De Burgh is fool enough to be in earnest, it will be a splendid match for her; but things may be made rather rough for me. That fellow De Burgh has the queerest crotchets, and doesn't hesitate to air them. He'd think nothing of slapping my shoulder in the club before a dozen members, and asking me if I meant to leave my wife's brats on his hands."

"Do you really think so? Oh, Katherine would never let him. She dearly loves the boys."

"Wait till she has a son of her own."

"Even so. She has her faults, I know. Her temper is rather violent, her ideas are too high-flown and nonsensical, and she won't take advice, but she never would injure me, I am sure of that."

An inarticulate grunt from Colonel Ormonde, as he fixed his double glass on his nose and took up his pen again.

"Duke," resumed Mrs. Ormonde, after a pause, "don't you think I had better go and see Katherine? You know we never had any quarrel, and that Mrs. Needham she lives with gives very nice parties."

"Parties! By Jove! you'd go to old Nick for a party. What good will it do you to meet a pack of beggarly scribblers?"

"They may not have money, Duke, but they have manners, and something to say for themselves," she retorted. "Never mind about the parties. Don't you think I would better call on Katherine?"

"Do as you like but consider that she has behaved very badly—with extreme insolence; but I don't want to influence you." This in a tone of magnanimity, as he began to write with an air of profound attention.

Mrs. Ormonde made a swift contemptuous grimace at his back, and said, in mellifluous tones: "Very well, dear. I may as well go at once, and perhaps she will come with me to that dressmaking ally of hers, Miss Trant. I hear she is raising her prices, but she will not do so to me if I am with her original patroness."

"Oh, do as you like; only don't send me in a long milliner's bill."

"I am sure, Duke, my clothes never cost you much."

"Not so far, but the future looks rather blue."

To this she made no reply. Leaving the room noiselessly, she retired to give a touch of kohl to her eyes, a dust of pearl powder to her cheeks, and then started on her mission of inquiry and reconciliation.

It is not to be denied that Katherine was greatly touched by De Burgh's thoughtful kindness to her boys. She had been a good deal troubled about their holidays, for she did not like to take full advantage of Mrs. Needham's kind permission to absent herself as much as she liked in order to be with them, and she well knew that in Miss Payne's very orderly establishment the two restless, active little fellows would be a most discordant ingredient. Above all, she wanted them to have a very happy holiday, as she feared their cloudless sunny days were numbered.

The second morning, therefore, after she had deposited them in Wilton Street, when she went to inquire for them, and found that Lord de Burgh had called and carried them off to have luncheon with him first, and to spend the afternoon at the Zoological Gardens after, she could hardly credit her ears.

"I must say," observed Miss Payne, "that I am agreeably surprised. I had no idea Lord de Burgh was so straightforward and well-disposed a man. A little abrupt, and would not stand any nonsense, I fancy, but a sterling character. He has tact too. He always spoke of the boys as his cousin Colonel Ormonde's step-sons. He might be a good friend to them, Katherine."

"No doubt," she replied, thoughtfully.

"He will send his butler or house-steward to take them to Kew Gardens to-morrow; but I dare say he will call and tell you himself."

"He is wonderfully good," said Katherine, feeling puzzled and oppressed. "I will go back, then, as fast as I can, and get my work done by six o'clock; then I may spend the evening here with you and the boys."

"Pray do, if you can manage it."

Lord de Burgh's remarkable conduct troubled Katherine a good deal. How ought she to act? Certainly he would not put himself out of the way for Cis and Charlie, had he not wished to please her, or really interested himself in them for her sake. Ought she to encourage him by accepting these very useful and kindly attentions? How could she reject them without saying as plainly by action as in words, "I know you are pressing your suit upon me, and I will not have it," which, after all, might be a mistake; besides, she would thus deprive her nephews of much pleasure. She could not come to a conclusion; she must let herself drift. But the question tormented her, and it was with an effort she banished it, and applied herself to her task of arranging her chief's notes.

Mrs. Needham was exceedingly busy that afternoon, and did not go out, as she had some provincial and colonial letters to finish, and had a couple of engagements in the evening. She and her secretary therefore wrote diligently till about half-past five, when Ford, the smart parlor-maid, announced that "the gentleman" and two little boys were in the drawing-room.

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Needham, slipping off her glasses. "This is growing interesting. I shall go and speak to Lord de Burgh myself. Besides, I want to see your boys, my dear. How funny it sounds!"

"Do, Mrs. Needham. I will come."

Lord de Burgh was glaring absently out of the window, and the boys were eagerly examining the diverse and sundry objects thickly scattered around. They had wonderfully dirty hands and faces, their jackets were splashed as if with some foaming beverage, the knees of their knickerbockers were grubby with gravel and grass, and they had generally the aspect of having done wildly what they listed for some hours.

"Lord de Burgh, I suppose?" said Mrs. Needham, in loud and cheerful accents. "I am very pleased to see you" (De Burgh bowed); "and you, my dears—I am very glad to see you too, especially if you will be so good as not to touch my china!"

"We haven't broken anything!" cried Cecil, coming up to her and giving her a dingy little paw, while he stared in her face. "Where is auntie?"

"She'll be here directly. This is Charlie: what a sweet little fellow! Why, your eyes are like your aunt's."

"Do you think so?" said De Burgh, drawing near. "They are lighter—a good deal lighter."

"Perhaps so. The shape and expression are like, though. And so you have been to see the lions and tigers?"

"And the bears," put in Charlie.

"Isn't Lord de Burgh kind to take you—"

"He is! he's a jolly chap!" cried Cecil, warmly. "I shouldn't mind living with him."

"Nor I either," added Charlie.

Here Katherine made her appearance, a conscious look in her eyes, a flitting blush on her cheek. The boys immediately flew to hug and kiss her, barely allowing her to shake hands with De Burgh. Then, when she sat down on the sofa, Charlie established himself on her knee and Cecil knelt on the sofa, the better to put his arms round her neck.

"What dreadfully dirty little boys! What have you been doing to yourselves?"

"Oh, we have been on the elephant and the camel, and in the ostrich cart. Then Charlie tumbled down in the monkey-house. Oh, how funny the monkeys are! and he" (pointing to Lord de Burgh) "took us to dinner. Such a beautiful dinner in a lovely room! He says he will take us to the circus."

"I'll ask him to take you too, auntie!" cried Charlie.

"Oh yes!" echoed Cecil. "You'll take her, Lord de Burgh, won't you? I don't think auntie ever saw a circus."

"If you promise to be very good, and that your aunt too will be quiet and well-behaved, I may be induced to let her come," returned De Burgh, his deep-set eyes glittering with fun and anticipated pleasure.

"Thank you," said Katherine, laughing, as soon as her delighted nephew ceased kissing her.

"And you'll come?—the day after to-morrow? I will call for the boys, bring them round here."

"If I have nothing special—" she began.

"Certainly not; I will take care of that," cried Mrs. Needham, "It is such a great thing to get a little amusement for the poor little fellows, and so very kind of Lord de Burgh to take so much trouble."

"It is indeed. I really don't know how to thank you enough," said Katherine. "Mrs. Needham, I must really take them to wash their hands; they are so terribly dirty!"

"No; ring the bell; Ford will manage them nicely, and bring them back in a few minutes." Mrs. Needham rang energetically as she spoke, and the young gentlemen were speedily marched off.