CONFESSION.

"Errington is completely ruined!" De Burgh's words repeated themselves over and over again in Katherine's ears through the darkness and silence of her sleepless night. What would become of him--that grave, stately man who had never known the touch of anything common or unclean? How would he live? And what an additional blow the rupture of his engagement with Lady Alice! He was certainly very fond of her. It was like him to give up all he possessed to save the honor of his name, but how would it be if he were penniless? Had _she_ not robbed him, he might have enough to live comfortably after satisfying every one. As she thought, a resolution to restore what she had taken formed itself in her mind.

Perhaps if he could show that he had still a solid capital, his engagement to Lady Alice need not be broken off. If she could restore him to competence, he would not refuse some provision for the poor dear boys. Were she secure on _this_ point, she would be happier without the money than with it. But the humiliation of confession--and to _such_ a father confessor? How could she do it? Yet it must be done.

"Good gracious, Katherine, you look like a ghost!" was Mrs. Ormonde's salutation when the little party met at breakfast next morning. "Pray have you seen one?"

"Yes; I have been surrounded by a whole gallery of ghosts all night--which means that a bad conscience would not let me sleep."

"What nonsense! Why, you are a perfect saint, Kate, in some ways; but in others I must say you are foolish; yes, dear, I must say it--_very_ foolish."

"I dare say I am," returned Katherine; "but whether I am or not, I have an intense headache, so you must excuse me if I am very stupid."

"I am sure you want change, Katherine. Do come back with me to town.

There is quite time enough to put up all you want before 11, and the train goes at 11.10. There is a little dance, 'small and early' at Lady Mary Vincent's this evening, and I know she would be delighted to see you."

"I do not think hot rooms the best cure for a headache," observed Miss Payne; "and till yesterday Katherine had been looking remarkably well.

She was out boating too long in the sun."

"You are very good to trouble about me, Ada. My best cure is quiet. I will go and lie down as soon as I see you off, and I dare say shall be myself again in the evening. I may come up to town for a day or two before you return to Castleford, but I will let you know."

Nothing more was said on the subject then, but when Katherine returned from the station after bidding her sister-in-law good-by, Miss Payne met her with a strong recommendation to take some "sal volatile and water, and to lie down at once."

"I did not, of course, second Mrs. Ormonde's suggestions--the idea of your going for rest or health to _her_ house!--but I am really vexed to see you look so ill. How do you feel?"

"Very well disposed to follow your good advice. If I could get some sleep, I should be quite well." Katherine smiled pleasantly as she spoke. She was extremely thankful to secure an hour or two of silence and solitude.

During the night her heart, her brain, were in such a tumult she could not think consecutively. Alone in her room, and grown calmer, she could plan her future proceedings and screw her courage to the desperate sticking-point of action such as her conscience dictated.

She fastened her door and set her window wide open. After gazing for some time at the sea, golden and glittering in the noonday sun, and inhaling the soft breeze which came in laden with briny freshness, she lay down and closed her eyes. But though keeping profoundly still, no restful look of sleep stole over her set face; no, she was thinking hard, for how long she could not tell. When, however, she came downstairs to join Miss Payne at tea, the anxious, nervous, alarmed expression of her eyes had changed to one of gloomy composure.

"Though I do not care to stay with Ada, I want to go to town to-morrow for a little shopping, and to see Mr. Newton if I can. I will take the quick train at half-past eight and return in the evening. You might send to meet the nine o'clock express. Should anything occur to keep me, I will telegraph."

"Very well"--Miss Payne's usual reply to Katherine's propositions. "But are you quite sure you feel equal to the journey?"

"Yes, quite equal," returned Katherine, with a short deep sigh. "I believe it will do me good."

That Errington had been stunned by the blow which had fallen so suddenly upon him cannot be disputed. His first and bitterest concern was dread lest the character of his father's house, which had always stood so high, lest the honor of his own name, should suffer the smallest tarnish. It was this that made him so eager to ascertain the full liabilities of the firm, so ready to sacrifice all he possessed so that no one save himself should be the loser. "If I accepted a handsome fortune from transactions over which I exercised no supervision, I must hold myself doubly responsible for the result," he argued, and at once set to work to turn all he possessed into money.

In truth the prospect of poverty did not dismay him.

His tastes were very simple. It was the loss of power and position, which wealth always bestows, which he would feel most, and the necessity of renouncing Lady Alice.

This was imperative. Yet it surprised him to perceive how little he felt the prospect of parting with her on his own account. Indeed he was rather ashamed of his indifference. It was for Lady Alice he felt. It would be such a terrible disappointment--not that Errington had much personal vanity. He hoped and thought Lady Alice Mordaunt liked him in a calm and reasonable manner, which is the best guarantee for married happiness. But it was the loss of a tranquil home, a luxurious life, an escape from the genteel poverty of a deeply embarra.s.sed earl's daughter to the ease and comfort of a rich man's wife, that he deplored for her.

Poor helpless child! she would probably find a rich husband ere long who would give her all possible luxuries, for a n.o.ble's daughter of high degree is generally a marketable article. But he, Miles Errington, would have been kind and patient. Would that other possible fellow be kind and patient too? Knowing his own s.e.x, Errington doubted it. He had a certain amount of the generosity which belongs to strength. To children, and the kind of pretty, undecided women who rank as children, he was wonderfully considerate. But it was quite possible that were he married to a sensible, companionable wife he might be exacting.

At present it seemed highly improbable that he should ever reach a position which would enable him to commit matrimony. Thirty-four is rather an advanced age at which to begin life afresh.

The prospect of bachelorhood, however, by no means dismayed him. Indeed it was more a sense of his social duties as a man of fortune and a future senator that had impelled him to seek a wife, not an irresistible desire for the companionship of a ministering spirit. He was truly thankful that his marriage had bean delayed, and that he was not hampered by any sense of duty toward a wife in his design of sacrificing his all to save his credit.

After the first few days of stunning surprise, Errington set vigorously to work to clear the wreck. Garston was advertised; his stud, his furniture--everything--put up for sale, and his own days divided between his solicitor and his stock-broker. His first step was to explain matters to his intended father-in-law, who, being an impulsive, self-indulgent man, swore a good deal about the ill-luck of all concerned, but at once declared the engagement must be at an end.

As Lady Alice was still in Switzerland with her brother and his wife, it was considered wise to spare her the pain of an interview. Lord Melford explained matters to his daughter in an extremely outspoken letter, enclosing one from Errington, in which, with much good feeling, he bade her a kindly farewell. To this she replied promptly, and a week saw the extinction of the whole affair. Errington could not help smiling at this "rapid act." It was then about three weeks after the blow had fallen--a warm glowing June morning. Errington's man of business had just left him, and he had returned to his writing-table, which was strewn, or rather covered, with papers (nothing Errington ever handled was "strewn"), and continued his task of making out a list of his private liabilities, which were comparatively light, when his valet--not yet discharged, though already warned to look for another master--approached, with his usually impa.s.sive countenance, and presented a small note.

Errington opened it, and to his inexpressible surprise read as follows:

"TO MR. ERRINGTON,--Allow me to speak to you alone.

"KATHERINE LIDDELL."

"Who brought this?" asked Errington, suppressing all expression as well as he could.

"A young person in black, sir--leastways I think she's young."

"Show her in; and, Harris, I am engaged if any one calls."

Errington went to the door to meet his most unexpected visitor. The next moment she stood before him. He bowed with much deference. She bent her head in silence, but did not offer to shake hands. She wore a black dress and a very simple black straw hat, round which a white gauze veil was tied, which effectually concealed her face.

"Pray sit down," was all Errington could think of saying, so astonished was he at her sudden appearance.

Katherine took a seat opposite to his. She unfastened and took off her veil, displaying a face from which her usual rich soft color had faded, sombre eyes, and tremulous lips. Looking full at him, she said, without greeting of any kind, "Do you think me mad _to_ come here?"

"I am a little surprised; but if I can be of any use--" Errington began calmly. She interrupted him.

"I hope to be of use to _you_. No one except myself can explain how or why; that is the reason I have intruded upon you."

"You do not intrude, Miss Liddell. I am quite at your service; only I hope you are not distressing yourself on my account."

"On yours and my own." Her eyes sank, and her hands played nervously with the handle of a small dainty leather bag she carried, as she paused. Then, looking up steadily, and speaking in a monotonous tone, as if she were repeating a lesson, with parched lips she went on: "I did you a great wrong some years ago. I was sorry, but I had not the courage to atone until I learned (only yesterday) that you had lost, or rather given up, your fortune, and that your engagement might be broken off. (I _must_ speak of these things. You will forgive me before I come to an end.) Then I felt something stronger than myself that forced me to tell you all." Her heart beat so hard that her voice could not be steadied.

She stopped to breathe.

"I fear you are exciting yourself needlessly," said Errington, quite bewildered, and almost fearing that his visitor's brain was affected.

"Oh, listen!--do listen! My uncle, John Liddell, your father's old friend, left all his money to you. I hid the will, and succeeded as next of kin. The property amounts to something more than eighty thousand pounds, and I have not spent half the income, so there are some savings besides. Can you not live comfortably on that, and marry Lady Alice?"

Errington gazed at her for a moment speechless. A sigh of relief broke from Katherine. The color rose to her cheeks, her throat, her small white ears, and then slowly faded.

"I can hardly understand you, Miss Liddell. I fear you are under the effect of some nervous hallucination."

"I am not. I can prove I am not." She drew forth the packet inscribed "MS. to be destroyed," and laid it before him. "There is the will. Thank G.o.d I never could bring myself to destroy it. Here, pray read it." She opened the doc.u.ment and handed it to him.

There were a few moments' dead silence while Errington hastily skimmed the will. "_I_ am most reluctantly obliged to believe you," he said at length. "But what an extraordinary circ.u.mstance! How"--looking earnestly at her--"how did it ever occur to you to--to--"

"To commit a felony?" put in Katherine, as he paused.

"No; I was not going to use such a word," he said, gravely, but not unkindly.