"No! But suppose George Liddell found I had drawn a large check--perhaps the very day before I propose through you to hand over what remains to me--he would think me a cheat?"

"And pray why should he know anything about your bank-book? or what consideration do you owe him? He is behaving very harshly and badly to you. We will state what is in the bank after you have drawn your check, and offer him half--which is a great deal too much for him. Yet I should like him to be your friend, if possible. Could you get hold of that little girl of his? Affection for her seems to be the only human thing about him."

"I think I should rather have nothing to do with him," murmured Katherine.

"Well, well, we will see. Now, though we have not succeeded in coming to any settlement with Liddell, I believe we ought not to leave Mrs.

Ormonde any longer in ignorance respecting the change which has taken place."

"No, I am sure they ought to know. I have been troubling myself about both the Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde," said Katherine. "This is what I dread most." And she sighed.

"I do not see why you need. I am sure you acted with n.o.ble liberality to Mrs. Ormonde and her boys when you thought you were the rightful owner of the property."

"The rightful owner," repeated Katherine, with a thrill of pain. "It has been an unfortunate ownership to me."

"It has--it has indeed, my dear young lady, but we must see how to help you at this juncture. If Miss Trant behaves as she ought, we must put a little more capital in that concern if it is as thriving as you believe.

It may turn out very useful to you."

"I have not seen her since my cousin came to life again, for I could not see her and keep back my strange story. May I tell her now?"

"Certainly. It was from Colonel and Mrs. Ormonde I wished to keep back the disastrous news till some agreement should be come to."

"You must not call my cousin's return to life and country disastrous,"

said Katherine, smiling. "I am sure, if he will only give me the chance of keeping my boys with me, I am quite ready to welcome him to both. Now I shall leave you, for I want to send away my letter to Ada this evening, and it is a difficult letter to write."

"I have no doubt you will state your case clearly and well," returned Mr. Newton, rising to shake hands with her. "Let me hear what Mrs.

Ormonde says in reply; and see your protegee, Miss Trant. I am anxious to learn her views."

"I am quite sure I know what they will be," said Katherine.

"Don't be too sure. Human nature is a very crooked thing--more crooked than a true heart like yours can imagine," continued the old man, holding her hand kindly.

"Ah, Mr. Newton," she cried, with an irresistible outburst of penitence, "you little know what crooked things I can imagine."

"Can't I?" he said laughing at what he fancied was her little joke, and glad to see her bearing her troubles so lightly. "You'll come all right yet, my dear; you have the right spirit. Is your carriage waiting?"

"Not here; but in Holborn I have several at my command," she returned.

"Good-by; no, you must not come downstairs; it is damp and chilly."

On reaching her home, the home she must so soon resign, Katherine sent a note to Rachel Trant asking if she had a spare hour that evening, as she, Katherine, had something to tell her, and preferred going to her house. Then she sat down to write a full and detailed account of what had taken place to her sister-in-law. It was dusk before she had finished and she herself felt considerably exhausted. Miss Payne had gone out to dine with one of her former girls, now the wife of a rackety horsy man, whose conduct made her often look back with a sigh of regret to the tranquil days pa.s.sed under the guardianship of the prudent spinster; so having partaken of tea at their usual dinner-time she sat and mused awhile on the one subject from which she could derive comfort--Errington and his wonderful kindness to her. If he took the matter in hand she thought herself safe. Her confidence in him was unbounded. Ah! why had she placed such a gulf between them? How she had destroyed her own life! There was but one tie between her and the world, little Charlie and Cis, and perhaps she had been their greatest enemy.

She almost wished she could love De Burgh. He was undoubtedly in earnest; he interested her; he--But no. Between her and any possible husband she had reared the insurmountable barrier of a secret not to be shared by any save one, from whom, somehow, instead of dividing her, had bound her indissolubly; at least she felt it to be so.

It was near the hour she had fixed to call on Rachel, so she roused herself, and asking the amiable Francois to accompany her, started for Malden Street.

Rachel Trant had made a back parlor, designated the "trying-on" room, bright and cosy, with a shaded lamp, a red fire, a couple of easy-chairs at either side of it, and a gay cloth over the small round table erst strewn with fashion books, measuring tapes, pins, patterns and pin-cushions.

"How very good of you to come to me!" cried Miss Trant, hastening to divest her friend of bonnet and cloak. "I am very curious to hear the story you have to tell." Then, as Katherine sat down where the lamp-light fell upon her face, she added, "But you are not looking well, Miss Liddell; your eyes look heavy; your mouth is sad."

"I am troubled, more than sad," said Katherine; "the why and wherefore I have come to tell you."

"Yes; tell me everything." And Rachel took a low seat opposite her guest; her usually pale face was slightly flushed, her large blue eyes darkened with the pleasure of seeing the friend she loved so warmly and the interest with which she awaited her disclosure, and as Katherine looked at her she realized how pretty and attractive she must have been before the fresh grace of her girlhood had been withered by the cruel fires of pa.s.sion and despair. "I am listening," said Rachel, gently, to recall her visitor, whose thoughts were evidently far away.

"Yes; I had forgotten." And Katherine began her story.

Rachel Trant listened with rapt, intense attention, nor did she interrupt the narrative by a single question.

When Katherine ceased to speak she remained silent for a second or two longer: then she asked, "Are you convinced of the truth of this man's story?"

"I am, for Mr. Newton does not seem to have a doubt. Oh! he is my uncle John's only son--only child, indeed--and he is like him. I always fancied from the little my uncle said about George that he was naturally kind and sympathetic, but he has had a hard life, and it has made him hard. The loss of his mother was a terrible misfortune."

"Was he young when she died?"

"He was about fourteen, I think; but he lost her by a worse misfortune than death. She was driven away by my uncle's severity and harshness; she left him for another."

"What! left her son?"

"Yes--it seems incredible--nor does my cousin resent her desertion. On the contrary, all the affection and softness in him appears to centre round his daughter and the memory of his mother."

"Then," said Rachel, "if this man persists in demanding his rights, you will be beggared, and those dear boys must go back to their mother. They will not be too welcome."

"Oh no! no! I feel that only too keenly."

"But you will not be penniless nor homeless," cried Rachel. "He cannot touch this house. You made it over to me, and I will use it for you.

There are two nice rooms I can arrange for you upstairs. I am doing well, and if I had but a little more capital, I should not fear; I should not doubt making a great success. My dear, dearest Miss Liddell, I may be of use to you, after all. Tell me, is this Mr. Newton truly interested in you--anxious to help you?"

"I am sure he is; he is very unhappy about me."

"Do you think he would let me call on him? I want to tell him the plans that are coming into my head. I can explain all the business part to him. If I can get through this year without debt, I am pretty sure of providing you with an income--an increasing income. This is a joy I never antic.i.p.ated. And then you can keep your little nephews, and be a real mother to them. I don't want to trouble you with the business details of my plan; you would not understand them. But Mr. Newton will.

Pray write a line asking him to see me, to name his own time. Stay; here are paper and pen and ink; ask him to write to me. He knows--he knows my story. At least--" She stopped, coloring crimson.

"He knows all it is needful for me to tell," said Katherine, gravely.

"Yes, Rachel, it is better to explain all to him. He is kind and wise, and I am strangely stupefied by this extraordinary overturn of my fortunes. I shall be glad of your help, but do not neglect your own future, dear Rachel."

"I shall not: I shall make enough for us both. You have indeed given me something to live for."

CHAPTER XXVI.

COLONEL AND MRS. ORMONDE.

The moral effect of feeling in touch with some loyal, tender, sympathizing fellow-creature is immense. It gives faith in one's self--a belief in the possibilities for good hidden in the future; above all, relief from that most paralyzing of mental conditions, a sense of isolation.

Katherine walked back alone in the dark. The sooner she accustomed herself to habits of independence the better; for the future she must learn to stand alone, to take care of herself, una.s.sisted by maid or flunky. It made her a little nervous; for although in the old impecunious days she went on all necessary errands in the morning alone, she rarely left the house after sundown even with a companion. They were very monotonous days, those which seemed to have fled away so far into the soft misty gloom of the past. Yet how full of fragrance was their memory! The castle-building, the vague bright hopes, the joy of helping the dear mother, the utter absolute trust in her, the struggle with the necessities of life--all were more or less sweet; and now to what an end she had brought the simple drama of her youth! Had she resisted that strange prompting which kept her silent when Mr. Newton began to look for the will, how different everything might have been! Errington might be well off too, and she might never have seen him.

With the thought of him came the sudden overpowering wish to hear his voice--clear, deliberate, convincing--which sometimes seized her in spite of every effort to banish it from her mind, and of which she was utterly, profoundly ashamed, the recurrence of which was infinitely painful. She must fill her heart with other thoughts, other objects.

"Life is serious enough (the life which lies before me especially) to crowd out these follies. Why do I increase its gloom with imaginary troubles?"