RECOGNITION.

"After all, life is inexhaustible," said Katherine.

She was speaking to Rachel Trant, who had laid aside her work to speak with the good friend who had come, as she often did, to see how she was going on and to cheer her.

"Life is very cruel," she returned. "Neither sorrow nor repentance can alter its pitiless law.

"Still, there are compensations." Katherine did not exactly think what she was saying; her mind was filled with the desire of knowing her interlocutor's story.

"Compensations!" echoed Rachel. "Not for those who deserve to suffer, nor, indeed, often for the innocent. I don't think we often find vice punished and virtue rewarded in history and lives—true stories, I mean—as we do in novels."

Katherine did not reply at once; she thought for a moment, and then, looking full into Rachel's eyes, said: "I wonder how you came to be a dressmaker? You have read a great deal for a girl who must have had her hands full all day. I am not asking this from idle curiosity, but from real interest."

"I may well believe you. I should like to tell you much; but—" She paused and grew very white for a second, her lips trembling, and a troubled look coming into her eyes. "I always loved reading," she resumed; "it has been almost my only pleasure, though I was apprenticed to a milliner and dressmaker when little more than sixteen. Then I went to work with another, a very great person in her way, and I like the work. Still I used to think I was a sort of lady; my poor mother certainly was."

"I am sure of it," cried Katherine, impulsively. "I quite feel that you are."

"Thank you," said Rachel, in a very low voice, the color rising to her pale cheek. "My mother was so sweet and pretty," she continued, "but so sad! I was an orphan at ten years old, and then a very stiff, severe-looking woman, the sister of my father, had charge of me. I was sent to a school, a kind of institution, not exactly a charity school, for I know something was paid for me. It was a very cold sort of place, but I was not unhappy there. I had playfellows—some kind, some spiteful. One of the governesses was very good to me, and used to give me books to read. Had she remained, things might have been very different; but she left long before I did. The rare holidays when I was permitted to visit my father's sister were terrible days to me. She could not bear to see me. I felt it. She seemed to think my very existence was an offence. I was ashamed of living in her presence. Of my father I have a very faint recollection. He died abroad, and I remember being on board ship for a long time with my mother. When I was sixteen my father's sister sent for me, and told me that the money my mother left was nearly exhausted, and what remained ought to provide me with some trade or calling by which I could earn my own bread; that she did not think I was clever enough to be a governess, so she advised my to apprentice myself to a dressmaker. I had seen enough of teaching in school, so I took her advice. At the same time she gave me some papers my mother had left for me. They fully explained why my existence was an offence—why I belonged to nobody. It was a bitter hour when I read my dear mother's miserable story. I felt old from that day. Well, I thanked my father's sister—mind you, she was not my aunt—for what she had done, and promised she should never more be troubled with me. I have kept my word."

Katherine, infinitely touched by the picture of sorrow and loneliness this brief story conjured up, took and pressed the thin quivering hand that played nervously with a thimble. Rachel glanced at her quickly, compressed her lips for an instant, and went on:

"I will try and tell you all. You ought to know. As far as work went, I did very well. I loved to handle and drape beautiful stuffs—I enjoy color—and it pleased me to fit the pretty girls and fine ladies who came to our show-rooms. It was even a satisfaction to make the plain ones look better. I should have made friends more easily with my companions but for the knowledge of what I was. Even this I might have got over—I am not naturally morbid—but I could not share their chatter and jests, or care for their love affairs. They were not bad, poor things! but simply ordinary girls of a class to which it would have been, perhaps, better for me to belong. With my employers I did fairly well. They were sometimes just, sometimes very unjust; but when I was out of my time, and receiving a salary, I found I was a valued employee . Then it came into my mind that I should like to found a business—a great business. It seemed rather a 'vaulting ambition' for so humble a waif as myself. But I began to save even shillings and sixpences. I tried to kill my heart with these duller, lower aims, it ached so always for what it could not find. I began to think I was growing so useful to madame that she might make me a partner; for even in millinery mental training is of use." She stopped, and clasping her hands, she rested them on her knee for a few moments of silence, while her brow contracted as if with pain. "It is dreadfully hard to go on!" she exclaimed at length, and her voice sounded as if her mouth were parched.

"Then do not mind now; some other time," said Katherine, softly.

"No," cried Rachel, with almost fierce energy; "I must finish. I cannot leave you ignorant of my true story." She paused again, and then went on quickly, in a low tone: "I don't think I was exactly popular—certainly not with the men employed in the same house. I was thought cold and hard, and to me they were all utterly uninteresting. One or two of the girls I liked, and they were fond of me." Another pause. Then she pushed on again: "One evening I went out with another girl and her brother—at least she said he was her brother—to see the illuminations for the Queen's birthday. In Pall Mall we got into a crowd caused by a quarrel between two drunken men. I was separated from my companions, and one of the crowd, also tipsy, reeled against me. I should have been knocked down but for a gentleman who caught me; he had just come down the steps from one of the clubs. I thanked him. He kindly helped me to find my companions. He came on with us almost to the door of Madame Celine's house. He talked frankly and pleasantly. Two days after I was going to the City on madame's business. He met me. He said he had watched for me. There! I cannot go into details. We met repeatedly. For the first time in my life I was sought, and, as I believed, warmly loved. I knew the unspeakable gulf that opened for me, but I loved him. At last there was light and color in my poverty-stricken existence." She stopped, and a glow came into her sad eyes. "I was bewildered, distracted, between the passion of my heart and the resistance of my reason. I ceased to be the efficient assistant I had been. I was rebuked, and looked upon coldly. Six months after I had met him first, I gave madame warning. I said I was going into the country. So I was, but not alone. No one asked me any questions; no one had a right. I belonged to no one, was responsible to no one, could wound no one. I was quite alone, and, oh, so hungry for a little love and joy!" She paused, and then resumed rapidly, "I was that man's unwedded wife for nearly two years." She rested her arm on the table, and hid her face with her hand.

Katherine listened with unspeakable emotion. The eloquent blood flushed cheek and throat with a keen sense of shame. She had read and heard of such painful stories, but to be face to face with a creature who had crossed the Rubicon, overpassed the great gulf, which separates the sheep from the goats was something so unexpected, so terrible, that she could not restrain a passionate burst of tears. "Ah," she murmured at last, "you were cruelly deceived, no doubt. You are too hard upon yourself. You——"

"No, Miss Liddell; I am trying to tell you the whole truth. The man I loved never deceived me—never held put any hope that we could marry. He was not rich; there were impediments—what, I never knew. But I thought such love as he professed, and at the time felt for me, would last; and so long as he was mine, I wanted nothing more. Have you patience to hear more, or have I fallen too low to retain your interest?"

"Ah, no! tell me everything."

"I was very happy—oh, intensely happy for a while. Then a tiny cloud of indifference, thin and shifting like morning mist, rose between us. It darkened and lowered. He was a hasty, masterful man, but he was never rough to me. Gradually I came to see that time had changed me from a joy to a burden. How was it I lived? How was it I shut my eyes and hoped? At last he told me he was obliged to go abroad, but that he could not take me with him; and then proposed to establish me in some such undertaking as my late employer's. When he said that, I knew all was over; that nothing I could do or say would avail; that I had been but a toy; that he could not conceive what my nature was, nor the agony of shame, the torture of rejected love, he was inflicting. I contrived to keep silent and composed. I knew I had no right to complain: I had risked all and lost. I managed to say we might arrange things later, and he praised me for being a sensible, capital girl. I had seen this coming, or I don't suppose I could have so controlled myself. But I could not accept his terms. I had a little money and some jewels; I thought I might take these. So I wrote a few lines, saying that I needed nothing, that he should hear of me no more, and I went away out into the dark. If I could only have died then! I was too great a coward to put an end to my life. Why do I try to speak of what cannot be put into words? Despair is a grim thing, and all life had turned to dust and ashes for me. I could not even love him, though I pined for the creature I had loved, who once understood me, but from whose heart and mind I had vanished when time dulled his first impression, and to whom I became even as other women were. But as I could not die, I was obliged to work, and there was but one way. I dreaded to be found starving and unable to give an account of myself, so I applied to one of those large general shops where they neither give nor expect references. There I staid for some months, so silent, so steeled against everything, that no one cared to speak to me. I dare not even think of that time. I do not understand how I managed to do anything. At last I grew dazed, made blunders, and was dismissed. I wandered here. I failed to find employment, and felt I could do no more. Still death would not come, I think my mind was giving way when you came. Now am I worth helping, now that you know all?"

"Yes. I will do my best for you. Suffering such as yours must be expiation enough," cried Katherine, her eyes still wet. "Put the past behind you, and hope for the better days which will come if you strive for them. But, oh! tell me, did he never try to find you?"

"Yes. I saw advertisements in the paper which were meant for me; but after a while they ceased, and no doubt I was forgotten. I reaped what I had sown. Few men, I imagine, can understand that there are hearts as true, as strong, as tenacious, among women such as I am as among the irreproachable, the really good. I have no real right to complain; only it is so hard to live on without hope or—" She stopped abruptly.

"Hope will come," said Katherine, gently; "and time will restore your self-respect. I should be so glad to see you build up a new and better life on the ruins of the past! I am sure there is independence and repose before you, if you will but fold down this terrible page of your life and never open it again."

"And can you endure to touch me—to be to me as you have been?" asked Rachel, her voice broken and trembling.

Katherine's answer was to stretch out her hand and take that of her protegee , which she held tenderly. "Let us never speak of this again," she said. "Bury your dead out of sight. All you have told me is sacred; none shall ever know anything from me. Let us begin anew. I am certain you are good and true; and how can one who has never known temptation judge you?"

Rachel bent her head to kiss the fair firm hand which held hers; then she wept silently, quietly, and said, softly, in an altered voice, "I will do whatever you bid me; and while you are so wonderfully good to me I will not despair."

There was an expressive silence of a few moments. Then Katherine began to draw on her gloves, and trying to steady her voice and speak in her ordinary tone, said:

"Mr. Payne is going to make you known to a lady who may be of great use to you in obtaining customers. I have not met her myself, but should you receive a note from Mrs. Needham, pray go to her at once. There is no reason why you should not make a great business yet. I should be quite proud of it. Now I must leave you. Promise me to resist unhappy thoughts. Try to regain strength, both mental and physical. Should you see Mrs. Needham before I come again, pray ask quite two-thirds more for making a dress than I paid, for both your work and your fit are excellent."

With these practical words Katherine rose to depart. Rachel followed her to the door, and timidly took her hand. "Do you understand," she said, "all you have done for me? You have given me back my human heart, instead of the iron vise that was pressing my soul to death. I will live to be worthy of you, of your infinite pity."

Katherine had hardly recovered composure when she reached home. The sad and shameful story to which she had listened had not arrested the flow of her sympathy to Rachel. There was something striking in the strength that enabled her to tell such a tale with stern justice toward herself, without any whining self-exculpation. What a long agony she must have endured! Katherine's tears were ready to flow afresh at the picture her warm imagination conjured up. Weak and guilty as Rachel was to yield to such a temptation, what was her wrong-doing to that of the man who, knowing what would be the end thereof, tempted her?

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Castleford was an ordinary comfortable country house, standing in not very extensive grounds. The scenery immediately around it was flat and uninteresting, but a few miles to the south it became undulating, and broken with pretty wooded hollows, but north of it was a rich level district, and as a hunting country second only to Leicestershire.

Colonel Ormonde was a keen sportsman, and when he had reached his present grade had gladly taken up his abode in the old place, which had been let at a high rent during his term of military service. Castleford was an old place, though the house was comparatively new. It had been bought by Ormonde's grandfather, a rich manufacturer, who had built the house and made many improvements, and his representative of the third generation was considered quite one of the country gentry.

Colonel Ormonde was fairly popular. He was not obtrusively hard about money matters, but he never neglected his own interests. Then he appreciated a good glass of wine, and above all he rode straight. Mrs. Ormonde was adored by the men and liked by the women of Clayshire society, Colonel Ormonde being considered a lucky man to have picked up a charming woman whose children were provided for.

That fortunate individual was sitting at breakfast tete-a-tete with his wife one dull foggy morning about a month after Katherine Liddell had returned to England. "Another cup, please," he said, handing his in. Mrs. Ormonde was deep in her letters. "What an infernal nuisance it is!" he continued, looking out of the window nearest him. "The off days are always soft and the 'meet' days hard and frosty. The scent would be breast-high to-day." Mrs. Ormonde made no reply. "Your correspondence seems uncommonly interesting!" he exclaimed, surprised at her silence.

"It is indeed," she cried, looking up with a joyful and exultant expression of countenance. "Katherine writes that she has signed a deed settling twenty thousand on Cis and Charlie, the income of which is to be paid to me until they attain the age of twenty-one, for their maintenance, education, and so forth; after which any sum necessary for their establishment in life can be raised or taken from their capital, the whole coming into their own hands at the age of twenty-five. Dear me! I hope they will make me a handsome allowance when they are twenty-five. I really think Katherine might have remembered me ." She handed the letter to her husband.

"Well, little woman, you have your innings now, and you must save a pot of money," he returned, in high glee. "What a trump that girl is! and, by Jove! what lucky little beggars your boys are! I can tell you I was desperately uneasy for fear she might marry some fellow before she fulfilled her promise to you. Then you might have whistled for any provision for your boys; no man would agree to give up such a slice of his wife's fortune as this. I know I would not. Women never have any real sense of the value of money; they are either stingy or extravagant. I am deuced glad I haven't to pay all your milliner's bills, my dear. I am exceedingly glad Katherine has been so generous, but I'll be hanged if it is the act of a sensible woman."

"Never mind; there is quite a load off my heart. I think I'll have a new habit from Woolmerhausen now."

"Why, I gave you one only two years ago."

"Two years ago! Why, that is an age. And you need not pay for this one."

"I see she says she will pay us a visit if convenient. Of course it is convenient. I'll run up to town on Sunday, and escort her down next day. The meet is for Tuesday. And mind you make things pleasant and comfortable for her, Ada. She would be an important addition to our family. A handsome, spirited girl with a good fortune to dispose of would be a feather in one's cap, I can tell you."

"You'll find her awfully fallen off, Ormonde, and her spirits seem quite gone. Still I shall be very glad to have her here. But I do not see why you should go fetch her. You know Lady Alice Mordaunt is coming on Saturday."

"What does that matter? I shall only be away one evening; and between you and me, though Lady Alice is everything that is nice and correct, she is enough to put the liveliest fellow on earth to sleep in half an hour."

"How strange men are!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, gathering up her letters and putting them into the pocket of her dainty lace and muslin apron. "Nice, gentle, good women never attract you; you only care for bold——"

"Vivacious, coquettish, attractive little widows, like one I once knew," said the Colonel, laughing, as he carefully wiped his gray moustache.

"You are really too absurd!" she exclaimed, sharply. "Do you mean to say I was ever bold?"

"No; I only mean to say you are an angel, and a deuced lucky angel in every sense into the bargain! Now, have you any commissions? I am going to Monckton this morning, and I fancy the dog-cart will be at the door. Where's the boy? I'll take him and nurse down to the gate with me if they'll wrap up. The little fellow is so fond of a drive."

"My dear 'Duke!—such a morning as this! Do you think I would let the precious child out?"

"Nonsense! Do not make a molly-coddle of him. He is as strong as a horse. Send for him anyway. I haven't seen him this morning. And be sure you write a proper letter to Katherine Liddell; you had better let me see it before it goes."

"Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind. Do you think I never wrote a letter in my life before I knew you?"

"Oh, go your own way," retorted the Colonel, beating a retreat to save a total rout.

In due course Katherine received an effusive letter of thanks, and a pressing invitation to come down to Castleford on the following Monday, and saying that as the hunting season was almost over, they would be very quiet till after Easter, when Mrs. Ormonde was going to town for a couple of months, ending with an assurance that the dear boys were dying to see her, and that Colonel Ormonde was going to London for the express purpose of escorting her on her journey.

"It is certainly not necessary," observed Katherine, with a smile, "considering how accustomed I am to take care of myself. Still it is kindly meant, and I shall accept the offer." This to Miss Payne, as they rose from luncheon where Katherine had told her the contents of her letter.

"Ahem! No doubt they are anxious to show you every attention. Would you like to take Turner with you? I could spare her very well." Turner was the maid expressly engaged to wait upon Miss Liddell.

"Oh no, thank you, I want so little waiting on. Lady Alice Mordaunt will be with Mrs. Ormonde, and will be sure to have a maid, so another might be inconvenient."

"My dear Miss Liddell, if you will excuse me for thrusting advice upon you, I would say that 'considering' people is the very best way to prevent their showing you consideration."

"Do you really think so? Well, it is really no great matter."

"Then you shall not want Turner? Then I shall give her a holiday. Her mother or her brother is ill, and she wants to go home. Servants' relations always seem to be ill. It must cost them a good deal."

"No doubt. Will you come out with me? I have some shopping to do, and your advice is always valuable."

"I shall be very pleased, and I will say I shall miss you when you leave—miss you very much."

"Thank you," said Katherine, gently. "I believe you will as you say so."

Without fully believing Ada's rather exaggerated expressions of gratitude and affection, Katherine was soothed and pleased by them. She was so truthful herself that she was disposed to trust others, and the hearty welcome offered her took off from the sense of loneliness which had long oppressed her. Hers was too healthy a nature to encourage morbid grief. To the last day of her life she remembered her mother with tender, loving-regret; but the consolation of knowing that her later days had been so happy, that she had passed away so peacefully, did much toward healing the wounds which were still bleeding.

On the appointed Monday Colonel Ormonde made his appearance in the early afternoon, and found Katherine quite ready to start. He was stouter, louder, bluffer, than ever. When Miss Payne was introduced to him he honored her with an almost imperceptible bow and a very perceptible stare. Turning at once to Katherine, he exclaimed:

"What! in complete marching order already? I protest I never knew a woman punctual before. But I always saw you were a sensible girl. No nonsense about you. Why, my wife told me you were looking ill. I don't see it. At any rate Castleford air will soon bring back your roses."

"I am feeling and looking better than when I came over, and Miss Payne has taken such good care of me," said Katherine, who did not like to see the lady of the house so completely over-looked.

"Ah! that's well. You know you are too precious a piece of goods to be tampered with. I believe Bertie Payne is a nephew of yours," he added, addressing Miss Payne—"a young fellow who was in my regiment three or four years ago, the Twenty-first Dragoon Guards?"

"He is my brother," returned Miss Payne, stiffly.

"Ah! Hope he is all right. Have scarcely seen him since he has gone, not to the dogs, but to the saints, which is much the same thing. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Indeed it is not, Colonel Ormonde!" cried Katherine. "If every one was as good as Mr. Payne, the world would be a different and a better place."

"Hey! Have you constituted yourself his champion? Lucky dog! Come, my dear girl, we must be going. Are you well wrapped up? It is deuced cold, and we have nearly three miles to drive from the station."

He himself looked liked a mountain in a huge fur-lined coat.

"Good-by, then, dear Miss Payne. I suppose I shall not see you again for a fortnight or three weeks."

"By George! we sha'n't let you off with so short a visit as that! Say three years. Come, march; we haven't too much time." Throwing a brief "good-morning" at the "old maid" of uncertain position, the Colonel walked heavily downstairs in the wake of his admired young guest.

Monckton was scarcely four hours from London, but when the drive to Castleford was accomplished there was not too much time left to dress for dinner.

Mrs. Ormonde was awaiting Katherine in the hall, which was bright with lamps and fire-light; behind her were her two boys.

When Katherine had been duly welcomed. Mrs. Ormonde stood aside, and the children hesitated a moment. Cecil was so much grown, Katherine hardly knew him. He came forward with his natural assurance, and said, confidently: "How d'ye do, auntie? You have been a long time coming."

Charlie was more like what he had been, and less grown. He hesitated a moment, then darted to Katherine, and throwing his arms round her neck, clung to her lovingly. She was infinitely touched and delighted. How vividly the past came back to her!—the little dusty house at Bayswater, the homely establishment kept afloat by her dear mother's industry, the small study, and the dear weary face associated with it. How ardently she held the child to her heart! How thankfully she recognized that here was something to cherish and to live for!

"They may come with me to my room?" she said to her hostess.

"Oh, certainly!—only if you begin that sort of thing you will never be able to get rid of them."

"I will risk it," said Katherine, as she followed Mrs. Ormonde upstairs to a very comfortable room, where a cheerful fire blazed on the hearth.

"I am afraid you find it rather small, but I was obliged to give the best bedroom to Lady Alice— noblesse oblige , you know. I am sure you will like her, she is so gentle; I think her father was very glad to let her come, as she can see more of her fiance . They are not to be married till the autumn, so—Oh dear! there is the second bell. Cis, run away and tell Madeline to come and help your auntie to dress; and you too, Charlie; you had better go too."

"He may stay and help me to unpack."

"Why did you not bring your maid, dear? It is just like you to leave her behind; but we could have put her up; and you will miss her dreadfully."

"I do not think either of us has been so accustomed to the attentions of a maid as not to be able to do without one," returned Katherine, smiling.

"You know I always had a maid in India," said Mrs. Ormonde, with an air of superiority. "Don't be long over your toilet; Ormonde's cardinal virtue is punctuality."

In spite of the hindrance of her nephew's help, Katherine managed to reach the drawing-room before Lady Alice or the master of the house. Mrs. Ormonde was talking to an elderly gentleman in clerical attire beside the fireplace, and at some distance a tall, dignified-looking man was reading a newspaper. Mrs. Ormonde was most becomingly dressed in black satin, richly trimmed with lace and jet—a brilliant contrast to Katherine, in thick dull silk and crape, her snowy neck looking all the more softly white for its dark setting: the only relief to her general blackness was the glinting light on her glossy, wavy, chestnut brown hair.

"You have been very quick, dear," said the hostess. "I am going to send you in to dinner," she added, in a low tone, "with Mr. Errington, our neighbor. He is the head of the great house of Errington in Calcutta, and the fiance , of Lady Alice; but Colonel Ormonde must take her in. Mr. Errington!" raising her voice. The gentleman thus summoned laid down his paper and came forward. "Let me introduce you to my sister, Miss Liddell." Mr. Errington bowed, rather a stately bow, as he gazed with surprised interest at the large soft eyes suddenly raised to his, then quickly averted, the swift blush which swept over the speaking face turned toward him, the indescribable shrinking of the graceful figure, as if this stranger dreaded and would fain avoid him. It was but for a moment; then she was herself again, and the door opening to admit Lady Alice, Errington hastened to greet her with chivalrous respect, and remained beside her chair until Colonel Ormonde entered with the butler, who announced that dinner was ready. niGogbtY9nXHfCyLScksCDXjT3suj0FSDEg1VXgo4qiLWMTXQv3sCXhihTGFNlYO

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