CROSS PURPOSES.

The first ten days at Castleford would have been dull indeed to Katherine but for the society of Cis and Charlie in the mornings, and the interest she took in watching Errington (who was of course a frequent visitor) in the evenings.

Though she avoided conversing with him as much as possible, he was a constant study to her. He was different from all the men she had previously met. She often wondered if anything could disturb him or hurry him. Had he ever climbed trees and torn his clothes, or thrashed an adversary? Had he any weaknesses, or vivid joys, or passionate longings? Yet he did not seem a prig. His manner, though dignified, was easy and natural; his eyes, though steady and penetrating, were kindly; his bearing had the repose of strength. It was too awful to contemplate what his estimate of herself would be if he knew; but then he must never know!

As it was, he seemed inclined to be friendly and communicative, pleased when he met her strolling in the garden with Lady Alice, and gratified to find that she could accompany his fiancee's songs. Indeed he said he had never heard Lady Alice sing so well as when Miss Liddell played for her.

Apart from the boys and Errington, Katherine found time hang very heavily on her hands. The aimless lingering over useless fancy-work or second-rate novels, the discussion of such gossip as their correspondence supplied, by means of which Mrs. Ormonde and Lady Alice got through the day, were infinitely wearisome to her.

Miles Errington was one of those happy individuals said to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. The only son of a wealthy father, who, though enriched by trade, had come of an old Border race, he had had the best education money could procure. More fortunate still in the endowments of nature, he was well formed, strong, active, and blessed with perfect health; while mentally he was intelligent and reflective, thoughtful rather than brilliant, and by temperament profoundly calm. He had never got into scrapes or committed extravagance. He was the despair of managing mammas and fascinating young married women; yet he was not unpopular with either sex. Men respected his strong, steady character, his high standard, his sound judgment in matters affecting the stable and the race-course; women were attracted by his obligingness and generosity. Still he was the sort of man with whom few became intimate, and none dared take a liberty. Preserved by his fortunate surroundings and strong tranquil nature from difficulties or temptations, he could hardly understand the passionate outbreaks of weaker and more fiery men.

His greatest physical pleasure was an exciting run with the hounds; his deepest interest centred in politics; though never indulging in sentiment, he was an earnest patriot. Whether he could be moved by more personal feelings remained to be proved. At present the sources of tenderer affection, if they existed, lay so deep below the strata of reason and common-sense that only some artesian process could pierce to the imprisoned spring's and set the "water of life" free, perhaps to bound, geyser-like, into the outer air.

Having travelled by sea and land, and looked into the social and political condition of many countries, having mixed much with men and women at home and abroad, Errington thought it time to take his place in the great commonwealth—to marry, and to try for a seat in the House of Commons. He therefore selected Lady Alice Mordaunt. She was rather pretty, graceful, gentle, and quite at his service. He really like her in a sort of fatherly way; he looked forward with quiet pleasure to making her very happy, and did not doubt she would in his hands mature into a sufficient companion, for though Errington was not naturally a selfish man, his life and training disposed him to look on those connected with him as on the whole created for him.

He had been absent for two or three days, having gone up to town to visit his father, who had been somewhat seriously unwell, and as he rode toward Castleford he gave more thought than usual to his young fiancee . In truth, a visit to Colonel Ormonde was a great bore to him. He had nothing in common with the Colonel, whose pig-headed conservatism jarred on Errington's broader views, while his stories and reminiscences were exceedingly uninteresting, and sometimes worse. Mrs. Ormonde's small coquetries, her airs and graces, were equally unattractive to him. Still it was well to have Lady Alice at Castleford, within easy reach, while there was so much to occupy his time and attention in the country. As soon as he was sure of his election he would hasten his marriage, and perhaps get the honey-moon over in time to take his seat while there was still a month or two of the session unexpired.

From Lady Alice it was an easy transition of thought to the new guest at Castleford. Where had he seen her face? and with what was he associated in her mind? Nothing agreeable; of that he was quite sure. The vivid blush and indescribable shrinking he had noticed more than once (and Errington, like most quiet men, was a close observer) seemed unaccountable. Miss Liddell was far from shy; she was well-bred and evidently accustomed to society; her avoidance had therefore made the more impression. His experience of life had hitherto been exceedingly unemotional, and Katherine's unexpected betrayal of feeling puzzled him not a little.

At this point in his reflections he had reached that part of the road where it dipped into a hollow, on one side of which the Melford woods began. A steep bank rose on the right, thickly studded with beech and oak trees, still leafless, but the scanty, yellowish grass which grew beneath them was tufted with primroses and violets.

As Errington came round a bend in the little valley the sound of shrill, childish laughter came pleasantly to his ear, and the next minute brought him in sight of a lady in mourning whom he recognized immediately, and two little boys, who were high up the back, busily engaged filling a basket with sweet spring blossoms.

Errington paused, dismounted, and raising his hat, approached her.

"I did not expect so meet you so far afield," he said. "You are not afraid of a long walk."

"My nephews have led me on from flower to flower," she returned, again coloring brightly, but not shrinking from his eyes. "Now I think it is time to go home."

"It is not late," he returned. "How is every one at Castleford?"

"Quite well. Lady Alice has lost her cold, and regained her voice—she was singing this morning," said Katherine, smiling as if she knew the real drift of his question.

"I am glad to hear it," he returned, soberly.

Errington and Lady Alice did not write to each other every day.

"Auntie," cried Cis, "the basket is quite full. If you open your sunshade and hold it upside-down, I can fill that too."

"No dear; you have quite enough. We must go back now."

"Oh, not yet, please?" The little fellow came tumbling down the bank, followed by Charlie, who immediately caught his aunt's hand and repeated, "Not yet, auntie!"

"These are Mrs. Ormonde's boys, I suppose?" said Errington.

"Yes; have you never seen them before?"

"Never. And have you not had enough climbing?" he added, good-humoredly, to Charlie.

"No, not half enough!" cried Cis. "There's such a bunch of violets just under that biggest beech-tree, nearly up at the top! Do let me gather them—just those; do—do—do!"

"Very well; do not go too fast, or you will break your neck."

Both boys started off, leaving their basket at Katherine's feet.

"I remember now," said Errington, looking at her, "where I saw I saw you before. Is was two—nearly three—years ago, at Hyde Park corner, when that elder boy had a narrow escape from being run over."

"Were you there?" she exclaimed, so evidently surprised that Errington saw the impulse was genuine. "I recollect Mr. Payne and Colonel Ormonde; but I did not see you ."

"Then where have you met me?" was at his lips, but he did not utter the words.

"Well, Payne was of real service; I did nothing. The little fellow had a close shave."

"He had indeed," said Katherine, thoughtfully, with downcast eyes; then, suddenly raising them to his, she said, as if to herself, "And you were there too! How strange it all is!"

"I see nothing so strange in it, Miss Liddell," smiling good-humoredly. "Have you any superstition on the subject?"

"No; I am not superstitious; yet it was curious—I mean, to meet by accident on that day just before—" She stopped. "And now I am connected with Colonel Ormonde, living with Mr. Payne's sister and—and talking here with— you ."

"These coincidences occur perpetually when people move in the same set," returned Errington, feeling absurdly curious, and yet not knowing how to get at the train of recollection or association which underlay her words—words evidently unstudied and impulsive.

"I suppose so. And, you know—Mr. Payne," Katherine continued, quickly—"how good he is! He lives completely for others."

"Yes, I believe him to be thoroughly, honestly good. How hard he toils, and with what a pitiful result!"

"I wish he would go. Why does he stand there making conversation?" thought Katherine, while she said aloud: "I don't see that. If every one helped two or three poor creatures whom they knew, we should not have all this poverty and suffering which are distracting to think about."

"I doubt it; it would be more likely to pauperize the whole nation."

Here Charlie and Cis, with earth-stained knees and hands—the latter full of violets—reluctantly descended. Adding these to the basket already overflowing, they had a short wrangle as to who should carry it, and then Katherine turned her steps homeward. Errington passed the bridle over his arm, and to her great annoyance, walked beside her.

"Are you, then, disposed to give yourself to faith and to good works?"

"I do not know. I should like to help those who want, but I fear I am too fond of pleasure to sacrifice myself—at least I was and I suppose the love will return. Of course it is easy to give money; it is hard to give one's self."

"You seem very philosophic for so young a lady."

"I am not young," said Katherine, sadly; "I am years older than Lady Alice."

"How many—one or two?" asked Errington, in his kind, fatherly, somewhat superior tone, which rather irritated her.

"The years I mean are not to be measured by the ordinary standard; even you must know that some years last longer—no, that is not the expression—press heavier than others."

"Even I? Do you think I am specially matter-of-fact?"

"I have no right to think you anything, for I do not know you; but you give me that impression."

"I dare say I am; nor do I see why I should object to be so considered."

Here Cecil, who got tired of a conversation from which he could gather nothing, put in his oar: "Are you Mr. Errington?"

"I am. How do you know my name?"

"I saw you going out with the Colonel to the meet—oh, a long while ago! And Miss Richards and nurse were talking about you."

"They said you had a real St. Bernard dog—one that gets the people out of the snow," cried Charlie. "Will you let him come here? I want to see him."

" You had better come and pay him a visit."

"Oh yes, thank you!" exclaimed Cis. "Auntie will take us, perhaps. Auntie will take us to the sea-side, and then we shall bathe, and go in boats, and learn to row."

"Cis, run with me to that big tree at the foot of the hill. Auntie will carry the basket," cried Charlie, and the next moment they were off.

"Fine little fellows," said Errington. "I like children."

"I am going to ask Mrs. Ormonde to lend them to me for a few months, for they are all I have of kith or kin."

"They are not at all like you," returned Errington, letting his quiet, but to her most embarrassing, eyes rest upon her face.

"Yet they are my only brother's children." Here Katherine paused with a sense of relief; they had reached a stile where a footway led across some fields and a piece of common overgrown with bracken and gorse. It was the short-cut to Castleford, by which Cecil had led her to the Melford Woods.

"Oh, do come round by the road, auntie," he exclaimed; "perhaps Mr. Errington will let me ride his horse."

"I do not know if he will, Cis, but I certainly will not. I am tired too, dear, and want to get home the shortest way I can, so bid Mr. Errington good-by, and come with me. No, don't shake hands; yours are much too dirty."

"Never mind; when you are a big boy I'll give you a mount. Good by, Master Charlie— you are Charlie, are you not? Till we meet at dinner, Miss Liddell." He raised his hat, and divining that she wished him to let her get over the stile unassisted, he mounted his horse and rode swiftly away.

"I am sure he would have given me a ride if you had gone by the road, auntie," said Cecil, reproachfully.

"I could not have allowed, you, dear; so do not think about it." Errington meanwhile rode on, unconsciously slackening his pace as he mused. "No, she certainly has never seen me before, yet she knows me. How? She was very glad to get rid of me just now. Why? I am inoffensive enough. There is something uncommon about her; she gives me the idea of having a history, which is anything but desirable for a young woman. What fine eyes she has! She is something like that Sibyl of Guercino's in the Capitol. Why does she object to me? It is rather absurd. I must make her talk, then I shall find out."

Here his horse started, and broke the thread of his reflections. By the time the steed had pranced and curvetted a little, Errington's thoughts had turned into some of their usual graver channels, and Katherine Liddell was—well, not absolutely forgotten.

The object of his reflections reached the house rather late for the boys' tea, and expecting to find her hostess and Lady Alice enjoying the same refreshment, she gave her warm out-door jacket to Cecil, who immediately put it on as the best mode of taking it upstairs, and went into Mrs. Ormonde's morning-room, where afternoon tea was always served. It was a pleasant room in warm summer weather, as its aspect was east, and the afternoons were cool and shady there; but of a chill evening at the end of March it was cold and dim, and needed the glow of a good fire to make it attractive.

Daylight still lingered to the sky, but was fast fading, and the dancing light of a cheerful fire was a pleasant contrast to the gray shadows without. The room was very nondescript; its furniture was of the spidery fashion which ruled when the "first gentleman" held the reins; thin hard sofas and scanty draperies were supplemented by Persian rugs and showy cushions, while various speci mens of doubtful china crowded the mantel-piece and consoles. Mrs. Ormonde was quite innocent of original taste, but was a quick, industrious imitator, while of comfortable chairs she was a most competent judge.

Quite sure of finding Mrs. Ormonde, Lady Alice, and Miss Brereton—another visitor—refreshing themselves after their out-door exercise, and intending to announce the pleasant news of Errington's return, Katherine exclaimed, "Lady Alice!" as she crossed the threshold, then seeing no one, stopped.

"Lady Alice is not here," said a strong, harsh voice, and a tall figure in a shooting-coat and gaiters rose from the depths of a large arm-chair, the back of which was toward the door and stood before her.

Katherine was slightly startled, but guessed it was one of two guests expected to arrive that day. She advanced, therefore, and said, "Mrs. Ormonde is unusually late, but I am sure she will soon be here."

"Meantime tea is quite ready. It has stood twice the regulation five minutes; and is there any just cause or impediment why it should not be poured out?"

"Not that I am aware of," returned Katherine, taking off her hat and smoothing back her hair, which showed golden tints in the fitful fire-light.

The low tea-table was set before the fire, she drew a chair beside it and removed the cozy from the teapot.

Recognizing De Burgh from Mrs. Ormonde's description, she felt that he was even more at home at Castleford than herself, and she also came to the conclusion that he knew who she was. She had been prepared by Mrs. Ormonde's evident admiration to dislike De Burgh, having made up her mind that he would prove an empty-headed, insolent grandee, whose pretensions imposed upon her sister-in-law's somewhat slender experience, and whose life was probably given up to physical enjoyment. He had not, however, the aspect of a mere pleasure-seeker. His dark, strong face and bony frame looked as if he could work as well as play.

"Do you take sugar?"

"No, thank you; neither sugar nor cream."

"Neither? That is very self-denying!"

"Not self-denying! Were I foolish enough to do what I did not like, I should take the sugar and cream. They do not happen to please my palate."

"It is well we do not all like the same things."

"It is indeed!" He held his cup untasted for a moment, looking thoughtfully into the fire. "Tea is the best drink you can have in difficult, fatiguing journeys. Even the gold-diggers of Australia know that. They drink hard enough when they are on the spree, but when at work in earnest they stick to the teapot," he said, turning his eyes full upon her with a cool, critical gaze, which half amused, half irritated her. It was curious to sit there talking easily with a total stranger. Perhaps she ought to have left him to himself, but it was not much matter. Looking toward the window to avoid her companion's eyes, she exclaimed:

"It is raining quite fast! I am glad I brought the children home before this shower."

"An avant-courier of April. You were walking with Mrs. Ormonde's boys, then?"

"Yes; I take them out every day."

"An uncommonly good-looking governess," thought De Burgh. "You have not been here long, I think?" he said.

"About three weeks. The boys are quite used to me now, and enjoy their walks, for I take them outside the grounds," said Katherine, feeling sure that De Burgh must guess who she was.

"Indeed! You are a daring innovator. I suppose they were kept on the premises till you came?"

"They were; and it is always tiresome to be kept within bounds."

"I quite agree with you. The sentiment is extremely natural, only young ladies rarely confess it."

"Why?"

"Oh, you ought to know better than I do. You give me the idea of being a plucky woman."

"You must be quick in gathering ideas," said Katherine, dryly.

"Yes; some subjects inspire me," he returned, handing in his cup. "Another, please. I am a bit of a physiognomist. I think I could give a rough sketch of your character." He stirred the fire to a brighter blaze and added, "It is so deuced dark since that shower came on I can hardly see you, but I will tell you my ideas, if you care to hear them."

"Yes, I should," she returned, laughing. "It will be curious to hear the result of an instantaneous estimate. Why, five minutes ago you had never seen me."

"Five minutes? No; ten at least. Well, then, I should say you are a remarkably plucky girl, though perhaps not impervious to panic. And, let me see," fixing his keen, fierce eyes on hers, "gifted with no small power of enjoyment. With a strong dash of the rebel in you, and—well, I could tell you more, but I won't."

Katherine laughed good-humoredly.

"Have I hit it off?" he asked, after waiting for her to speak.

"I cannot tell. Do we ever know ourselves?"

"That's true; but few admit their ignorance. I begin to think that you are dangerous, in addition to your other qualities, as you can refrain from discussing yourself; that is a bait which draws out most women."

"And most men," added Katherine. "We haven't much to reproach each other with on that score."

"No, I must admit that. Self is a fascinating topic."

"Some more tea?" asked Katherine, demurely.

"No, thank you. I am not absolutely insatiable. Tell me," he went on, with a quaint familiarity which was not offensive, "how can a girl with your nature—mind, I have not told half I guess—how can you stand your life here—walking about with those brats, making tea while the others are out amusing themselves, hammering away at the same round day after day? You are made for different things."

"I should not care to live at Castleford all the days of my life," said Katherine, a little surprised by his question, and feeling there was a mistake somewhere; "but I do not intend to stay long."

"Oh, indeed! How do you get on with Mrs. Ormonde? She doesn't worry you about the boys? She is a jolly, pretty little woman; but you are not exactly the sort of young lady I should have fancied would be her choice."

"Why not?" asked Katherine, beginning to see his mistake.

"Because"—began De Burgh, looking full at her, and then paused. "You are too handsome by half!" were the words on his lips, but he did not utter them; he substituted, "You don't seem quite the thing for Mrs. Ormonde."

"She finds I suit her admirably," said Katherine, gravely.

"I don't quite understand"—De Burgh was beginning, when the door opened to admit Mrs. Ormonde.

"Ah, Mr. De Burgh, I did not expect you so early; but I am glad Katherine was here to give you your tea. It is not necessary to introduce you. I was afraid you would have been caught in that shower, Katie."

"We just escaped it. I hope Lady Alice has found shelter, or she will renew her cold."

"You are Miss Liddell, then?" said De Burgh, as he placed a chair for Mrs. Ormonde and took her cloak.

"To be sure. Didn't you guess who she was?"

"Mr. De Burgh guessed a good deal, but he did not guess my identity," said Katherine, handing her a cup of tea.

"What! Were you playing at cross questions and crooked answers?"

"Something of that sort," he returned, and changed the subject by asking if they had heard how Errington's father was.

"Better, I suppose, for Mr. Errington has returned. He met us when we were in Melford Woods."

"I dare say he met Alice and Miss Brereton, then," said Mrs. Ormonde; "they were riding in that direction."

"Lady Alice will be taken care of, then," said Katherine, and taking her hat she went away, seeing that Mrs. Ormonde was quite ready to absorb the conversation.

"So that is Katherine Liddell," said De Burgh, looking after her, regardless of Mrs. Ormonde's declaration that she was going to scold him.

"Yes. Is she not like what you expected?"

"Expected? I did not expect anything; but she isn't a bit like what you described."

"How so? Did I say too much?"

"Yes, a great deal too much, but the wrong way."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you talked as if she was a regular gushing school-girl, ready to swallow any double-barrelled compliment one chose to offer, whereas she is a finely developed woman, by Jove! with brains too, or I am much mistaken. Why, my charming little friend, she is older in some ways than you are."

"Oh, nonsense. You need not flatter me ."

"It's not flattery, it's—"

The arrival of the riding party with the addition of Errington prevented him from finishing his sentence. se8o9BYOFqQ3uR5zQG8NbEZJdyZ5y7mLcaVwiavNBXZEhG2X76pheAB1kFLAFw1B

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