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When Katherine returned that afternoon she found Miss Payne was not alone. On the sofa opposite to her sat a lady—a large, well-dressed lady—with bright black eager eyes, and a high color. She held open on her lap a neat black leather bag, from which she had taken some papers, and was speaking quickly, in loud dictatorial tones, when Katherine came in.
"Here is Miss Liddell," said Miss Payne.
"Ah! I am very glad," cried the large lady, starting up and letting the bag fall, much of its contents scattering right and left.
"Mrs. Needham, Miss Liddell," said Miss Payne, with the sort of rigid accent which Katherine knew expressed disapprobation.
"Oh, thank you—don't trouble!" exclaimed Mrs. Needham, as Katherine politely bent down to collect the letters, note-book, memorandum, etc. "So sorry! I am too careless in small matters. Now, my dear Miss Liddell, I must explain myself. Mr. Payne and I are deeply interested in the success of a bazar which I am trying to organize, and he suggested that I should see you and make our objects thoroughly clear."
With much fluency and distinctness she proceeded to describe the origin and progress of the work she advocated, showing the necessity for a new wing to the "Children's Refuge," and entreating Katherine's assistance at the bazar.
This Katherine gently but firmly declined. "I shall be most happy to send you a check, but more I cannot undertake," she said.
"Well, that is very good of you; and in any case I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance. Mr. Payne has told me how ready you are to help in all charitable undertakings. Now in an ordinary way I don't do much in this line; my energies have been directed to another channel. I am not what is generally called a religious woman; I am too broad in my views to please the orthodox; but, at the same time, religion is in our present stage essential."
"I am sure religion is much obliged to you," observed Miss Payne. "How do you and my brother get on?"
"Remarkably well. I think him rather a fanatic; he thinks me a pagan. But we both have common-sense enough to see that each honestly wishes to help suffering humanity, and on that broad platform we meet. Mr. Payne tells me you don't know much of London, Miss Liddell. I can help you to see some of its more interesting sides. I shall be most happy, though I am a very busy woman. I am a journalist, and my time is not my own."
"Indeed?" cried Katherine. "You mean you write for newspapers?"
"Yes; that is, I get what crumbs fall from the press men's table. They get the best work and the best pay; but I can work as well as most of them, and sometimes mine goes in in place of what some idle, pleasure-loving scamp has neglected. Let me see"—pulling out her watch—"five minutes to four. I must not stay. I have to look in at Mrs. Rayner's studio; she has a reception, and will want a mention of it. Then there are Sir Charles Goodman's training schools for deaf-mutes and the new Art Photography Company's rooms to run through before I go to the House of Commons to do my 'Bird's-eye View' letter for the Australian mail to-morrow."
"My dear Mrs. Needham, you take my breath away!" exclaimed Katherine. "I am sure you could show me more of London—I mean what I should like to see—than any one else."
"Very well. Let me know when you come back to town, and you shall hear a debate if you like. I am not a society woman, but I have the entree to most places. Now good-morning—good-morning. You see your agreeable conversation has made me forget the time." And shaking hands cordially, she hastened away.
" Our agreeable conversation," repeated Miss Payne, with a somewhat cynical accent. "I wonder how many words you and I uttered! Why she makes me stupid. Really Gilbert ought not to inflict such a tornado on us."
"I like her," said Katherine; "there is something kind and true about her. I should like to see some of the places she goes to and the work she does. She seems happy enough, too. I must not forget to write to her and send that check I promised."
"Hem! If you give right and left you'll not have much left for yourself," growled Miss Payne. Katherine laughed.
"Oh, by-the-way," resumed her chaperon, "I forgot to tell you that Colonel Ormonde arrived, shortly after you went out, with a large basket of flowers. He was vexed at missing you. He came up about some business, and wanted to take you to see some one. However, he could not come back. I can't say that I think he is well mannered. He was quite rough and brusque, and asked with such an ill-bred sneer if you were off on any private business with my brother."
"I can't help thinking that he was annoyed because I appointed Mr. Payne co-trustee with Mr. Newton to my deed of gift," said Katherine, thoughtfully. "But I know I could not have chosen a better man."
"Well, I believe so," returned his sister, graciously. "He is coming to dinner, so you can give him your check."
It was a great day for Cis and Charlie when they arrived in London to stay with "auntie," who was at the station to receive and convey them to Wilton Street.
Charlie still looked pale and thin enough to warrant a general treatment of cuddling and coddling calculated to satisfy any affectionate young woman's heart. They were to sleep at Miss Payne's residence, in order to be rested and fresh for their journey to the sea-side next day.
Miss Payne herself was unusually amiable, for she had let her house satisfactorily for the greater part of the season, and this as Katherine paid for the Sandbourne villa, was clear gain.
When the boys and their auntie drove up to Miss Payne's abode she was a good deal annoyed to find De Burgh at the door in the act of leaving a card. He hastened to hand her out of the carriage, exclaiming:
"This is the first bit of luck I have had for weeks. You always manage to be out when I call. Come along, my boys. What lucky little fellows you are to come to town for the season!"
"Ah, but we are not going to stay in town. We are going to the sea-side to bathe, and to sail in boats, and—"
"Run in, Charlie, like a good boy," interrupted Katherine. "Your tea will be quite ready."
"I suppose you will think me horribly intrusive if I ask you to let me come in?" said De Burgh. There was something unusually earnest in his tone.
"Oh, not at all," returned Katherine, politely, though she would have much preferred bidding him good-morning. "Here, Sarah, pray take the boys to their room and get their things off. I am sure they want their tea."
Miss Payne's sedate elderly house-maid looked quite elated as she took Charlie's hand and, preceded by Cecil, led him upstairs.
"Are you really 'out' when I come?" asked De Burgh when they reached the drawing-room.
Katherine took off her hat and pushed her hair off her brow as she seated herself in a low chair.
"Yes, I think so. I do not usually deny myself to any visitor." She looked up, half amused, half interested, by the almost imploring expression of his usually hard face.
"I rather suspect I am not a favored guest?"
"Why do you say that, Mr. De Burgh? am I uncivil?"
"No. What a fool I am making of myself! Tell me, are you really going away to-morrow to bury yourself alive?"
"I am really ."
"After all, I believe you are right. I am always bored in London. Women think it a paradise."
"I like London so well that I shall probably make it my headquarters."
"It's rather premature for you to make plans, isn't it?"
"Whether it is or not, I have arranged my future much to my own satisfaction."
"The deuce you have! What, at nineteen?"
"Is that an attempt to find out my age?" asked Katherine, laughing.
"No! for I fancy I know it. How far is this place you are going to from town, and how do you get to it?"
"The journey takes about three hours and a half, and you travel by the Southwestern line."
"Well, I intend to have the pleasure of running down to see you presently, if you will permit me."
"Oh, of course, we shall be very happy to see you."
"I hope so," said De Burgh, with a smile. "I don't think you are very encouraging. If there are any decent roads about this place, shall we resume the driving lessons?"
"Thank you"—evasively. "I think of buying a donkey and chaise—certainly a pony for the boys."
De Burgh laughed. "I suppose there is some boating to be had there. I shall certainly have a look at the place, even if I be not admitted to the shrine." There was a pause, during which De Burgh seemed in profound but not agreeable thought; then he suddenly exclaimed: "By-the-way, have you heard the news? Old Errington died, rather sudden at last, some time last night."
"Indeed!" cried Katherine, roused to immediate attention. "I am very sorry to hear it. The marriage will then be put off. You know they were going to have it nearly a month sooner than was at first intended, because Mr. Errington feared the end was near. He was with his father, I hope?"
"Yes, I believe he hardly left him for the last few days. Now the wedding cannot take place for a considerable time."
"It will be a great disappointment," observed Katherine.
"To which of the happy pair?"
"To both, I suppose," she returned.
"Do you think they cared a rap about each other?"
"Yes, I do indeed. Every one has a different way of showing their feelings, and Mr. Errington is quite different from you ."
"Different—and immensely superior, eh?"
"I did not say so, Mr. De Burgh."
"No, certainly you did not, and I have no right to guess at what you think. You are right. I am very different from Errington; and you are very different from Lady Alice. I fancy, were you in her place, even the irreproachable bridegroom-elect would find he had a little more of our common humanity about him than he suspects," said De Burgh, his dark eyes seeking hers with a bold admiring glance.
Katherine's cheek glowed, her heart beat fast with sudden distress and anger. De Burgh's suggestion stirred some strange and painful emotion.
"You are in a remarkably imaginative mood, Mr. De Burgh," she said, haughtily. "I cannot see any connection between myself and your ideas."
"Can't you? Well, my ideas gather round you very often."
"I wish he would go away; he is too audacious," thought Katherine. While she said, "I think Mr. Errington will be sorry for his father; I believe he has good feeling, though he is so cold and quiet."
"Oh, he has every virtue under the sun! At any rate he ought to be fond of him, for I fancy the old man has toiled all his life to be able to leave his son a big fortune."
"Has he no brothers or sisters?"
"Two sisters, I believe, older than himself; both married."
There was another pause. Katherine would not break it. She felt peculiarly irritated against De Burgh. His observations had greatly disturbed her. She could not, however, tell him to go, and he stood there looking perfectly at ease. This awkward silence was broken by the welcome appearance of Cecil, who burst into the room, exclaiming: "Auntie, tea is quite ready! There is beautiful chicken pie and buttered cakes, and such a beautiful cat!"
"What! for tea, Cis?" said Katherine, letting him catch her hand and try to drag her away.
"No—o. Why, what a silly you are! Puss is asleep in an arm-chair. Do come, auntie. The lady said I was tell you that tea was quite ready."
"Which means that the audience is over," said De Burgh; "and I rather think you are not sorry." He smiled—not a pleasant smile. "Well, young man, did you never see me before?"—to Cecil, who was staring at him in the deliberate, persistent way in which children gaze at objects which fascinate yet partly frighten them.
"I was thinking you were like—" The little fellow paused.
"Like whom?"
Cis tightened his hold on his auntie's hand, and still hesitated.
"Whom is Mr. De Burgh like?" asked Katherine, amused by the boy's earnestness.
"Like the wicked uncle in the 'Babes in the Wood.' Auntie gave it to me. Such a beautiful picture book!"
De Burgh laughed heartily and good-humoredly. "I can tell you, my boy, you would not find me a bad sort of uncle if it were ever my good fortune to call you nephew."
"But I have no uncle—only auntie," returned Cis.
"Ay, a very pearl of an auntie. Try and be a good boy. Above all, do what you are bid. I never did what I was bid, and you see what I have come to."
"I don't think there is much the matter with you," said Cis, eying him steadily. Then, with a sudden change in the current of his thoughts, he cried, "Do come, auntie; the cakes will be quite cold."
"I will keep you no longer from the banquet," said De Burgh. "I know you are wishing me at—well, my probable destination; so good-by for the present." Then, to Cecil: "Shall I come and see you at—what is the name of the place?—Sandbourne, and take you out for a sail in a boat—a big boat?"
"Oh, yes, please."
"Will you come with me, though I am like the wicked uncle?"
"Yes, if auntie may come too."
"If she begs very hard she may. Well, good-morning, Miss Liddell. I'll not forget Sandbourne, via Southwestern Railway." So saying, De Burgh shook hands and departed.
The next day Miss Payne escorted her suddenly increased party to their marine retreat, returning the following afternoon to attend to the details of letting her house, for which she had had a good offer.
Then came a breathing space of welcome repose to Katherine. The interest—nay, the trouble—of the children drew her out of herself, and dwarfed the past with the more urgent demands of the present. Cliff Cottage was a pretty, pleasant abode. The living rooms, which were of a good size, two of them opening with bay-windows on the pleasure-ground which surrounded the house on three sides, were, with the bedrooms over them, additions to a very small abode.
These Katherine succeeded in making pretty and comfortable. To wake in the morning and hear the pleasant murmur of the waves; to open her window to the soft sweet briny air, and look out on the waters glittering in the early golden light; to listen to the laughter and shrill cries of Cis and Charlie chasing each other in the garden, and feel that they were her charge—all this contributed to restore her to a healthy state of mind, to strengthen and to cheer her.
Cecil, to his dismay at first, was dispatched every morning to school, where he soon made friends and began to feel at home. Charlie Katherine taught herself, as he was still delicate. Then a pony was added to the establishment, and old Francois, ex-courier and factotum, used to take the young gentlemen for long excursions each riding turn about on the quiet, sensible little Shetland.
The pale cheeks which helped to make Charlie so dear to his aunt began to show something of a healthy color before the end of May, and Katherine sometimes laughed to find herself boasting of Cecil's parts and progress to Miss Payne. But the metamorphosis wrought by the young magicians in this important personage was the most remarkable of the effects they produced. Had Miss Liddell been less pleasant and profitable, it is doubtful if Miss Payne would have consented to allow children—boys—to desecrate the precincts of her spotless dwelling; they were in her estimation extremely objectionable. Katherine was, however, a prime favorite; she had touched Miss Payne as none of her former inmates ever did.
Years of battling with the world had coated her heart with a tolerably hard husk; but there was a heart beneath the stony sheath, and by some occult sympathy Katherine had pierced to the hidden fount of feeling, and her chaperon found there was more flavor and warmth in life than she once thought.
When, therefore, she had completed her business in London and was settled at Cliff Cottage, she was surprised to find that the boys did not worry her; nay, when they came racing to meet her in wild delight to show a tangled dripping mass of shells and sea-weed which they had collected in their wading, scrambling wanderings on the shore and among the rocks, she found herself unbending, almost involuntarily, and examining their treasures with unfeigned interest. Then Cecil's very fluent descriptions of his experiences at school, his escapades, his torn garments, the occasional quarrels between the two boys, their appropriation of Francois, and their breakages—all seemed to grow natural and pardonable when the young culprits ran to take her by the hand, and looked in her face with their innocent, trusting eyes. On the whole, Miss Payne had never been so happy before, and Katherine forgot the shifting sands on which she was uprearing the graceful fabric of her tranquil life.
Sometimes they lured Bertie to spend a couple of days with them —days which were always marked with a white stone. What arguments and rambles Katherine enjoyed with him, and what goodly checks she drew to further his numerous undertakings!
De Burgh did not fail to carry out his threat of inspecting Sandbourne. He found a valid excuse in a commission from Colonel Ormonde to advise Miss Liddell respecting a pair of ponies she had asked him to buy for her.
His visit was not altogether displeasing. No woman is quite indifferent to a man who admires her in the hearty, wholesale way which De Burgh did not try to conceal. Katherine was much too feminine not to like the incense of his devotion, especially when he kept it within certain limits. She did not credit him with any deep feeling; but in spite of her strong conviction that he was attracted by her money, she recognized a certain sincerity in his liking for herself. She enjoyed the idea of humbling his immense assurance, believing that any pain she might inflict would be short-lived, while he was amazed to find how swiftly the hours flew past when he allowed himself to spend a couple of days at Sandbourne—surprised to feel so little of the contemptuous bitterness with which he generally regarded his fellow-creatures, and sometimes wondered if it were possible that something more simple than even his boyish self had come back to him.
Still, Bertie Payne was a more welcome guest than De Burgh, in spite of his unspoken but evident devotion. With Bertie she could speak openly of matters on which she would not touch when with the other. To Bertie she could talk of the mysteries of life, and argue on questions of belief. She was touched by the eagerness he showed to convert her to his own extremely evangelical views, and though differing from him on many points, she deeply respected the sincerity of his convictions.
The degree of favor shown by her to "that psalm-singing Puritan," as De Burgh termed him, was gall and wormwood to the latter, and indeed so irritated his spirit that he was driven to speak of the annoyance it caused him to Mrs. Ormonde, of whose discretion and judgment he had but a poor opinion.
Meantime no one heard or saw anything of Errington, who was supposed to be deep in the settlement of his father's affairs, and winding up the estate, as the well-known house of Errington ceased to exist when the head and founder was no more. Lady Alice had gone to stay with her brother and sister-in-law, who lived abroad, as it was impossible for her to enter into the gayeties of the season under existing circumstances, and the marriage was postponed until the end of July.
In short, a lull had stilled the actors in this little drama. The stream of events had entered one of the quiet pools which here and there hold the most rapid current tranquil for a time.
With Mrs. Ormonde all went well. She had the newest and most charming gowns and bonnets, mantles and hats. She found herself very well received by society, and quite a favorite with Lady Mary Vincent, who was a very popular person. So much occupied was the pretty little woman that May was nearly over before she could find time to accept her sister-in-law's repeated invitation to Cliff Cottage.
"I am going down to Sandbourne on Friday," she said to De Burgh one evening as she was waiting for her carriage after a musical party at Lady Mary Vincent's.
"Indeed! I thought you were going last Monday."
"Oh, I could not go on Monday. But if I don't go on Friday I do not think I shall manage my visit at all. Tell me, what does Katherine find to keep her down there? Is it Bertie Payne?"
"How can I tell? She seems contented enough. For that matter, she might find my society equally attractive. Payne does not go down as often as I do."
"No?—but then Katherine has a leaning to sanctity, and you are no saint."
"True. By-the-way, talking of saints, there is a report that old Errington's affairs were not left in as flourishing a condition as was expected."
"Oh, nonsense! It is some mere ill-natured gossip."
"I hope so. I think I will come down on Saturday and escort you back to town."
"Pray do; it will enliven us a little." A shout of "Mrs. Ormonde's carriage!" cut short the conversation, and Mrs. Ormonde did not see De Burgh again until they met at Cliff Cottage.
Mrs. Ormonde's visit, long anticipated, did not prove an unmixed pleasure. She objected to what she considered the terribly long drive of some five miles from the railway station to Katherine's secluded residence; she turned up her pretty little nose at the smallness of the cottage and its general homeliness; she evinced an unfriendly spirit toward Miss Payne, who was perfectly unmoved thereby; and when the boys, well washed and spruced up, approached her, not too eagerly, she scarcely noticed them. This, of course, reacted on the little fellows, who showed a decided inclination to avoid her.
She was tired after a warm journey and previous late hours, and dreadfully afraid that sea air and sun together would have a ruinous effect on her complexion. When, however, she had had tea and made a fresh toilette, she took a less gloomy view of life at Sandbourne, and having recovered her temper, she remembered it would be wiser not to chafe her sister-in-law.
"To be sure," thought the astute little woman, "the boys' settlement is out of her power to revoke; but it would be rather good if she came to live with us, instead of filling the pockets of this prim, presumptuous, self-satisfied old maid. I am sure she is awfully selfish, and I do hate selfishness."
So reflecting, she descended serene and smiling. Half an hour after, she had so completely recovered herself as to declare she had never seen the boys look so well, that they were quite grown, etc., etc.
After dinner Cecil displayed his exercise and copy books, and received a due meed of praise, not unmixed with a little sarcastic remark or two respecting the wonderful effect of his aunt's influence, which did not escape the notice of her son, who felt, though he did not understand why, that she was not quite so well pleased as she affected to be.
"And don't you feel dreadfully dull here?" asked Mrs. Ormonde, as the sisters-in-law strolled along the beach under the shelter of the east cliff, which hid them from the bright morning sunlight.
"No, not as yet. I should not like to live here always; but at present I like the place. You must confess it is very pretty."
"Yes, just now, when the weather is fine. When you have rain and a gale, it must be fearfully dreary."
"We have had some rough days, but the bay has a beauty of its own even in a storm, and we shall not be here in the winter."
"De Burgh runs down to see you pretty often?" asked Mrs. Ormonde, after a short pause. The old regimental habit of calling men by their surnames still returned when she was off guard.
"Yes," replied Katherine, calmly; "he seems to enjoy a day by the sea-side."
Mrs. Ormonde laughed—a hard laugh. "I dare say you enjoy it too."
"Mr. De Burgh is not particularly sympathetic to me, but I like him better than I did."
"Oh, I dare say he makes himself very pleasant to you, and I never knew him show attention to an unmarried woman before, nor to many married women either. Of course it would be absurd to suppose that if you had not a good fortune you would see quite so much of him."
"Naturally," returned Katherine. "I fancy my money would be of great use to him; so it would to most men. That does not affect me. If it is an incentive to make them agreeable and useful, why, so be it."
"I did not expect to hear you talk like that. Now I hate and despise mercenary men."
"Well, you see, the man or the woman must have money or there can be no marriage."
"How worldly you have grown, Kate!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, in a superior tone. She did not perceive anything but sober seriousness in her sister-in-law's tone, and was infinitely annoyed at her taking the insinuations against De Burgh's disinterestedness with such indifference. "I suppose you think it would be a very fine thing to be Baroness De Burgh, and go to court with all the family jewels on."
"I shall certainly not go as Katherine Liddell."
"Pray, why not? Ah, yes; it would all be very fine! But I am too deeply interested in you, dear, not to warn you that De Burgh would make a very bad husband; he has such a horrid, sneering way sometimes; and as to being faithful—constancy is a thing unknown to him."
"What would Colonel Ormonde say if he knew you gave his favorite kinsman so bad a character?"
"Oh, my dear Katherine, you must not betray me! Duke would be furious. But of course your happiness is my first consideration."
"Thank you," returned Katherine, gravely.
"And Mr. Payne, how does he like Mr. De Burgh's visits here?"
"I don't think he minds"—seriously. "I should be sorry if he were annoyed. I am very fond of Bertie Payne."
This declaration somewhat bewildered Mrs. Ormonde. But before she could find suitable words to reply, Charlie came running to meet them, jumping up to kiss his aunt first, and cried; "Mr. De Burgh has come. I saw him driving up to the hotel outside the omlibus."
"The omnibus!" repeated Mrs. Ormonde.
"He would find no other conveyance from the train unless he ordered one previously," said Katherine, laughing.
"Dear me! I suppose he will be here directly. How early he must have started!" in a tone of annoyance. "I feel so hot and uncomfortable after this dreadfully long walk, I must change my dress before I see any one." And she hastened on.
After holding his aunt's hand for a while, Charlie darted away to overtake Francois, whom he perceived at a little distance.
"I declare, Katherine, you are quite supplanting me with those boys!" exclaimed their mother, querulously.
"Ada, I would not for the world wean them from you, if—I mean"—stopping the words which rushed to her lips. "I should be sorry. But you have new ties—another boy. Could you not spare Cis and Charlie to me—for I have no one?"
"I am sure that is your own fault. However, if after three or four months' experience you are not tired of them, I shall be very much surprised."
On reaching the house, Mrs. Ormonde went straight to her own apartment to "refit," and Katherine sat down in the smaller drawing or morning room, which looked west and was cool. She had not been there many minutes before De Burgh was announced.
"Alone!" he exclaimed. "Where is Mrs. Ormonde?"
"She will be here immediately."
"Has she persuaded you to return with her? I wish you would. Lady G—— gives a dinner at Richmond on Thursday; it will be rather amusing. I know most of the fellows who are going, and I think you would enjoy it. You like good talkers, I know."
"Thank you; I have refused."
"Absolutely?"
"Absolutely."
De Burgh came over and leaned his shoulder against the side of the window opposite to where Katherine sat.
"What are you thinking of, if I may ask, Miss Liddell?" he said. "You have scarcely heard what I said. They are not pleasant thoughts, I fancy."
"No," she returned, glad to put them into words that she might exorcise them. "Ada has just reproached me with supplanting her with her boys, and it made me feel, as Americans say 'bad.'"
"Why?" he asked. "Why should you not? I would lay long odds that you love them more than she does. You are more a real mother to them. Why are you always straining at gnats? You really lose a lot of time, which might be more agreeably occupied, worrying over the rights and wrongs of things. Follow my example: go straight ahead for whatever you desire, provided it's not robbery, and let things balance themselves."
"Has that system made you supremely happy?"
"Happy! Oh, that is a big word. I have had some splendid spurts of enjoyment; and now I have an object to win. It will give me a lot of trouble; it's the heaviest stake I ever played for; but it will go hard with me if I don't succeed."
De Burgh had been looking out at the stretch of water before him as he spoke, but at his last words his eyes sought Katherine's with a look she could not misunderstand. She shivered slightly, an odd passing sense of fear chilling her for a moment as she turned to lay her hat upon the table near, saying, in a cold, collected tone.
"You must always remember that the firmest resolution cannot insure success."
"It goes a long way toward it, however," he replied.
"Ah, there is Cis!" cried Katherine, glad to turn the conversation, "come back from school. Are you not earlier than usual, Cis?"—as the boy came bounding over the grass to the open window.
"No, auntie; it is one o'clock."
"Well, young man," said De Burgh, who was not sorry to be interrupted, as he felt he was treading dangerous ground, and with instinctive tact endeavored always to keep friends with Katherine's pets, "I have brought you a present, if auntie will allow you to keep it."
"What is it?—a box of tools, real tools? I do so want a box of tools! But auntie is afraid I will cut myself."
"No; it's a St. Bernard puppy that promises to turn out a fine dog."
"Oh, thank you! thank you! that is nice. I don't think you are a bit like the wicked uncle now. May I go and fetch it now, this moment?"
"Not till after dinner, dear."
"Oh, isn't it jolly! A real St. Bernard dog!"—capering about. "You are a nice man!"
"What are you making such a noise for, Cis?" exclaimed his mother coming in, looking admirably well, fresh, becomingly dressed. "Go away, dear, and be made tidy for your dinner. Well, Mr. De Burgh, I never dreamed of your arriving so early. Did you get up in the middle of the night?"
"Not exactly. The fact is, I must drive over to Revelstoke late this evening and catch the mail train. I have a command to dine with the Baron to-morrow, to talk over some business of importance, and dared not refuse, as you can imagine. The everlasting old tyrant has been quite amiable to me of late."
"Then you'll not be here to escort me back to town, and I hate travelling alone!" cried Mrs. Ormonde.
"Unfortunately no," said De Burgh. "But I have a piece of news for you that will freeze the marrow in your bones: Errington is completely ruined."
"Impossible!" cried both his hearers at once.
"It's too true, I assure you. When, after the old man's death, he began to look into things with his solicitor, he was startled to find certain deficiencies. Then the head clerk, the manager, who had everything in his hands—bossed the show, in short—disappeared, and on further examination it proved that the whole concern was a mere shell, out of which this scoundrel had sucked the capital. There was an awful amount of debt to other houses, several of which would have come down, and ruined the unfortunates connected with them, if Errington had not come forward and sacrificed almost all he possessed to retrieve the credit of his name. He says he ought to have undertaken the risks as well as reaped the profit of the concern. Garston Hall is advertised for sale; so is the house in Berkley Square; his stud is brought to the hammer—everything is given up. What he'll do I haven't an idea. But I must say I think his sense of honor is a little overstrained."
"And Lady Alice!" ejaculated Katherine.
"Of course Melford will soon settle that, if it is not settled already, for a good deal was done before the matter got wind. There hasn't been such a crash for a long time. In short, Errington is utterly, completely ruined."
"I never heard of such a fool!" cried Mrs. Ormonde. "It was bad enough to be disappointed of the wealth old Errington was supposed to have left behind him, but to give up everything! Why, he is only fit for a lunatic asylum. What an awful disappointment for poor Lady Alice!"
Katherine did not, could not speak. The rush of sorrow for the heavy blow which had fallen on the man she had robbed, the shame and self-reproach, which had been lulled asleep for a while, which now woke up with renewed power to torment and irritate—these were too much for her self-control, and while Mrs. Ormonde and De Burgh eagerly discussed the catastrophe, she kept silence and struggled to be composed.