CHAPTER XIX.

CONFESSION.

"Errington is completely ruined!" De Burgh's words repeated themselves over and over again in Katherine's ears through the darkness and silence of her sleepless night. What would become of him—that grave, stately man who had never known the touch of anything common or unclean? How would he live? And what an additional blow the rupture of his engagement with Lady Alice! He was certainly very fond of her. It was like him to give up all he possessed to save the honor of his name, but how would it be if he were penniless? Had she not robbed him, he might have enough to live comfortably after satisfying every one. As she thought, a resolution to restore what she had taken formed itself in her mind. Perhaps if he could show that he had still a solid capital, his engagement to Lady Alice need not be broken off. If she could restore him to competence, he would not refuse some provision for the poor dear boys. Were she secure on this point, she would be happier without the money than with it. But the humiliation of confession—and to such a father confessor? How could she do it? Yet it must be done.

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

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

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

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

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

"I do not think hot rooms the best cure for a headache," observed Miss Payne; "and till yesterday Katherine had been looking remarkably well. She was out boating too long in the sun."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In truth the prospect of poverty did not dismay him.

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

This was imperative. Yet it surprised him to perceive how little he felt the prospect of parting with her on his own account. Indeed he was rather ashamed of his indifference. It was for Lady Alice he felt. It would be such a terrible disappointment—not that Errington had much personal vanity. He hoped and thought Lady Alice Mordaunt liked him in a calm and reasonable manner, which is the best guarantee for married happiness. But it was the loss of a tranquil home, a luxurious life, an escape from the genteel poverty of a deeply embarrassed earl's daughter to the ease and comfort of a rich man's wife, that he deplored for her. Poor helpless child! she would probably find a rich husband ere long who would give her all possible luxuries, for a noble's daughter of high degree is generally a marketable article. But he, Miles Errington, would have been kind and patient. Would that other possible fellow be kind and patient too? Knowing his own sex, Errington doubted it. He had a certain amount of the generosity which belongs to strength. To children, and the kind of pretty, undecided women who rank as children, he was wonderfully considerate. But it was quite possible that were he married to a sensible, companionable wife he might be exacting.

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

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

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

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

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

"To Mr. Errington ,—Allow me to speak to you alone.
Katherine Liddell ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you have time to listen I will tell you everything. Now that I have told the ugly secret that has made a discord in my life, I can speak more easily." But her sweet mouth still quivered.

"Yes, tell me all," said Errington, more eagerly than perhaps he had ever spoken before.

In a low but more composed voice Katherine gave a rapid account of the circumstances which led to her residence with her uncle: of her intense desire to help the dear mother whose burden was almost more than she could bear; then of the change which came to the old miser—his increasing interest in herself, and finally of his expressed intention to change his will—as she hoped, in her favor; of her leav ing it, by his direction, in the writing-table drawer; of his terribly sudden death.

Then came the great temptation. "When Mr. Newton said that if the will existed it would be in the bureau, but that as he had been on the point of making another, so he (Mr. Newton) hoped he had destroyed the last," continued Katherine, "a thought darted through my brain. Why should it be found? He no longer wished its provisions to be carried out. I should not, in destroying or suppressing it, defeat the wishes of the dead. I determined, if Mr. Newton asked me a direct question, I would tell him the truth; if not, I would simply be silent. In short, I mentally tossed for the guidance of my conduct. Silence won. Mr. Newton asked nothing; he was too glad that everything was mine. He has been very, very good to me. I imagined that half my uncle's money would go to my brother's children, but it did not; so when I came of age I settled a third upon them. Of course the deed of gift is now but so much waste paper, and for them I would earnestly implore you to spare a little yearly allowance for education, to prepare them to earn their own bread. I feel sure you will do this, and I do deeply dread their being thrown on Colonel Ormonde's charity; their lot would be very miserable. My poor little boys!" Her voice broke, and she stopped abruptly.

Errington's eyes dwelt upon her, almost sternly, with the deepest attention, while she spoke. Nor did he break silence at once; he leaned back in his chair, resting one closed hand on the table before him. At last he exclaimed: "I wish you had not told me this! I could not have imagined you capable of such an act."

"And more," said Katherine; "although I wish to make what reparation I can, had that act to be done again—even with the anticipation of this bitter hour—I'd do it."

She looked straight into Errington's eyes, her own aflame with sudden passion. He was silent, his brow slightly knit, a puzzled expression in his face. The natural motion of his mind was to condemn severely such a lawless sentiment, yet he could not resist thinking of those brilliant speaking eyes, nor help the conviction that he had never met a real live woman before. It was like a scene on the stage; for demonstrative emotion always appeared theatrical to him, only it was terribly earnest this time.

"You would not say so were you calmer," said Errington, in a curious hesitating manner. "Why—why did you not come and tell me your need for your uncle's money? Do you think I am so avaricious as to retain the fortune, or all the fortune, that ought to have been yours, when I had enough of my own?"

"How could I tell?" she cried. "If I knew you then as I do now I should have asked you, and saved my soul alive; but what did the name of Errington convey to me? Only the idea of a greedy enemy! Are men so ready to cast the wealth they can claim into the lap of another? When you spoke to me that day at Castleford I thought I should have dropped at your feet with the overpowering sense of shame. But withal, when I remember my disappointment, my utter inability to help my dear overtasked mother, round whom the net of difficulty, of debt, of fruitless work, was drawing closer and closer, I again feel the irresistible force of the temptation. You, who are wise and strong and just, might have resisted; but"—with a slight graceful gesture of humility—"you see what I am."

"If you had stopped to think!" Errington was beginning with unusual severity, for he was irritated by the confusion in his own mind, which was so different from his ordinary unhesitating decision between right and wrong.

"But when you love any one very much—so entirely that you know every change of the dear face, the meaning even of the drooping hand or the bend of the weary head; when you know that a true brave heart is breaking under a load of care—care for you, for your future, when it will no longer be near to watch over and uphold you—and that no thought or tenderness or personal exertion can lift that load, only the magic of gold, why, you would do almost anything to get it. Would you not if you loved like this ?" concluded Katherine. She had spoken rapidly and with fire.

"But I never have," returned Errington, startled.

"Then," said she, with some deliberation, "wisdom for you is from one entrance quite shut out." She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and was very still during a pause, which Errington hesitated to break.

"It is no doubt lost breath to excuse myself to a man of your character, only do believe I was not meanly greedy! Now I have told you everything, I readily resign into your hands what I ought never to have taken. And—and you will spare my nephews wherewithal to educate them? Do what I can, this is beyond my powers, but I trust to your generosity not to let them be a burden on Colonel Ormonde. I leave the will with you." She made a movement as if to put on her veil.

"Listen to me, Miss Liddell," said Errington, speaking very earnestly and with an effort. "You are in a state of exaltation, of mental excitement. The consciousness of the terrible mistake into which you were tempted has thrown your judgment off its balance. I do not for an instant doubt the sincerity of your proposition, but a little reflection will show you I could not entertain it."

"Why not? I am quite willing to bear the blame, the shame, I deserve, rather than see you parted from the woman who was so nearly your wife, who would no doubt suffer keenly, and who—"

"Pray hear me," interrupted Errington. "To part with Lady Alice is a great aggravation of my present troubles; but considering the kind of life to which we were both accustomed, and which she had a right to expect, I am sincerely thankful she was preserved from sharing my lot. Alone I can battle with life; distracted by knowing I had dragged her down, I should be paralyzed. I shall always remember with grateful regard the lady who honored me by promising to be my wife, but I shall be glad to know that she is in a safe position under the care of a worthier man than myself. That matter is at rest forever. Now as to using the information you have placed in my power, you ask what is impossible. First, it is evident that the late Mr. Liddell fully intended to alter his will in your favor. It would have been most unjust to have bestowed his fortune to me. I am extremely glad it is yours."

"But," again interrupted Katherine, "why should you not share it at least? Why should you be penniless while I am rich with what is not mine?"

"I shall not be absolutely penniless," said Errington, smiling gravely. "Even if I were," he continued, with unusual animation, "do you think me capable of rebuilding my fortune on your disgrace? or of inventing some elaborate lie to account for the possession of that unlucky will? No amount of riches could repay me for either. I dare say the temptation you describe was irresistible to a nature like yours, and I dare say too the punishment of your self-condemnation is bitter enough. Now you must reflect that your duty is to keep the secret to which you have bound yourself. If you raise the veil which must always hide the true facts of your succession, you would create great unhappiness and confusion in Colonel Ormonde's family, and injure the innocent woman whom he would never have married had he not been sure you would provide for the boys. It would so cruel to break up a home merely to indulge a morbid desire for atonement. No, Miss Liddell. Be guided by me; accept the life you have brought upon yourself. I , the only one who has a right to do it, willingly resign what ought to have been yours without your unfortunately illegal act. Your secret is perfectly safe with me. Time will heal the wounds you have inflicted on yourself and enable you to forget. Leave this ill-omened document with me; it is safer than in your hands. Indeed there is no use in keeping it."

"But what—what will become of you? " she asked, with strange familiarity, the outcome of strong excitement which carried her over all conventional limits.

"Oh, I have had some training in the world both of men and books, and I hope to be able to keep the wolf from the door."

"Would you not accept part at least—a sum of money, you know, to begin something?" asked Katherine, her voice quivering, her nerves relaxing from their high tension, and feeling utterly beaten, her high resolves of sacrifice and renunciation tumbling about her, like a house of cards, at the touch of common-sense.

"I do not think any arrangements of the kind practicable," returned Errington, with a kind smile. "I understand your eagerness to relieve your conscience by an act of restitution, but now you are exonerated. I ask nothing but that you should forgive yourself, and knit up the ravelled web of your life. The fortune ought to be yours—is yours—shall be yours."

"Will you promise that if you ever want help—money help—you will ask me? I shall have more money every year, for I shall never spend my income."

"I shall not want help," he returned, quietly. "But though it is not likely we shall meet again, believe me I shall always be glad to know you are well and happy. Let this painful conversation be the last we have on this subject. For my part, I grant you plenary absolution."

"You are good and generous; you are wise too; your judgment constrains me. Yet I hope I shall never see you again. It is too humiliating to meet your eyes." She spoke brokenly as she tied the white veil closely over her face.

"Nevertheless we part friends," said Errington, and held out his hand. She put hers in it. He felt how it trembled, and held it an instant with a friendly pressure. Then he opened the door and followed her to the entrance, where he bowed low as she passed out.

Errington returned at once to his writing-table and his calculations. He took up his pen, but he did not begin to write. He leaned back in his chair and fell into an interesting train of thought. What an extraordinary mad proceeding it was of that girl to conceal the will! It was strangely unprincipled. "How impossible it is to trust a person who acts from impulse! The difference between masculine and feminine character is immense. No man with a grain of honor in him would have done what she did; only some dastardly hound who could cheat at cards. And she—somehow she seems a pure good woman in spite of all. I suppose in a woman's sensitive and weaker nature good and evil are less distinct, more shaded into each other. After all, I think I would trust my life to the word of this daring law-breaker." And Errington recalled the expressive tones of her voice, surprised to feel again the strange thrill which shivered through him when she had looked straight into his eyes, her own aglow with momentary defiance, and said, "Had it to be done again, I'd do it!" He had never been brought face to face with real emotion before. He knew such a thing existed; that it led like most things to good and to evil; that it was exceedingly useful to poets, who often touched him, and to actors, who did not; but in real every-day life he had rarely, if ever, seen it. The people with whom he associated were rich, well born, well trained; a crumpled rose leaf here and there was the worst trouble in their easy, conventional, luxurious lives. Of course he had met men on the road to ruin who swore and drank and gambled and generally disgraced themselves. Such cases, however, did not affect him much; he only touched such characters with moral tongs. Now this delicate, refined girl had humbled herself before him. Her sweet varying tones, her moist glowing eyes, the indescribable tremulous earnestness which was the undertone of all she said, her determined efforts for self-command, made a deep impression on him. Was she right when she said that from him "wisdom by one entrance was quite shut out?" At all events he felt, though he did not consciously acknowledge it even to himself, that this impulsive, inexperienced girl, whom he strove to look down upon from the unsullied heights of his own integrity, had revealed to him something of life's inner core which had hitherto been hidden from his sight.

But all this dreaming was unpardonable waste of time when so much serious work lay before him. So Errington resolutely turned from his unusual and disturbing reverie, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write steadily.