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When these startling sentences penetrated to Katherine's comprehension she saw as with a flash their far-reaching consequences. Her uncle's will suppressed, his son and natural heir would take everything. And her dear boys—how would they fare?
She sat with wide-dilated eyes, gazing at the hard, displeased face of this unwelcome intruder. There were a few moments of profound silence; the old lawyer's hands, which relaxed their grasp of his chair as he looked with startled amazement at his late client's son, visibly trembled.
Liddell was the first to speak. "So you thought I was dead and out of the way," he said, with a sneer; "that nothing would happen to disturb the fortunate possessor of my father's money. I was dead and done for, and a good riddance."
"But how—how is it that you are alive!" stammered Mr. Newton.
"Oh, that I can easily account for." And he looked round for a chair.
"Yes, pray sit down," said Mr. Newton, recovering himself.
Here Katherine, with the unconscious tact of a sensitive woman, feeling how terrible it must be to find one's continued existence a source of regret to others, rose and held out her hand. "Let me, your kinswoman," she said, "welcome you back to life and home. I hope there are many happy years before you."
Liddell was greatly surprised. He mechanically took the hand offered to him, and looking earnestly into her face, exclaimed, "Who are you?"
"Katherine Liddell, your uncle Frederic's daughter."
He dropped—indeed, almost threw—her hand from him. "What!" he cried, "are you the supplanter, who took all without an inquiry, without an effort to find out if I were dead or alive?"
"Sit down—sit down—sit down," repeated Newton, still confused. "Let us talk over everything. As to trying to find you, we never dreamed of finding you, considering that twelve, fourteen years ago we had an account of your death from an eye-witness."
"Cowardly liar! It was worth a Jew's ransom to see him turn white and drop into a chair when I confronted him the day before yesterday."
"Why did you not communicate with me on hearing of your father's death?"
"When do you think I heard of it? Do you fancy I sat down in the midst of my busy day to pore over the births, deaths, and marriages in a paper, like a gossiping woman? Kith and kin were dead to me long ago. What did I care for English papers? What had my life or the life of my poor mother been that I should give those I had left behind a thought?" He paused, and taking a chair, looked very straight at Katherine. "Now I shall tell you my story, once for all, to show you that there is no use in disputing my rights. You know"—addressing Newton—"how my life was made a burden to me, and that I ran away to sea, ready to throw myself into it rather than return to my miserable home. After several voyages I found myself at Sydney. A young fellow who had been my mate on the voyage out, an active, clever chap, proposed that we should start for the gold fields; so we started. It was a desperate long tramp, but we reached them at last. Life was hard and rough, and for a time we worked and worked, and got nothing. At last we found a pocket, just as we were going to give up, and having secured a fair lot of gold, we divided our gains and determined to leave the camp, which was not too safe for a successful digger, before the rest knew of our treasure-trove. We decided to trudge it to the nearest place where we could buy horses, and then to make our way to Sydney as fast as we could. Somehow it must have got out that we had gold, for as the dusk of evening was closing round us on the second day of our march we were attacked by some men on horseback—bush-rangers, I suppose. We showed fight, and I was hit in the shoulder. At the same time I stumbled over a stump, and pitched on to my head, which stunned me. Just then, it seems, the sound of horses approaching frightened the scoundrels, and they made off. My mate, not knowing whether the new-comers were friends or foes, he says, got away as fast as he could. His story is that as soon as all was still he crept back, and finding me apparently quite dead, went on to report the catastrophe at the first road-side inn he came to. I believe that, thinking me dead, he took all my gold, and said precious little about me."
"His story to me," interrupted Mr. Newton, "was that he got assistance and buried your remains as decently as he could."
"What induced him to apply to you at all?"
"I do not know. I fancy it was to hand over a few small nuggets, which he said was your share of the findings, and which he took from your waistband before committing you to the grave. As he seemed frank and straightforward and quite poor, I confess I believed him, and even requested Mr. Liddell to give him some small present. He said he was going afloat again, and would sail in a few days. He had an old clasp-knife which I myself had given you, and with it a small pocket-book in which your name and my address were written in your own hand. These were tolerably convincing proofs that he at least knew you. Moreover, there seemed no need whatever that he should have made any attempt to communicate with your people. He might have held his tongue, and no question would have been raised respecting you."
"You are right," returned Liddell, bitterly.
"And how did you escape?" asked Katherine, with eager interest.
"He—this Tom Dunford— did go to the next inn and told of the attack; he even guided some men to the spot, and left them to bury me, because he was obliged to hurry on to Sydney; but I believe he returned, before going to the inn, and robbed me. Anyhow I was not killed by the bullet, but stunned by the fall. Some of the fellows who came with Tom fancied I did not seem quite dead. Finally I recovered, and instead of digging for gold myself, got others to dig for me. I set up an inn and a store, with the help of an American whose daughter I married, and now I am rich enough to be a formidable foe. I have a little girl, and when my wife died I determined to realize everything, to come to England, and have the child brought up as an English lady. On the voyage home I fell in with a man—a fellow of the rolling-stone order—to whom I used to talk now and again. He turned out to be the brother of one of your clerks, and from him I heard that my father had died intestate, that my cousin had taken possession of everything, and that I was looked upon as dead. Did you never attempt to prove the truth of Tom Dunford's story?"
"We did. I communicated with the police of Sydney, and they found that there had been a fight between bush-rangers and diggers returning from Woollamaroo at the time and place specified; moreover, that one of the diggers was killed, while the other escaped, but further nothing was known. The man who kept the inn mentioned by Dunford had made money and moved off, so the track was broken. Then all these years you made no sign. Did you not see the advertisements I put in an Australian paper?"
"No; I was far away from any town, and rarely saw any but the American papers which came to my master. Well, here I am, determined to have every inch of my rights, let who will stand in my way; and you "—looking fiercely into Newton's eyes—"shall be my first witness."
"I cannot deny that I recognize you," said Newton, reluctantly.
Liddell laughed scornfully. "And you?" turning to Katherine.
"I have no doubt you are my cousin George."
"Right! As to that fellow Tom—he would never have hurt me, but I am sure he robbed me, especially if he thought I was dead. His game was to hold himself harmless whether I lived or died, only he ought not to have committed himself to seeing me buried. I found him out in Liverpool, and gave him a fright, for he really believed me dead. Now, cousin, I hope you understand that I mean to take every farthing of my father's fortune. He never did me much good in my life, nor my poor mother either, and I am determined to get all I can out of what he has left behind him. But I never dreamed he could pass away without taking care that nothing should come to me. It is strange that your mother and my uncle should make no fresh attempt to discover me."
"We had looked upon you as dead for years, and my father had died before the news of your supposed murder reached us." Katherine could hardly steady her voice; she was burning to get away. "I beg you will not resent the fact of my most unconscious usurpation. I would not do anything unjust." She stopped, remembering what she had done. Surely the punishment was coming quick upon her.
"Ay," said George Liddell, looking sternly at her. "It is a bitter pill for a fine lady like you to swallow, to find a ragged outcast like me thrusting you from the place you have no right to; where my poor little wild untutored girl will take her stand in spite of you all."
"From what I have heard, I do not think my father or mother ever treated you as an outcast," said Katherine, with quiet dignity; adding, as she rose to leave them, "You seem so irritated against me I will leave you with Mr. Newton, who will, I know, act as a true friend to both of us."
Mr. Newton, with a grave and troubled face, hastened after to see her to her carriage. "This is an awful blow!" he said in a low voice.
"It is, no doubt. Do you think, as he is already rich, that he might do something for the boys? Then I should not care."
"The boys!"—impatiently. "You need not trouble about them when he has the power to rob you even of the trifle you inherit from your father by demanding the arrears of income since your uncle's death, as he has the right to do. Why, he can beggar you!"
"Indeed! He looks like a hard man; he is like his father."
"Well, trust me, I will do my best for you."
"I know you will," returned Katherine, pressing the old lawyer's hand as he leaned against the carriage door.
"Good-by! God bless you!" he returned; and Katherine was carried away from him. Slowly and sadly the old man ascended to his office again to confront the angry claimant, who awaited him impatiently.
Meantime Katherine was striving to think clearly, to rouse herself from the stunned, bewildered condition into which the appearance of George Liddell had thrown her, and which Mr. Newton's words increased. What was to become of Cis and Charlie if she were beggared? She could not face the prospect. There was still a way of escape left, a glimpse of which had been given to her as she listened to her cousin's vindictive utterances. If she could prevail on Errington to produce the will and assert his right, he would provide for those poor innocent boys, and never ask her for any of the money she had spent. Maybe he would share with George himself. She must see Errington at once, and with the strictest secrecy. Her thoughts cleared as, bit by bit, her plan unfolded itself in her busy brain. Then she made up her mind. Touching the check-string, she desired the driver to stop at a small fancyware and stationer's shop near Miss Payne's house. Arrived there, she dismissed the carriage, saying she would walk home.
"Give me paper and an envelope: I want to write a few lines," she said to the smiling shopwoman, who knew her to be one of their best customers.
Having traced a few words entreating Errington to see her early next day—should he happen to be out or engaged—she hailed a hansome, and went as quickly as she could to his lodgings in the Temple.
It was quite different, this second visit, from the first. He now knew all, and in spite of her fears and profound uneasiness she felt a thrill of pleasure at the idea of the necessity for taking counsel with him, the prospect of half an hour's undisturbed communication, of hearing his voice, and feeling his kind forgiving glance. Still it was an awful trial too—to tell him the upshot of her dishonesty, the confusion she had wrought by her deviation into a crooked path. She was trembling from head to foot by the time she reached Errington's abode.
A severe-looking woman, a caretaker apparently, was on the stair as Katherine ascended, feeling dreadfully puzzled what to do, as she feared having to knock in vain and go away without leaving her note.
"Can you tell me if Mr. Errington is at home?" she asked, timidly, quite frightened at the sound of her own voice in so strange a place.
"I am sure I don't know, miss. I dare say he's gone out. He is up the next flight."
"May I ask you to inquire if he is in? If not, would you be so kind as to leave this note?"
The woman took it with a rather discontented suspicious air, but finding it was accompanied by a coin of the realm, went on her errand with great alacrity. Katherine followed slowly.
"You're to walk up at once; he's in," said the emissary, meeting her at the top of the stair.
At the door stood Errington, her note in his hand, and a serious, uneasy expression on his countenance. Katherine was very white; her eyes were dilated with a look of fear and distress.
"Pray come in," said Errington; and he closed the door behind her. "I fear you are in some difficulty. You can speak without reserve; I am quite alone."
Katherine was aware of passing through a small room with doors right and left, and possessing only a couple of chairs and a small table; through this Errington led her to his sitting-room, which was almost lined with books, and comfortably furnished. He placed a chair for her, and returned to his own seat by a table at which he had been writing.
"The last time I came it was in the hope of assisting you by my confession; now I have come to beg for your help—" She stopped abruptly. "My uncle's son George, who was believed to have been killed by bush-rangers in Australia more than fourteen years ago, has returned, alive and well."
"But can he prove his identity?"
"I was with Mr. Newton when he came into the office, and the moment Mr. Newton saw him he started up, exclaiming, 'George Liddell!' and I—I saw the likeness to his father."
"Did Newton know him formerly?"
"Yes; he seems to have been almost his only friend."
"How was it he did not put in an appearance and assert his rights before?"
"I will tell you all." And she went on to describe the interview which had just taken place, the curious vindictive spirit which her cousin displayed, his very recent knowledge of his father's death, and Mr. Newton's words of warning, "He has the power to rob you even of the trifle you inherit from your father, by demanding the arrears of income since your uncle's death; he can beggar you."
"No doubt he can, but surely he will not!" exclaimed Errington.
"It seems to me that if he can he will. To give him up that which is his is quite right, and will not cost me a pang; but to be penniless, to send back my poor dear little boys, to be considered and treated as burdens by their mother and Colonel Ormonde—oh, I cannot bear it! I know now Charlie would be crushed and Cecil would be hardened. It is for this I come to you for help. Mr. Errington, I implore you to produce the will which puts this cruelty out of George Liddell's power. Surely you might say that not liking to disinherit me, you suppressed it? This is true, you know."
"The will!" exclaimed Errington, starting up and pacing the room in great agitation. "My God! I have destroyed it. Thinking it safer for you that it should be out of the way, I destroyed it, and by so doing I have given you, bound hand and foot, into the power of this man. Can you forgive me?—can you ever forgive me?" He took and wrung her hand, holding it for a moment, while he looked imploringly into her eyes.
"Oh yes, I do heartily forgive you. You only did it to save me from any chance of discovery. If only George Liddell will be satisfied not to claim the money I have spent, I may still be able to keep the boys, for I have nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year quite my own," cried Katherine, loosing her hand. "Do not distress yourself, Mr. Errington. I know Mr. Newton will do his best for me, and perhaps my cousin will not exact the arrears. He says he is rich, and if I give him no trouble——" she paused, for she could not command her voice, while the tears were already glittering in her eyes. Another word and they would have been rolling down her cheeks.
"Don't cry, for God's sake!" said Errington, in a low tone, resuming his seat. "What can be done to soften this fellow? Ah! Miss Liddell, we are quits now. If you robbed me, I have ruined you."
"From what different motives!" said Katherine, recovering her self-control. " I am still the wrong-doer."
How heavenly sweet it was to be consoled and sympathized with by him! But she dared not stay. It was terribly bold of her to have come to his rooms, only he would never misjudge her, and she was so little known she scarcely feared recognition by any one she might meet.
"Could I assist Mr. Newton at all in dealing with this kinsman of yours?" resumed Errington, gazing at her with a troubled look.
"I fear you could not. How are you to know anything of my troubles? No one dreams that you have any knowledge of my affairs; that you and you only are aware what an impostor I am."
"You are expiating your offence bitterly. But when the story of this George Liddell comes out, why should I not, as the son of his father's old friend, make his acquaintance, and try to persuade him to forego his full rights?"
"You might try," said Katherine, dejectedly. "Now I have trespassed long enough. I must go. I have to explain matters to Miss Payne, and I feel curiously dazed. Oh, if I can keep the boys!"
"If any effort of mine can help you, it is my duty as well as my sincere pleasure to do all I can."
"And if the will existed would you have acted on it?"
"Most certainly—in your defence."
"Ah!" cried Katherine, her eyes lighting up, her tremulous lips parting in a smile. "Then you would have had some of the money too."
"Then you quite forgive me?" again rising, and coming over to stand beside her.
"You must feel I do, Mr. Errington. Now I will say good-by. If you can help me with George, I shall be most grateful."
"Promise that you will look on me as one of your most devoted friends. He took her hand again.
"Can you indeed feel friendship for one you cannot respect?" she returned, in a low tone, with one of the quick, vivid blushes which usually rose to her cheek when she was much moved.
"But I do respect you. Why should I not? A generous, impulsive woman like you cannot be judged by the cold maxims of exact justice; you must be tried by the higher rules of equity."
"You comfort me," said Katherine, with indescribably sweet graceful humility. "I thank you heartily, and will say good-by."
"I will come and see you into a cab," returned Errington, feeling himself anxious that no one should recognize her, and not knowing when their tete-a-tete might be interrupted.
They went out together, and walked a little way in silence. "You will let me come and see you, to hear—" began Errington, when Katherine interrupted him.
"Not just now. I think we had better not seem to know anything of each other, or perhaps George Liddell may suspect you of being my friend."
"I see. But at least you will keep me informed of how things go on. Remember how tormented I am with remorse for my hasty act."
"You need not be. But I will write. There—there is a cab."
Errington hailed it, handed her in carefully, and they said good-by with a sudden sense of intimacy which months of ordinary communication would not have produced.
It was a very serious undertaking to break the intelligence to Miss Payne, and poor Katherine felt quite exhausted before her exclamations, questions, and wonderings were half over.
On one or two points Miss Payne at once made up her mind, nor had she ever quite altered her opinion: This man representing himself as George Liddell was an impostor who had known the real "Simon Pure," and got himself up accordingly as soon as he heard that the late John Liddell had died intestate; that Mr. Newton was a weak-minded, credulous idiot to acknowledge this impostor at first sight, if he were not a double-dealing traitor ready to play into the hands of the new claimant. He ought to have thrown the onus of proof on him , instead of acknowledging his identity by that childish exclamation. Don't tell her that he was startled out of prudence and precaution. A spirit from above or below would not have thrown her (Miss Payne) off her guard where property was concerned, and what was the use of men's superior strength and courage if they could not hold their tongues in presence of an unexpected apparition?
She was, however, profoundly disturbed, and sent at once for her brother.
It was evening before he arrived in Wilton Street, having gone out before Miss Payne's note reached him. Like Errington, he was at first incredulous, and when he had gathered the facts of the case, absolutely overcome. In fact, he showed more emotion than Errington, yet it did not impress Katherine so much as Errington's deep, suppressed feeling.
"But what are you to do?" he said, raising his head, which he had bowed on his hand in a kind of despair.
"It is just the question I have been asking myself," said Katherine, quietly. "For even if dear old Mr. Newton succeeds in softening George Liddell, and he forgives me the outlay of what was certainly his money, the little that belongs to myself I shall want for my nephews."
"And pray is their mother to contribute nothing toward the maintenance of her children?" asked Miss Payne, severely.
"Poor Ada! she has nothing of her own; it will be desperately hard on her;" and Katherine sighed deeply. Her hearers little knew the remorse that afflicted her as she reflected on the false position into which she had drawn her sister-in-law. What a rage Colonel Ormonde would be in! How unwisely audacious it was in any mere mortal to play Providence for herself or her fellows! But Miss Payne was speaking:
"I don't see the hardship; she has a husband behind her—a rich man too."
"For herself it is all well enough, but it must be very hard to think that one's children are a burden on a reluctant husband; besides, the boys will feel it cruelly. Oh, if I can only keep them with me!"
"I understand you," cried Bertie. "Would to God you could lay your burden at His feet who alone can help in time of need. If you could——"
He was interrupted by Francois, who brought a letter just arrived by the last post.
"It is from Mr. Newton," exclaimed Katherine, opening it eagerly. And having read it rapidly, she added, "You would like to hear what he says."
" 'My dear Miss Liddell ,—As I cannot see you early to-morrow I will send you a report. I had a long argument with your cousin after you left to-day, and although he is still in an unreasonable state of irritation against you and myself and every one, I do not despair of bringing him to a better and a juster frame of mind. For the present it would be as well you did not meet. I should advise your taking steps at once to remove your nephews from Sandbourne, and also, while you have money pay the quarter in advance, as you do not know how matters may turn. It was a most fortunate cir cumstance that the house occupied by Miss Trant was purchased in her name, as Mr. Liddell cannot touch that, and if she is at all the woman you suppose her to be, she will pay you interest for your money. If you could only persuade your cousin to let you see and make friends with this little daughter of his— there lies the road to his heart.
"'Meanwhile say as little as possible to any one about this sudden change in your fortunes. To Miss Payne you must, of course, explain matters; but she is a sensible, prudent woman.
"'With sincere sympathy, believe me yours most truly,
"'W. Newton
.'"
"There is a gleam of hope, then," exclaimed Bertie.
"I don't know what you mean about hope. At best a drop from about two thousand a year to a hundred and fifty is not a subject for congratulation.—Well, Katherine, you are most welcome to stay here as my guest till you find something to do, for find something you must."
"I knew you would be kind and true," said Katherine, her voice a little tremulous, "and believe me I will not sit with folded hands."