下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
Katherine took care that her sister-in-law should not have an opportunity of private conversation with Mrs. Liddell, that evening at least.
She rolled up and arranged the disordered manuscripts, putting the small study in order, and locking away the rejected tales. Then she proposed conducting the young widow to the florist's, as the evening grew cooler, and made herself agreeable by listening attentively to the little woman's description of the luncheon party, and her repetition of all the pretty things said to her by the various gentlemen present, especially by Colonel Ormonde.
"Of course I do not mind their nonsense, but however my heart may cling to dear Fred's memory, I must think of my precious boys," was her conclusion. To which Katherine answered, "Of course," as she would have answered any proposition, however wild, provided only she could save her mother from worry, at least for that evening.
Next day was showery and dull. True to her resolution, Katherine put her mother's lucubrations into their covers, and prepared to start on her projected round.
"I am not sure I ought to let you go, Katie dear," said Mrs. Liddell, as her daughter came into the study in her out-door dress. "It is rather a wild goose chase. Why should you succeed for me when I have failed for myself? Besides, personal interviews are of no avail. No editor will take work that does not suit him, however interesting the applicant."
"Nevertheless I will go. I shall bring a new element into the business, and I may be lucky! Why have you plunged into these horrid accounts?" pointing to a pile of small books, and a sheaf of backs of letters scribbled over with calculations. "This is not the way to cheer yourself."
"My love, it is a change of occupation, at least, to revert to the old yet ever new problem of life—how to extract thirty shillings from a sovereign. I am trying to see where we can possibly retrench. What is Ada doing?"
"She is decking the drawing-room and herself for the reception of Colonel Ormonde, who is coming to afternoon tea."
"What, already?"
"She is quite excited, I assure you. Is it not soon to think of——"
"Do not judge her harshly. She is a woman not made to live alone. In due time I shall be glad to see her happily married, for she will marry."
"Tell me, is that irreconcilable uncle of mine really still alive? How long is it since you heard anything of him?"
"Oh, more than six or seven years. But I am sure he is alive. I should have heard of his death. I suppose he is still living on in Camden Town."
"Not a very agreeable quarter," returned Katherine, carelessly. "Good-by, mother dear! Do not expect me to dinner. I can have something whenever I come in."
Katherine walked briskly toward town, intending to save some of her omnibus fare, for she had planned a long and daring expedition—an undertaking which taxed all her courage. In truth, though she had never known the ease or luxury of wealth, she had been most tenderly brought up. Her mother had constantly shielded her from all the roughness of life, and the deed she contemplated seemed to her mind an almost desperate effort of independent action.
Through one of the very few sleepless nights she had ever experienced she had thought out an idea which had flashed through her brain while Mrs. Liddell was explaining her difficulties, and which she had carefully kept to herself.
She saw clearly enough the hopelessness of their position; probably with the intensity of youth she exaggerated it, which was scarcely necessary, as a small rut is apt to widen into a bottomless pit if it crosses the path of those who are living up to the utmost verge of a narrow income. As she reviewed the endless instances of her mother's self-abnegation which memory supplied—her cheerful industry, her brave struggle to live like a gentlewoman on a pittance, her tender thought for the welfare and happiness of her children—she felt she could walk through a burning fiery furnace if by so doing she could earn ease and repose for her mother's weary spirit.
"She is looking ill and worn," thought Katherine, "and years older. She has never been the same since that attack of bronchitis last year. Ada and the boys are too much for her, though they are dear little fellows; but they are costly. If Ada would even give us twenty pounds a year more it would be a great help."
The project Katherine had evolved through the night-watches was to visit her uncle and ask him, face to face, for help! It is, she argued, harder to say "no" than to write it; even if she failed she should know her fate at once, and not have to endure the agony of waiting for a letter. Nor, were she refused, need her mother ever know now she had humiliated herself in the dust.
How her young heart sank within her at the thought of being harshly, contemptuously rejected! It was a positive painful physical sense of faintness that made her limbs tremble as she pressed on faster than she was aware. "But I will do it—I will! If I succeed no humiliation will be too great," she said to herself. "I will speak with all my soul! When I begin, this horrible feeling that my tongue is dry and speechless will go away. I must find out where this awful old man is; what is his street and number. I dared not ask mother. First I will try the publisher; as the 'servants' hall' publications have rejected it, I shall offer Darrell's Doom to a first-rate house. Why not try Channing & Wyndham? They cannot say worse than 'no,' and I shall no doubt see a Directory there." Thus communing with herself, she took an omnibus down Park Lane and walked thence to the well-known temple of the Muses in Piccadilly.
Arrived there, a civil clerk took her card—which was her mother's—and soon returning, asked if she had an appointment. "No, I have not, but pray ask Mr. Channing or Mr. Wyndham to see me; I will not stay more than a few minutes." The young man smiled slightly; he was accustomed to such assurances. Almost as Katherine spoke, a stout "country gentleman" looking person came into the warehouse, slightly raising his hat as he passed her. A sudden inspiration prompted her to say, "Pray excuse me, but are you Mr. Wyndham?"
"I am."
"Then do let me speak to you for five minutes."
"With pleasure," said the great publisher, graciously, and ushered her into a sort of literary loose box or small enclosure in the remote back-ground.
"I have ventured to bring you a manuscript," began Katherine, smiling with all her might, with an abject desire to propitiate the arbiter of her mother's fate.
"So I see," he returned, ruefully but politely.
"It is a beautiful story, and I thought it ought to be published by a great house like yours," pursued Katherine.
"Thank you," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "Pray is it your own?"
"Mine! Oh dear no! It is my mother's. She is not very strong, so I brought it."
There was a slight faltering in her voice that suggested a good deal to her hearer. "Then you are not Mrs. W. Liddell," glancing at the card, "but Mrs. Liddell's daughter. Pray put down that heavy parcel. Three volumes, I suppose?"
"Yes, three volumes, but they are not very long, and the story is most interesting."
"No doubt. I hope it is not historical?"
"Oh no! quite modern."
"So much the better. Well, Miss Liddell, I will look at the manuscript, or rather our reader shall, and let you know the result in due course; but I must warn you that we are rather overdone with three-volume novels, and there are already a large number of manuscripts awaiting perusal, so you must not expect our verdict for some little time."
"When you will, but oh! as soon as you can," she urged.
"I will keep your address, and you shall hear at the earliest date we can manage. Good-morning. Very damp, uncomfortable day."
Katherine felt herself dismissed, and almost forgot her ulterior intention. "Would you be so very good as to let me look at the Directory, if you have one?"
"Certainly," said Wyndham, who was slipping the card under the string of poor Katherine's parcel. "Here, Tompkins, let this young lady see the Directory. Excuse me—I am a good deal pressed for time;" and with a bow he went off, the manuscript under his arm.
"Well, it is really in his hands, at all events," thought Katherine, looking wistfully after it.
A boy with inky hands here placed that thick volume, the Post-Office Directory, before her, and she proceeded to search confusedly among the endless pages of names, a little strengthened and cheered by her brief interview with the publisher. It seemed that she was in a lucky vein: trouble is always conducive to superstition. When visible hope fails, poor human hearts turn to the invisible and the improbable.
At last she paused at "John Wilmot Liddell, 27 Legrave Crescent, Camden Town, N. W." That must be her uncle; they were all Wilmot Liddells. How to reach his abode was the question.
The inky boy soon gave her the requisite information. "You take a Waterloo 'bus at Piccadilly Circus; it runs through to Camden Town; that is, to the beginning of Camden Town," he said. Katherine thanked him, and again set forth.
It was a long, tedious drive. The omnibus was crammed with warm passengers and damp umbrellas, but Katherine was too racked with impatience and fear to heed small discomforts. Would her dreaded relative order her out of his sight at once? Was her interview with the publisher a good omen?
At last she reached the end of her journey, and addressing herself to the tutelary policeman solemnly pacing past the Tavern where the omnibus paused, she asked to be directed to Legrave Crescent.
It was an old-fashioned row of houses, before them a few sooty trees in a half-moon of grass, one side railed off from the street and dignified with gates at either end—gates which were always open.
The place had a still, deserted air, but about the middle stood a cab, on which a rheumatic driver, assisted by a small boy, was placing a cumbrous box. As Katherine approached she found that the house before which it stood bore the number she sought, and on reaching it she found the door held open by a little smutty girl, the very lowest type of slavey, with unkempt hair, and a rough holland apron of the grimiest aspect. On the top step stood a stout woman, fairly well dressed in a large shawl and a straw bonnet largely decorated with crushed artificial flowers; a very red, angry face appeared beneath it, with watery eyes and a coarse, half-open mouth. All this Katherine saw, but hardly observed, so strongly was her attention attracted to a figure that stood a few paces within the entrance—a tall, thin old man, bent and leaning on a stick. He was wrapped in a long dressing-gown of dull dark gray, evidently much worn; slippers were on his feet, and a black velvet skull-cap on his head, from under which some thin straggling locks of white hair escaped. His thin aquiline features and dark sunken eyes were alight with an expression of malignant fury; one long claw-like hand was outstretched with a gesture of dismissal, the other grasped the top of his stick. "Begone, you accursed drunken thief!" he was almost screaming in a shrill voice. "I would take you to the police, court if there was anything to be got out of you; but it would only be throwing good money away after bad. Get you gone to the ditch where you'll die! You guzzling, muzzling fool, to leave my house without a shilling after all your pilfering!"
While he uttered these words with frightful vehemence, the woman he addressed kept up a rapid undercurrent of reply.
"Living with a miserable screwy miser like you would make a saint drink! Do you think people will serve you for nothing, and not pay themselves somehow? The likes of you are born to be robbed—and may your last crust be stole from you, you old skinflint!" With this last defiance, she turned and threw herself hastily into the cab, which crawled away as if horse and driver were equally rheumatic.
"Shut the door," said the old man, hoarsely, as if exhausted.
"Please, sir, there's a lady here," said the little slavey. Katherine, who was as frightened as if she were face to face with a lunatic, had a terrible conviction that this appalling old man was her uncle. How should she ever address him? What an unfortunate time to have fallen upon!
"What do you want?" asked the old man, fiercely, frowning till his shaggy white eyebrows almost met over his angry black eyes.
"I want to see Mr. John Wilmot Liddell."
"Then you see him! Who are you?"
"Katherine Liddell, your niece."
"My niece!" with inexpressible contempt and disbelief, "Well, niece or not, you may serve a turn. Can you read?"
"Yes, of course."
"Come, then—come in." He turned and walked with some difficulty to the door of the front parlor. Half bewildered, Katherine followed mechanically, and the small servant shut the front door, putting up the chain with a good deal of noise.
The room to which Katherine was so unceremoniously introduced was of good size, covered with a carpet of which no pattern and very little color were left. The furniture was old-fashioned and solid; a dining-table covered with faded green baize was in the middle, and a writing-table with several drawers was placed near the fireplace, beside which stood a high-backed leather arm-chair, old, worn, dirty. A wretched fire was dying out in the grate, almost choked by the red ashes of the very cheapest coal.
An odor of dust long undisturbed pervaded the atmosphere, and the dull damp weather without added to the extreme gloom. Indeed the door of this apartment might well have borne Dante's inscription over the entrance to a warmer place.
Mr. Liddell went with feeble rapidity across to where a large newspaper lay upon the floor, and resting one hand on the writing-table, stooped painfully to raise it.
"There! read—read the price-list to me. I am blind and helpless, for that jade has hid my glasses. I know she has. I cannot find them anywhere, and I must know how Turkish bonds are going. Read to me. I'll hear what you have to say after." He thrust the paper into her hand, and sat down in the high-backed chair.
Poor Katherine felt almost dazed. She took a seat at the other side of the table, and began to look for the mysterious list. The geography of the mighty Times was unknown to her, and even in her mother's humbler penny paper the City article was a portion she never glanced at. While she turned the wide pages, painfully bewildered, the old man "glowered" at her.
"I don't think you know what you are looking for," he cried, impatiently.
"I do not indeed! If you will show it to me——"
He snatched it from her, and pointed out the part he wished to hear. "Read from the beginning," he said.
Katherine obeyed, her courage returning as she found herself thus strangely installed within the fortress she feared to attack. She stumbled occasionally, and was sharply set upon her feet, in the matter of figures, by her eager hearer. At last she came to Turkish six per cents.
"Eighty-seven to eighty-eight and a quarter."
"Ha!" muttered the old man, "that's an advance! good! nothing to be done there yet. Now read the railway stocks."
Katherine obeyed. When she came to "Florida and Teche debentures, sixty-two and a half to sixty-five and three-fourths," she was startled by a sort of shrill shout. "Ay! that's a rise! Some rigging design there! I must write—I must. Where, where has that——harridan hid my glasses? Why, it is almost twelve o'clock! the boy will be here for the paper immediately. And the post! the post! I must catch the post. Can you write?"
"Oh yes! Shall I write for you?"
"You shall! you shall! here's paper"—rising and opening an ancient blotting-book, its covers all scribbled over with tiny figures, the result of much calculating, he hastily set forth writing materials, his lean, claw-like, dirty hands trembling with eagerness. "Hear, hear, write fast."
Katherine, growing a little clearer, and amazed at her own increasing self-possession, drew off her gloves, and taking the rusty pen offered her, wrote at his dictation:
" To Messrs. Rogers & Stokes, Corbett Court, E. C. :
"Gentlemen ,—Sell all my Florida shares if possible to-day, even if they decline a quarter.
"I am yours faithfully—"
"Now let me come there!" he exclaimed. "I'll let no one sign my name. I'll manage that. There? there! Direct an envelope. Oh Lord! I haven't a stamp—not one! and its ten minutes' walk to the post-office."
"I think—I believe I have a stamp," said Katherine, drawing her slender purse from her pocket and opening it.
"Have you?" eagerly. "Give it to me. Stick it on! Go! go! There is a pillar just outside the left-hand gate there; and mind you come back. I will give you a penny. Ah, yes, you shall have your penny?"
"I hope you will hear me when I return," she said, appealingly, as she left the room.
"Ay, ay; but go—go now."
When Katherine returned she found the old man, with the half-opened door in his hand, waiting for her.
"Were you in time?" he asked, eagerly.
"Oh yes, quite. I saw the postman coming across the road to empty the box as I was dropping the letter in."
"That's well. I will rest a bit now, and you can tell me what you please. First, what have you come here for?"
It was an appalling question, and nothing but the simple truth occurred to her as an answer. Indeed, some irresistible power seemed to compel the reply, spoken very low and distinct, "I came here to beg."
The old man burst into a singularly unpleasant laugh. "Well, I like candor. Pray what business have you to beg from me?"
"Because I know no one else to turn to—because, you are so near a kinsman. Let me tell you about my mother." Simply and shortly she gave the history of their life and struggles, of the coming of her brother's young widow and orphans, of the disappointment of her mother's literary expectations, of the present necessity. The quiver in her young voice, the pathetic earnestness with which she told her story, the deep love for her mother breathing through the recital, might well have moved a heart of ordinary coldness, but it seemed to small impression on her grim uncle.
"You come of a wasteful extravagant lot," he said, faintly, "if you are what you represent yourself to be—of which there is no proof whatever. How do I know you are the daughter of Frederic Liddell?"
This was an objection Katherine had never anticipated, and knew not how to meet. She colored vividly and hesitated; then, struck with the ghastly pallor of the old man's face, she exclaimed, "You are ill! you are fainting!" drawing near him as she spoke.
"I am not ill," he gasped. "I am weak from want of food. I have tasted none since yesterday afternoon."
"Will you not order some?" said Katherine, looking round for a bell.
"There is nothing in the house. That drunken robber I have just driven out went off to her revels last night and left me without anything; but while she was away a tradesman came with a bill I thought was paid, and so I discovered all her iniquity."
"You must have something," cried Katherine, seriously alarmed. "Can I get you some wine or brandy?" and she rang hastily.
Mr. Liddell drew a bunch of keys from his trousers pocket, and feebly selecting one, put it in her hand, pointing to the sideboard.
The first cellaret Katherine opened was quite empty, the opposite one held two empty bottles covered with dust, and another, at the bottom of which was about a wineglass of brandy. She sought eagerly for and found a glass, and brought it to the fainting man, pouring out a small quantity, which he sipped readily enough. "Ah!" he said, "I was nearly gone. I must eat. I suppose that wretched brat can cook something. Ring again." Katherine rang, and rang, but in vain.
"May I go down and see what has become of her?"
"If you please," he murmured, more civilly than he had yet spoken.
Katherine, with increasing surprise and interest, descended the dingy stair and entered a chaotic kitchen.
Such a scene of dirt and confusion she had never beheld. Nothing seemed fit to touch. The little girl's rough apron lay on the floor in the midst, and she herself was tying on a big bonnet, while a small bundle lay on a chair beside her. She started and colored when Katherine stood in the doorway. "Mr. Liddell has sent me to look for you. He is very ill. Why did you not answer the bell?"
"Because I was going away to mother," cried the girl, bursting into tears. "I could not stay here by myself. Mr. Liddell is more like a wild beast than a man when he is angry, and I have had a night and a day as would frighten a policemen. I can't stay—I can't indeed, miss."
"But you must ," said Katherine, impressively. "I am Mr. Liddell's niece, and at least you must do a few things for me before you go."
"Oh! if you are here, miss, I don't mind. I can't think as how you are Mr. Liddell's niece."
"I am, and I must not leave him till he is better. What is your name?"
"Susan, ma'am."
"Well, Susan, is there any bread or anything in the larder?"
"Not a blessed scrap, miss, and I am so hungry"—a fresh burst of tears.
"Don't cry. Do as I bid you, and then you had better ask your mother to come here. Now get me some fresh water."
"There's only water in the tap; the filterer is broke."
"Well, give me a jugful. And are you too hungry to make up the fire?"
"I'll manage that, 'm; we had a hundred of coal in yesterday morning before the row."
"Then clear away the ashes and get as clear a fire as you can. I will get some food."
The desperate, deserted condition of the old man seemed to rob him of his terrors, and all Katherine's energy was roused to save him from the ill effects of his own fury. She hastened back to the dining-room. Mr. Liddell was sitting up, grasping the arms of his chair.
"There is nothing downstairs. Will you allow me to go and buy you some food? You will be ill unless you eat."
"Can't that child fetch what is needful?" he said, with an effort.
"I am afraid she may not return."
"Then you had better go. I'll open the door to you when you come back."
"I will go at once. But you must give me a little money. I would gladly pay for the things, but I have only my omnibus fare back."
"How much do you want?" he returned, drawing forth an old worn green porte-monnaie.
"If you will be satisfied with a chop, two shillings will get all you want," said Katherine.
"There, then; bring me the change and account," he returned, handing her the required sum.
Since her mother had become a housekeeper Katherine had done a good deal of the marketing and household management, and had put her heart into her work, as was natural to her. She therefore felt quite competent to make these small purchases.
"You will want a little more wine or something," she ventured to suggest.
"I have plenty—plenty. Make haste!"
Katherine called the little girl, told her she was going out, and promised to bring her back some food. Then she sped on her way to some shops she had noticed on her way, and soon accomplished her errand. This necessity for action put her right with herself, and gave her the courage she needed. With a word to the fainting old miser, she descended to the chaotic kitchen, where she rejoiced the heart of the small slavey by the sight of the cold beef and bread she had brought for her. Then she set to work to cook the chops she had purchased. This done, to the amazement of the little servant, she looked in vain for a cloth to spread upon the only battered tray she could find. She was obliged to be content with dusting it and placing the result of her cooking between two warm plates thereupon. Then she carried the whole up to her starving relative. Mr. Liddell had fallen into a doze from exhaustion, and looked quite wolfish when, rousing up, his eyes fell upon the sorely needed food.
"You have been quick, but it is surely wasteful to cook two chops."
"You will not find them too much, I hope. I am sure you ought to eat both."
"I do not know, but the meat is good." He fell to and ate with relish. Katherine asked where she could find some wine for him. He again produced his keys, selected one, and told her to open a door at the end of the room, which she fancied led into another. It was a cupboard, plentifully filled with bottles of various descriptions, from among which, by her patient's direction, she selected one labelled cognac, and gave him some in water.
Katherine sat down and watched the old man demolish both chops with evident enjoyment. Then he paused, drank a little brandy and water, and drew over the plate containing the butter, and smelled it very deliberately.
"You have extravagant ways, I am afraid," he said. "This is fresh butter."
"That piece only cost fourpence-halfpenny," she said, gravely, "and the little you eat you had better have good."
"Fourpence-halfpenny!" he repeated, and fell into profound meditation, from which he broke with a sudden return of anger. "What a double-dyed villain and robber that infernal woman has been! She told me that prices had risen to such a height that the commonest salt butter was eighteenpence a pound, that every chop was a shilling, that—that—" Then breaking off, with an air of the deepest pathos he exclaimed: "Thirty shillings a week I gave her to keep the house, and she has left the butcher unpaid for six months. But I will not pay him. He shall suffer. Why did he trust her? What did you pay for these things?" he ended, abruptly, in a high key.
Katherine silently handed him the back of a letter on which she had scribbled down the items.
"What is the use of showing me this, when I cannot read—when I have no glasses?" he exclaimed, impatiently.
"True. I must try and find them for you. Where did you first miss them?"
"Oh, I don't know. I had them on when I went to see that——woman out of the house."
Calling Susan to assist in the search, Katherine looked carefully in the hall, but in vain, when her young assistant gave a cry of joy; she had almost trodden on them as they lay between a mangy mat and the foot of the stairs.
The recovery of his precious glasses did more to soothe the ruffled spirit of the recluse than anything else. He wiped them tenderly, and looking through them, observed that they were all right. Then he sat in profound silence, while Susan, under Katherine's directions, cleared up the hearth, and removed the heap of dust and ashes which had nearly put out the fire. When she had retired, carrying off the tray, Mr. Liddell turned his keen eyes on his young visitor, and said:
"You came in the nick of time, and you seem to know what you are about; but I dare say I should have pulled through without you. Now about your story. Before anything else I must be assured that you are really Frederic Liddell's daughter. Not that your being so gives you the smallest claim upon me."
"I suppose it does not," returned Katherine, sadly. "Still, if you could help us with a loan at this trying time it might be the saving of our fortunes, and both my mother and myself would do our best to repay you."
"That's but indifferent security," said the miser with a sardonic grin.
"I feel sure that my mother's novel will succeed. It is a beautiful story—and you know how some of the best books have been rejected —and when it is taken they will give her at least a hundred pounds for it!" cried Katherine, eagerly.
"Good Lord! a hundred pounds for trashy scribblings."
"They are not trash, sir," returned Katherine, with spirit.
"And what sum do you want on this first-class security?" he asked.
"Oh, thirty or forty pounds!" she said, her heart beating with wild anxiety.
"Thirty pounds! Why, that is a fortune!"
"It would be to us," said Katherine, fighting bravely against a desperate inclination to cry.
"And all you have to offer in exchange is a mortgage on an unpublished novel?"
"We have nothing in the world but the furniture," she replied, with a slight sob.
"Furniture!" repeated Mr. Liddell, sharply. "How much?—how many rooms have you?"
"A drawing-room and dining-room, my mother's study, and four bedrooms, besides—"
"Well!" exclaimed Liddell, interrupting her, "you'll have a hundred pounds' worth in it, and I dare say it cost you two. Now you have shown you have some knowledge of the value of money, and you have served me well at this uncomfortable crisis. I'll tell you what I will do; I'll write to my solicitor to go and see you, at the address you have told me, to-morrow. He shall find out if you are speaking the truth, and look at your goods and chattels. If he reports favorably I will do something for you, on the security of the furniture. You haven't given a bill of sale to any one else, I suppose?"
"A bill of sale?—I do not know what you mean."
"Ah! perhaps not." He rose and hobbled to his writing-table, where he began to write. "What's your address?" he asked. Katherine told him. Presently he finished and turned to her. "Put this in the post. Look at it. Mr. Newton, my solicitor, will take it with him when he calls, to-morrow or next day. No!" suddenly. "I will send the girl with it to the pillar, and you shall stay till she returns. You may or you may not be honest; but I will never trust any one again."
"As you like," returned Katherine, overjoyed not to be utterly refused. "And before I go, do let me try and find some one to be with you. It is dreadful to think of your being alone in this large house with only that poor little girl! and she is inclined to run away! I think her mother is coming here; let me stay till she comes."
"I don't want any one," said the old man, fiercely. "I am hale and strong; the child can do all I want. You got some food for her I see. The strength of that meat will last till to-morrow. Then you must come to hear what I decide, and you can do what I want, if you are my niece!"
"Do—do let me find some one to stay with you! I cannot bear to think of your being alone." The old man stared at her curiously, and a sort of mocking smile parted his lips. "May I at least ask Susan if her mother can come? for I am sure the girl will not stay alone."
"Very well," he said; "but be sure you do not promise her money! She may come here to keep the child company—not for my sake."
Katherine hastened to question Susan, and found that her mother, a char-woman, lived near. She despatched the little girl to fetch her, and, after some parleying, agreed to give her half a crown if she would remain for the night, determining to pay it herself rather than mention the subject to the ogre upstairs. Then she put her hat straight and resumed her gloves. "I must bid you good-morning now," she said. "This mother of Susan's looks a respectable woman, and will not ask you for any money. Will you not let me get you some tea and sugar before I go, and something for—"
"No!" cried the old man. "I have some tea. It is all that——robber left behind her. I want nothing more. Mind you come back to-morrow. If you are my brother's daughter (though it is no recommendation!) I'll do something for you. If you are not , I'd—I'd like to give you a piece of my mind." He laughed a fiendish, spiteful laugh as he said this.
"Then accept my thanks beforehand," said Katherine smiling a little wearily.
She was very tired. It was an oppressive day, and she had been under a mental strain of no small severity. Now she was longing to be at home to tell her mother all her strange adventures, and she had yet to find out by what route she should return.
Once more she said good-by. Mr. Liddell followed her to the door, with an air of seeing her safe off the premises, rather than of courtesy, and Katherine quickly retraced her steps to the place where she had alighted, hoping to find that universal referee, a policeman, who would no doubt set her on her homeward way.