A Crooked Path Part 15

"Nothing! Why should I care for what does not concern me? You only care for what touches yourself; but because you are young, and your blood runs quick, many things touch you."

"Did you ever care for anything except--except--" Katherine pulled herself up. The words "your money" were on her lips.

"I cannot remember, and I do not wish to look back. I suppose, now, you would like to be driving about in a fine carriage, with a bonnet and feathers on your head. I suppose you are wishing me dead, and yourself free to run away from your daily tasks in this quiet house, to listen to the lying tongue of some soft-spoken scoundrel, as foolish women will; but the longer I live the better for _you_, till your mother's debt is paid, or my executors will give her a short shrift and scant time."

"I don't want you to die, Uncle Liddell," said Katherine, with simple sincerity, "but I wish there was anything I could do to interest you or amuse you. I am sorry to see you so dull. Why, you are obliged to sleep all the afternoon!"

"Amuse _me_?" he returned, with infinite scorn. "You need not trouble yourself. I have thoughts which occupy me of which you have no idea, and then I pa.s.s from thoughts to dreams--grand dreams!"--he paused for a moment. "Where is that pile of papers that lay on the chair there?" he resumed, sharply.

"I have taken them away upstairs; when I have collected some more I am going to sell them. My mother always sells her waste paper--one may as well have a few pence for them."

"Did you mother say so?" with some animation--then another pause. "Are you going to see her on Sunday?"

"Not next Sunday," returned Katherine, quite pleased to draw him into conversation. "You know we must let Mrs. Knapp go out every alternate Sunday, and you cannot be left alone."

"Why not? Am I an imbecile? Am I dying? I can tell you I have years of life before me yet."

"I dare say; still, it is my duty to stay here in case you want anything. But I shall go home on Sat.u.r.day afternoon instead, if you have no objection."

"You would not heed my objections if I had any. You are self-willed, you are resolute. I see things when I care to look. There, I am very tired!

You will find some newspapers in my room; you can add them to the others. How soon will dinner be ready?" Katherine felt herself dismissed.

The afternoons were much at her own disposal; and as she found a number of old books, some of which greatly interested her, she managed to accomplish a good deal of reading, and even did a little dreaming.

Still, though time seemed to go so slowly, the weeks, on looking back, had flown fast.

The monotony was terrible; but a break was at hand which was not quite unexpected.

The day following the above conversation, Katherine had retired as usual after dinner to write to a German friend with whom she kept up a desultory correspondence; the day was warm, and her door being open, the unwonted sound of the front door-bell startled her.

"Who could it possibly be?" asked Katherine of herself. The next minute a familiar voice struck her ear, and she quickly descended to the front parlor.

There an appalling sight met her eyes. In the centre of the room, her back to the door, stood Mrs. Fred Liddell, a little boy in either hand--all three most carefully attired in their best garments, and making quite a pretty group.

Facing them, Mr. Liddell sat upright in his chair, his lean, claw-like hands grasping the arms, his eyes full of fierce astonishment.

"You see, my dear sir, as you have never invited me, I have ventured to come unasked to make your acquaintance, and to introduce my dear boys to you; for it is possible you have sent me a message by Katherine which she has forgotten to deliver; so I thought--" Thus far the pretty little widow had proceeded when the children, catching sight of their auntie, sprang upon her with a cry of delight.

"Who--who is this?" asked Mr. Liddell, compressing his thin lips and hissing out the words.

"My brother's widow, Mrs. Fred Liddell," returned Katherine, who was kissing and fondling her nephews.

"Did you invite her to come here?"

"No, uncle."

"Then explain to her that I do not receive visitors, especially relations, who have no claims upon me, and--and I particularly object to children."

"I shall take my sister-in-law to my room for a little rest," returned Katherine, wounded by his manner, though greatly vexed with Ada for coming.

"Ay, do, anywhere you like."

But Mrs. Fred made a gallant attempt to stand her ground.

"My dear sir, you must not be so unkind as to turn me out, when I have taken the trouble to come all this way on purpose to make your acquaintance. Let Katherine take away the children by all means--some people _are_ worried with children--but let _me_ stay and have a little talk with you."

Mr. Liddell's only reply was to rise up. Gaunt, bent, his gray locks quivering with annoyance, and leaning on his stick, he slowly walked to the door, his eyes fixed with a cold glare on the intruder. At the door he turned, and addressing Katherine, said, "Let me know when she is gone;" then he disappeared into the hall.

Little Charlie burst into tears. Cecil cried out, "You are a nasty, cross old man"; while Mrs. Fred grew very red, and exclaimed: "I never saw such a bear in all my life! Why, a crossing-sweeper would have better manners! I am astonished at you, Katie. How can you live with such a creature? But _some_ people would do anything for money."

"I am dreadfully sorry," said Katherine; "do come up to my room. If you had only told me you were coming I should have advised you against it.

You must rest a while in my room."

"I really do not think I will sit down in this house after the way in which I have been treated," said the irate widow, while she followed her sister-in-law upstairs.

"Oh yes, do, mammy; I want to see the house," implored Cecil.

"Why did you not tell me what a dreadful man he is, Katherine, and I should not have put myself in the way of being insulted?"

"I think I told you enough to keep you away, Ada. What put it into your head to come?"

"I scarcely know. I always intended it, and Colonel Ormonde said it was my duty to let him, Mr. Liddell, see the boys. I really did not want to come."

"I wish Colonel Ormonde would mind his own affairs," cried Katherine. "I fancy he only talks for talking's sake."

"That is all you know," indignantly; "he is a very clever man of the world, and I am fortunate in having such a friend to interest himself in me."

"Oh, well, perhaps so. At all events, I am very glad to see the bays, and--you too, Ada. Charlie is very pale. Come here, Charlie."

"Oh, auntie, is this your own, own room? Does the cross old man ever come here? Are all those books yours--and the funny little table with the crooked legs? Who is the man in a wig?" cried Cecil. "Mightn't we stay with you? we would be so quiet? Mother says we are _dreffully_ troublesome since you went away. We could both sleep with you in that great big bed! The cross old gentleman would never know. It would be such fun! Do, do, let us stay, auntie!"

"But I am afraid of the old gentleman," whispered the younger boy. "Does he ever hurt you, auntie dear? I wish you would come home."

"Charlie is such a coward," said Cecil, with contempt.

"Don't talk nonsense, children," exclaimed their mother, peremptorily.

"I should die of fright if I thought you were left behind with that ogre. _I_ wouldn't sacrifice my children for the sake of filthy lucre."

"Do not talk nonsense, Ada?" said Katherine, impatiently. "I am infinitely distressed that my uncle should have behaved so rudely, but he is really eccentric, and if you had consulted--"

"He is the boys' uncle as well as yours," interrupted Ada, indignantly.

"Why should they not come and see him? How was I to suppose he was such an unnatural monster?"

"I always told you he was very peculiar."

"Peculiar! that is a delicate way of putting it. If I were you I should be ashamed of wasting my time and my youth acting servant to an old miser who will not leave you a sou!"

"No, I don't suppose he will," returned Katherine, quietly. "Still, I am not the least ashamed of what I am doing; I am quite satisfied with my own motives."

"Oh, you are always satisfied with yourself, I know," was the angry answer, "But"--with a slight change of tone--"I am sorry to see you look so pale and ill, though you deserve it."