A Crooked Path Part 52

"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 circ.u.mstances 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 leaving 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 antic.i.p.ation of this bitter hour--I'd do it."

She looked straight into Errington's eyes, her own aflame with sudden pa.s.sion. 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 doc.u.ment 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 rest.i.tution, 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociated 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.

CHAPTER XX.

PLENARY ABSOLUTION.

Katherine never could distinctly remember what she did after leaving Errington. She was humbled in the dust--crushed, dazed. She felt that every one must perceive the stamp of "felon" upon her.

The pa.s.sionate desire to restore his rightful possessions to Errington, to confess all, had carried her through the dreadful interview. She was infinitely grateful to him for the kind tact with which he concealed the profound contempt her confession must have evoked, but no doubt that sentiment was now in full possession of his mind. It showed in his unhesitating, even scornful, rejection of her offered rest.i.tution. She almost regretted having made the attempt, and yet she had a kind of miserable satisfaction in having told the truth, the whole truth, to Errington; anything was better than wearing false colors in his sight.

It was this sense of deception that had embittered her intercourse with him at Castleford; otherwise she would have been gratified by his grave friendly preference.

How calm, how unmoved, he seemed amid the wreck of his fortunes. Yes, his was true strength--the strength of self-mastery. How different, how far n.o.bler than the vehemence of De Burgh's will, which was too strong for his guidance! But Lady Alice could never have loved Errington--never--or she would have loved on and waited for him till the time came when union might be possible. Had _she_ been in her place! But at the thought her heart throbbed wildly with the sudden perception that _she_ could have loved him well, with all her soul, and rested on him, confident in his superior wisdom and strength--a woman's ideal love. And before this man she had been obliged to lay down her self-respect, to confess she had cheated him basely, to resign his esteem for ever! It was a bitter punishment, but even had she been stainless and he a free man, she, Katherine, was not the sort of girl _he_ would like. She was too impulsive, too much at the mercy of her emotions, too quick in forming and expressing opinions. No; the feminine reserve and tranquility of Lady Alice were much more likely to attract his affections and call forth his respect. This was an additional ingredient of bitterness, and Katherine felt herself an outcast, undeserving of tenderness or esteem.

The weather was oppressively warm and sunless. A dim instinctive recollection of her excuse for coming to town forced Katherine to visit some of the shops where she was in the habit of dealing, and then she sat for more than a weary hour in the Ladies' Room at Waterloo Station, affecting to read a newspaper which she did not see, waiting for the train that would take her home to the darkness and stillness in which friendly night would hide her for a while. The journey back was a continuation of the same tormenting dream-like semi-consciousness, and by the time she reached Cliff Cottage she felt physically ill.

"It was dreadfully foolish to go up to town in this heat," said Miss Payne, severely, when she brought up some tea to Katherine's room, where she retreated on her arrival. "I dare say you could have written for what you wanted."

"Not exactly"--with a faint smile.

"I never saw you look so ill. You must take some sal volatile, and lie down. If there had been much sun, I should have said you had had a sunstroke. I hope, however, a good night's rest will set you up."

"No doubt it will; so I will try and sleep now."

"Quite right. I will leave you, and tell the boys you cannot see them till to-morrow." So Miss Payne, who had a grand power of minding her own affairs and abstaining from troublesome questions, softly closed the door behind her.

It took some time to rally from the overwhelming humiliation of this crisis. Katherine came slowly back to herself, yet not quite herself.

Miss Payne had been so much disturbed by her loss of appet.i.te, of energy, of color, that she had insisted on consulting the local doctor, who p.r.o.nounced her to be suffering from low fever and nervous depression. He prescribed tonics and warm sea-water baths, which advice Katherine meekly followed. Soon, to the pride of the Sandbourne aesculapius, a young pract.i.tioner, she showed signs of improvement, and declared herself perfectly well.