A Crooked Path Part 53

Perhaps the tonic which had a.s.sisted her to complete recovery was a letter which reached her about a week after the interview that had affected her so deeply. It was addressed in large, firm, clear writing, which was strange to her.

"I venture to trouble you with a few words," (it ran) "because when last I saw you I was profoundly impressed by the suffering you could not hide. I cannot refrain from writing to entreat you will accept the position in which you are placed. Having done your best to rectify what is now irrevocable, be at peace with your conscience. I am the only individual ent.i.tled to complain or interfere with your succession, and I fully, freely make over to you any rights I possess. Had your uncle's fortune pa.s.sed to me, it would have been an injustice for which I should have felt bound to atone: nor would you have refused my proposition to this effect. Consider this page of your life blotted out, casting it from your mind. Use and enjoy your future as a woman of your nature, so far as I understand it, can do. It will probably be long before I see you again--which I regret the less because it might pain you to meet me before time has blunted the keen edge of your self-reproach. Absent or present, however, I shall always be glad to know that you are well and happy.

"Will you let me have a line in reply?

"Yours faithfully, MILES ERRINGTON."

The perusal of this letter brought Katherine the infinite relief of tears. How good and generous he was! How heartily she admired him! How gladly she confessed her own inferiority to him! Forgiven by him, she could face life again with a sort of humble courage. But oh! it would be impossible to meet his eyes. No; years would not suffice to blunt the keen self-reproach which the thought of him must always call up--the shame, the pride, the dread, the tender grat.i.tude. Long and pa.s.sionately she wept before she could recover sufficiently to write him the reply he asked. Then it seemed to her that the bitterness and cruel remorse had been melted and washed away by these warm grateful tears. He forgave her, and she could endure the pressure of her shameful secret more easily in future. At last she took her pen, and feeling that the lines she was about to trace would be a final farewell, wrote:

"My words must be few, for none I can find will express my sense of the service _yours_ have done me. I accept your gift. I will try and follow your advice. Shall the day ever come when you will honor me by accepting part of what is your own? Thank you for your kind suggestion not to meet me; it would be more than I could bear. Yours, KATHERINE."

Then with deepest regret she tore up his precious letter into tiny morsels, and striking a match, consumed them. It would not do to incur the possibility of such a letter being read by any third pair of eyes.

Moreover, she was careful to post her reply herself. And so, as Errington said, that page of her story was blotted out, at least, from the exterior world, but to her own mind it would be ever present: round this crisis her deepest, most painful, ay, and sweetest memories would cling. It was past, however, and she must take up her life again.

She felt something of the weakness, the softness, which convalescents experience when first they begin to go about after a long illness, the dreamy, quiet pleasure of coming back to life. The boys continued to be her deepest interest. So time went on, and no one seemed to perceive the subtle change which had sobered her spirit.

The season was over, and Mrs. Ormonde descended on Cliff Cottage for a parting visit. She had only given notice of her approach by a telegram.

"You know you are quite too obstinate, Katherine," she said, as the sisters-in-law sat together in the drawing-room, waiting for the cool of the evening before venturing out. "You never came to me all through the season except once, when you wanted to shop, and now you refuse to join us at Castleford in September, when we are to have really quite a nice party: Mr. De Burgh and Lord Riversdale and--oh! several really good men."

"I dare say I do seem stupid to you, but then, you see, I know what I want. You are very good to wish for me. Next year I shall be very pleased to pay you a visit."

"Then what in the world will you do in the winter?"

"Remain where I am--I mean with Miss Payne--and look out for a house for myself."

"But, my dear, you are much too young to live alone."

"I am twenty-one now; I shall be twenty-two by the time I am settled in a house of my own. And, Ada, I am going to ask you a favor. Lend me your boys to complete my respectability."

"What! for altogether? Why, Katherine, you will marry, and--"

"Well, suppose I do, that need not prevent my having the comfort of my nephews' company until the fatal knot is tied."

"Now, dear Katherine, _do_ tell me--_are_ you engaged to any one? Not a foreigner?--anything but a foreigner!"

"At present," said Katherine, with some solemnity, "I am engaged to two young men."

"My dear! You of all young girls! I am astonished. There is nothing so deep, after all, as a demure young woman. I suppose you are in a sc.r.a.pe, and want Colonel Ormonde to help you out of it?"

"I think I can manage my own affairs."

"Don't be too sure. A girl with money like you is just the subject for a breach-of-promise case. Do I know either of these men?"

"Yes, both."

"Who are they?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, with deepening interest.

"Cis and Charlie," returned Katherine, laughing.

"I really cannot see anything amusing in this sort of stupid mystification," cried Mrs. Ormonde, in a huff.

"Pray forgive me; but your determination to marry me out of hand tempts me to such naughtiness. However, be forgiving, and lend me the boys till next spring. They might go to Castleford for Christmas."

"Oh no," interrupted Mrs. Ormonde, hastily. "I forgot to mention that Ormonde has almost promised to spend next Christmas in Paris. It is such a nuisance to be in one's own place at Christmas; there is such work distributing blankets and coals and things. If one is away, a check to the rector settles everything. I a.s.sure you the life of a country gentleman is not all pleasure."

"Then you will let me have the boys?"

"Well, dear, if you really like it, I do not see, when you have such a fancy, why you should not be indulged."

"Thank you. And I may choose a school for Cis?"

"I am sure the neither Ormonde nor I would interfere; just now it is of no great importance. But--of course--that is--I should like some allowance for myself out of their money."

"Of course you should have whatever you are in the habit of receiving."

After this, Mrs. Ormonde was most cordial in her approbation of everything suggested by her sister-in-law. The friendly conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Cecil with his satchel over his shoulder.

He went straight to his young aunt and hugged her.

"Well, Cis, I see you don't care for mother now," exclaimed Mrs.

Ormonde, easily moved to jealousy, as she always was.

"Oh yes, I do! only you don't like me to jump on you, and auntie doesn't mind about her clothes." And he kissed her heartily.

"Do you want to come back to Castleford?"

"What, now? when the holidays begin next week?"--this with a rueful expression. "Why, we were to have a sailing boat, and old Norris the sailor and his boy are to come out every evening."

"Then you don't want to come?"

"Oh, mayn't we stay a little longer, mother? It _is_ so nice here!"

"You may stay as long as your aunt cares to keep you, for all I care,"

cried Mrs. Ormonde, somewhat spitefully.

"Oh, thank you, mother dear--thank you!" throwing his arms round her neck. "I'll be such a good boy when I come back; but it _is_ nice here.

Then you have baby, and he does not worry you as much as we do."

Katherine thought this a very significant reply.

"There! there!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, disengaging herself from the warm clinging arms. "Go and wash your hands; they are frightfully dirty."

"It's clean dirt, mother. I stopped on the beach to help Tom Damer to build up a sand fort."

"Why did Miss North let you?"