CHAPTER I GOING TO THE MEET

 
"MY dear Kathleen, do try and be reasonable. To hear your grumbling, any one might think the rain had been sent on purpose to disappoint you of your ride. Remember, child. This is the fourth of November, not midsummer, and the rain is seasonable."
 
"It may be seasonable, but it is just as disagreeable and disappointing as if it were not. I do not need to be reminded that this is the fourth of November, for everybody has been dinning the date into my ears for a fortnight past. I have not exchanged words with a single creature without being reminded that this day's meet at Hollingsby will be the finest sight of the kind that Woldshire has witnessed since the old earl died."
 
"The first meet of the season is always a fine spectacle, my dear."
 
"Yes, aunt, but this will be a record meet. The young earl has just come of age, and everybody is bent on making it a gathering to be remembered for generations to come. It is to stand first in the annals of the Hollingsby Hunt."
 
"I dare say you are right, Kathleen. All the gentry will be at the breakfast; the large tenants will be guests, and all the smaller fry will put the best foot foremost. Men and horses will make a brave show, in spite of these drenching showers which keep coming down to spoil the turn-out. However, I for one do not envy them what they are pleased to call 'sport.' I cannot forget the foxes' side of the question."
 
"As if foxes were of any use," replied Kathleen, with a curl of her pretty lip.
 
"In a way, they do not seem to be, but I never like to assume that about any living thing. I cannot imagine that any creature, however humble its place in nature, however repulsive it may seem to some of us, was made without being destined to fill some useful niche in the great Creator's plan. I do not pretend to know all about these things. But if one grasps, in ever so little a way, the idea how great and good and kind God is, and how His wisdom is shown in every work of His hands, one may believe that the meanest of all has its use."
 
"Of course the fox is useful for hunting, and is, in a way, the cause of to-day's meet," replied Kathleen.
 
"Ah, my dear, I am thankful that I at least have no taste for such barbarous practices. To destroy a wild animal that is harmful to man and to useful creatures, is surely right. But to preserve foxes on purpose to be hunted by a pack of yelling hounds, and then cut to pieces alive, is a sport worthy only of savages. I am afraid I was glad when, once last season, the suffering fox bit the cruel hand that was torturing it, and that Huntsman Tom was unable to torment another for some time to come."
 
"Aunty, you do take an extreme view. To talk about those beautiful creatures as 'yelling hounds!'"
 
"What else are they, Kathleen? Not that I blame them, they are trained to the work, and squires and ladies fair enjoy the sport to which horse, hound, and wretched fox contribute. You may smile, Kathleen, but I know that look of contempt is only for your old aunt's old-fashioned ideas, not for herself. But, however long I may live, I trust I shall never find pleasure in what causes suffering to the meanest of God's creatures."
 
Kathleen rushed impulsively towards her aunt, threw her arms round her neck, and kissed her again and again.
 
"You old darling!" she exclaimed; "of course the smile was at your ideas about fox-hunting. I should be the most ungrateful creature living if I could be capable of feeling anything but love and reverence for your dear self. Yes, I have pushed your cap nearly off your head by rushing at you and hugging you, after the manner of a bear. But never mind. I will put you nicely to rights again. The cap was a wee bit on one side before. I always have to straighten it about six times a day."
 
Mrs. Ellicott looked up at the fair face which was bending over her, then drew it nearer still, and returned her niece's caress with more gentleness but no less affection than Kathleen had shown.
 
"And you, Kathleen," she said, "only make believe that you have any sympathy with those who follow a cruel custom. You like to see the gay turn-out, the gallant pack, the daring riders, the eager horses, and to note all the bonne camaraderie of the hunt. But there are other cruelties inseparable from this sport, and one instance out of many gave me a dislike to it which nothing can conquer. I shall never forget how I felt when I heard the tale, years before you were born, my dear."
 
"What was it, aunt?"
 
"It was about the late earl's sister. She was a most daring huntress, but professed to be very fond of her horses, one in particular, a beautiful creature that was gentleness itself, and was petted like a dog. In the excitement of the hunt, and when determined to be foremost at the death of the miserable fox, she urged on the beautiful animal by savage use of whip and spur, and compelled it to keep up a pace which no horse could continue for long. When Lady Lois drew rein at Hollingsby the animal reeled, and as her feet touched the ground he fell dead. A few seconds in dismounting, and she would have been crushed beneath her ill-used steed. She was just down in time to save her life."
 
"How horrible! if the tale be really true," said Kathleen, turned for the moment from contemplating her own special grievance.
 
"It is true, dear. There were eye-witnesses enough, and many would have cried shame on a humbler rider. There was enough said, though, as Lady Lois Holwynd was the culprit, people spoke with bated breath of her fault, and found excuses for it in a louder key."
 
"She was young. Such a daring rider, and the very life of the hunt. So generous in supporting it, so kind in many ways. Open-handed to a fault. Thus people excused her; but though Lady Lois has passed away, the memory of that day's cruelty abides, and will be talked of for many a year to come."
 
Whilst Mrs. Ellicott was speaking, Kathleen was busily engaged in replacing the refractory cap, and with gentle fingers pushing back stray locks of the silvery hair which framed so fittingly the kind face of her aunt.
 
"There now, you look a picture of tidiness. Kiss me for playing the part of a deft lady's-maid, and putting you to rights again."
 
The kiss was given, but Mrs. Ellicott bade Kathleen remember that it was not earned.
 
"My cap would have been all right but for your boisterous embrace, Kitty, and having upset its equilibrium, you were bound to restore it. However, darling, I shall never quarrel with you for being too affectionate," a remark which resulted in another caress of a gentler sort, and the application of Kathleen's hands to Mrs. Ellicott's head.
 
"Turn to the window, aunty, and look at the sunshine. It is positively pouring in. That last heavy shower has cleared the sky, and there are sheets of blue everywhere. All the labour I have bestowed on your cap will be thrown away now, for you cannot refuse to drive in the direction of Hollingsby. I do want to see all I can, though I must not ride, I suppose?"
 
"You know, Kathleen, that it was your dear father's wish that you should never take part in the Hollingsby Hunt, or even go to the meet on horseback."
 
"I know that, aunt. I have surely been told it often enough. Now you get ready for the drive. Let Cameron help you, and I will order the carriage. I can be ready in three minutes. I will try and rout Ger from her books, and make her come with us, or you might ask her on your way upstairs."
 
Mrs. Ellicott rose to comply with both requests. She felt that Kathleen must not be denied any reasonable pleasure, especially as the time was not far distant when she would be her own mistress.
 
"I will speak to Geraldine, but I doubt if she will join us," she said.
 
"You propose, and I will second vigorously," said Kathleen, "when I have interviewed old Mountain."
 
Away she tripped in the direction of the stables, being too impatient to send her message to the coachman, who was by no means old, and who worshipped his young mistress. She did not forget to take with her some bread and an apple, wherewith to regale her own favorite mare, Polly, whose head was at the bars the moment Kathleen's voice was heard addressing Mountain.
 
"Get the horses in as quickly as possible," said Kathleen. "We will drive towards Hollingsby, and see what we can. Don't I wish I might ride you, my beauty!" she added, turning to Polly and patting her arched neck with one hand, as she held out the other for the mare to feed from.
 
Polly gave a little assenting neigh, and then put her velvet lips forward to take the apple and bread—her special dainties.
 
"How gentle she is! A baby might feed her. Mountain, you do groom her beautifully. Her coat is perfect; black, and shining like a rook's plumage in the sunshine."
 
"She is a beauty, miss, and as good for go and temper as a lady's horse should be. But then there'll be as good 'uns as Polly out to-day, that'll come home with their sides bleeding and marked with lashes, in spite of them doing their best. And as to their coats, they'll be that muddy that you cannot tell the colour of 'em by more than half their bodies. The other half is just clay itself."
 
"I would not hurt you, Polly. Your mistress would not mark you with cruel spur or whip. But I must run, or aunt will be ready first. Take this last bit, my pet."
 
Pushing another piece of bread between Polly's willing lips, Kathleen raced back to the house, and ran panting to her room, where she quickly made ready for her drive.
 
Her cousin Geraldine was not to be coaxed to join in the drive, so Kathleen, after a brief hesitation, ran up another flight of stairs and stretched herself on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of a spot where three roads met. Most of the riders going to the meet would pass this point on their way to Hollingsby, and Kathleen, though she would not have owned it for the world, had placed herself at this coign of vantage in hope of seeing one of them.
 
She did see more than one scarlet-coated horseman in the distance, but without recognizing any. So she was quite sure that Captain Torrance was not amongst them. She could not mistake another for him, or him for another. Besides, he did not ride in scarlet. She had heard him say that, having once put it off, he would never wear it again.
 
Captain Torrance had worn a red coat until the colour had become monotonous, and he was no longer in the army, though everybody still gave him his old rank in speaking to or of him.
 
As Kathleen watched she was conscious that her face was all aflame with blushes. She was ashamed of her eagerness to see the most daring member of the Hunt, and one who was acknowledged to be the handsomest man in that division of the shire. There were, however, wise old heads which were shaken dubiously when Captain Torrance was named, and remarks were made about looks not being everything. There were some, too, who could tell tales about the captain's past career which were not altogether to his credit; but most of these were whispered, for he was not a man to be lightly made an enemy of. So such stories had never reached the innocent ears of Kathleen Mountford, who was watching with more anxiety than she owned to herself, for a glimpse of the handsome ex-captain of dragoons.
 
"It is a perfect riding-lesson just to see how he sits that beautiful hunter of his," she murmured, certain that no one was within hearing, even if she did utter her thoughts aloud. "But why need I trouble myself about riding-lessons? I know enough to guide Polly in such jog-trot excursions as I am allowed to make. I can never understand why my father imposed such restrictions on me. He was the dearest, kindest of parents, I know, and I am sure he meant to make me happy, if he could. But it is always the same. If a girl has money, some condition is attached to it which crosses her in one aggravating way or another. At one time she is bidden to marry a particular person whom she does not know, and if she did, would be sure to hate him. At another she is forbidden to marry the person whom she would choose from all the world. Or she must live in a place she detests, or—"
 
At this moment Mrs. Ellicott's voice was heard calling—
 
"Kitty, where have you hidden yourself? You who boasted that you only needed three minutes to dress in. I am ready, and Mountain is at the door. I wonder you did not hear the carriage wheels."
 
"Coming, aunty," cried Kathleen, as she raced downstairs two steps at a time. "Well, you have been expeditious. I was so certain that you would be at least five minutes longer, that I ran to the west window at the very top, to try and see what I could see. Result: a few streaks of scarlet at the crossing, as a few riders shot past on their way to Hollingsby. What a pity Geraldine will not leave her books to enjoy such a drive as we shall have! It will be just lovely, and you will like it as much as I shall. You cannot help it."
 
"I shall enjoy the drive, dear, of course, and Geraldine will find her pleasure after her own fashion, so do not trouble about her, Kitty. Who could have dreamed an hour ago that the country would look so beautiful?"
 
Mrs. Ellicott might well cast admiring glances at the hedgerows and the trees, on which autumn leaves still remained. Some were bare, but on others there was quite a wealth of gorgeous colouring, made all the more vivid by the lingering moisture which the recent rain had left. Hip, haw, and bryony berries were all ablaze in the bright sunshine, though differing in their shades of red. The tallest privet spikes were mostly crowned with cones of shining berries, intensely black, and perfect in shape. These seemed stretching above the other shrubs which made up the hedges, as if challenging competition with the more gaudy reds beneath.
 
Browns and yellows were not wanting on thorn and wild briar; and dusky reds and flame colour were on maple bush and bramble leaf, with more berries, shading from purple to black.
 
Green asserted its claims, as the glossy holly leaves shone out, draped with lace which the spiders had flung across them to soften their prickly stiffness. Draperies cunningly contrived to catch drops of rain for the sun to shine upon, and turn into liquid diamonds.
 
As to the ivy! It was everywhere. Creeping slyly in hedge bottoms, twisting fearlessly round bramble and briar, racing up the tallest tree, and waving its flower chaplets high out of reach, as if daring the boldest climber to rob it of its graceful coronets.
 
From many a bush and tree came the rich bold song of the robin, the little musician putting himself well to the front, and looking round, as he sang, with fearless eyes that seemed to defy the possibility of his having an enemy, human or otherwise. Sights and sounds were alike exhilarating. The clear blue overhead, and the freshness which had followed the heavy rain, were all the more delightful, because a couple of hours before the aspect of the sky had been so hopeless.
 
The horses seemed to have caught the infection from their surroundings, and stepped out bravely, tossing their arched necks, as though despising the muddy roads and extra dose of water in ruts and hollows.
 
Kathleen's face had been animated enough when she left home, but something she saw soon after reaching the cross-roads already mentioned brought a cloud to her brow. This was a Mrs. Stapleton, a neighbour of hers, and only a few years older, who was evidently on her way, not merely to witness the meet, but to share in the day's sport. She nodded merrily to Kathleen as she passed, then made a little grimace suggestive of pity for her girl neighbour, who was shut up in a carriage, instead of sharing what she regarded as the real pleasure of the day.
 
Kathleen could not suppress a sigh of mingled anger and disappointment as the little cortège passed. Mrs. Stapleton's beautiful figure showed to perfection on horseback, and her habit might have grown upon it, so exact was the fit. The horse was worthy of its graceful rider. Beside her rode her little daughter Blanche, a child of seven, and a miniature of her mother. The little creature's face was full of glee, and she evidently knew no fear, but sat her spirited pony as easily as any older rider.
 
It was plain that Mr. Stapleton was at the meet breakfast, for the groom in attendance led a fine powerful animal, ready saddled for his master's use.
 
"Even little Blanche can ride her pony to Hollingsby," said Kathleen. "It is horrid that I should see a child like that enjoying a pleasure that I am forbidden. It would be something to ride Polly instead of being imprisoned here on such a morning."
 
"Oh, my dear, you looked so bright when we started, that I really thought you were going to enjoy the drive," said Mrs. Ellicott, in a rueful tone.
 
"I meant to do so, aunty, and I know I am a horribly unthankful, discontented creature, and I quite hate myself for showing such a dog-in-the-manger spirit. I ought to be thinking of all the good things I have, instead of mentally harping on my one grievance. I ought to put on a cheery look and to talk pleasantly to you, who are always ready to take the good and bad alike, instead of spoiling your drive by my petulance. But when Mrs. Stapleton rode by, looking so perfect that she might have sat for a model of Diana, and that little chit Blanche tossed her head in triumph as she passed, I felt just as spiteful and wicked as possible. I almost wished that mother and child might get a good roll in the mud before the day was over, and—but I will not tell you all the naughty thoughts that flashed through my mind. You know what I am by long experience."
 
"I know, dear, that you are quick-tempered and impulsive, but I also know that my dear Kitty is not capable of really wishing harm to any human being. You say I take good and bad alike, but I do not. I have many a fight with myself, and when that comes which I do not wish for, and which brings sorrow along with it, I too have to fight hard against a rebellious spirit. I have to seek strength, and ask for patience and submission also, that I may be kept in mind of the fact, that whatever befalls me can be overruled for good by Him who permits it to happen. We might as well ask ourselves, 'What? Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?' Surely, my dear child, your share of good things is large indeed."
CHAPTER II CAPTAIN JACK

 
 
KATHLEEN MOUNTFORD was silent for a few moments after listening to what she called "one of aunty's sermons." But in her heart she owned the truth of it, and her generous nature impelled her to speak.
 
"I think you always come off conqueror in a fight with self," she said. "Every one who knows you would say that you are ever ready to speak of your blessings, and that your trials are kept to yourself. I, on the contrary, have but a single grievance, and I take every opportunity of airing it. Most girls would be so glad and thankful to be placed as I am, that they would forget they had an excuse for grumbling at all."
 
"I am going to try not to spoil your drive, dear, but, like the parrot we have all read about, I am afraid I shall 'think the more.'"
 
"However, I will confess beforehand the spirit that is in me. I am seeing Mrs. Stapleton and her surroundings all the time. I am forced to own that her turn-out is perfection, but I am certain my Polly is equal to her Princess any day; that I should look as well as she does, and equal her at managing my horse, if I had the chance; that Polly would fly over the ground, and, as I am a lighter weight, would pass her steed like the wind. And all the while we are lumbering on in a carriage with old Mountain on the box, as if I were a dowager of seventy, instead of a girl not quite twenty. I have everything, but I am debarred from what I most long for, and the 'but' spoils the rest. I have done now, aunty. Said all that was in my mind. Now I shall struggle after a more contented spirit, and, whether I get it or not, I mean to be outwardly amiable for your sake."
 
Kathleen laid her hand on Mrs. Ellicott's. The latter pressed it lovingly, and no more was said about the girl's grievance.
 
Old Mountain, on the box, had thoughts very similar to those which exercised the mind of his young mistress, when Mrs. Stapleton cantered past.
 
"She looks a picture, a real pretty picture," thought he. "But our young miss would beat her on Polly. It does seem a pity she should be inside a carriage instead of outside a horse, though anybody might be proud to drive the like of Miss Kathleen. She's the image of her mother, and has a deal of her spirit too. No doubt the master saw it, and felt it would be best to make her promise as he did. Whether she likes it or not, he meant it for her good, and her poor mother paid dearly for breaking her word, though I don't suppose Miss Kathleen knows about that."
 
The coachman was right. Kathleen only knew that a few years ago, before the death of her father, he had exacted a promise from her to the effect that, so long as she remained unmarried, she would never join the Hollingsby or any other hunt.
 
"I say, so long as you are unmarried, Kathleen; for I hold that the wishes of the father, whether living or dead, must yield to those of the husband, when the daughter becomes a wife. But give me this promise, and a pledge that you will never appear on horseback, at meet or in the hunting-field, so long as you are Kathleen Mountford, and never after you change your name, except by the wish of your husband, and under his protection."
 
Kathleen readily gave the promise, which seemed a light one to the girl of fifteen. Mr. Mountford was ailing at the time, and she would have done anything in the world to give him pleasure. Then, after his death, and the contents of his will became known, the girl was hurt to find that Mr. Mountford had not contented himself with simply exacting a promise from her. He had attached certain penalties to any breach of Kathleen's pledge, and had she disobeyed his command, she would have paid for doing it by the loss of a large portion of her property.
 
Here was the sting of the whole affair.
 
"He might have trusted me," sobbed the girl. "I never broke my word to him, and now he is gone, a promise made to him is ever so much more sacred in my eyes. It will always be love for my father, not the thought of what I should lose, which will keep me from breaking my word, though he is no longer here to know that I do it."
 
A very thin thorn in the flesh will give pain quite out of proportion to its size. So with Kitty Mountford's grievance. Because it was a solitary one, it was perpetually making itself felt.
 
In a famous hunting county like Woldshire she was constantly reminded of it. All through the two last seasons she had writhed under the condolences of her unwise, but well-meaning friends. To one and all she gave jesting replies, answered with a ringing laugh, and made light of the whole affair.
 
"I am quite certain I should never care to join in a hunt, were I not prohibited from doing it. I am a daughter of Mother Eve, and my case is like hers. I have all but that one tree in my earthly paradise. I trust, nay, I feel sure, that I shall not follow Eve's example, in putting out my hand for the forbidden fruit."
 
Or Kathleen would vary her answer—
 
"The Hunt is my Bluebeard's chamber. But I will not unlock the door and suffer, as Mrs. Bluebeard had nearly done. You may risk your necks and steeds if you choose, and, provided you return unharmed, you shall come and tell me of your hairbreadth 'scapes and gallant doings in pursuit of a miserable fox. I can listen without envy, and Aunt Ellicott shall lift up her hands in horror, and lecture you roundly for joining such a barbarous crew as go to make up the Hollingsby Hunt."
 
Thus much for the past, as explaining the present mood in which Miss Mountford found herself.
 
As the carriage rolled on, Kathleen saw many a rider in black or scarlet, with snowy buckskins and shining spurs, on the way to the meet. Humbler riders there were, who made no brave show, either in person or dress, but whose horses, viewed by a judge, would have been deemed likely to hold their own through a long day's sport.
 
Vehicles of all sorts were carrying spectators, and it was quite impossible not to be pleased at the sight of trim huntsmen and merry faces.
 
All at once Kathleen's cheeks flushed crimson, as a pair of riders came abreast of the carriage. The elder of the two, Captain Torrance, would have liked Mountain to stop his horses, but the coachman was obstinately blind to his signal, and, if anything, increased the speed, to Kathleen's hardly-veiled annoyance. The girl could not suggest a pause. At the first glimpse of Captain Torrance, Mrs. Ellicott had become absorbed in the prospect at the opposite side of the way.
 
Kathleen could only return the salute of the rider, who bared and bent his handsome head, until it nearly touched the saddle.
 
Captain Jack, as he was usually called, was not disconcerted. He was quite contented with the sight of Mrs. Ellicott's bonnet-crown only. By her turning away she had enabled him to look Kathleen full in the face with undisguised admiration. He quickly noted the flush of pleasure which overspread it when he approached.
 
"Ignore me as you like, old lady," he said to himself, "so long as your fair ward's face lights up when I come near, and its expression is so eloquent, I care not which way your head is turned, or whether you smile or frown at Jack. Torrance. Come on, Ralph, or we shall be late," he said aloud, addressing a handsome, boyish imitation of himself, suitably mounted.
 
The little fellow looked gleefully at his father, and urged his pony on. It was a spirited little thing, and, like its youthful rider, had chafed at the momentary slackening of speed, when abreast of Miss Mountford's carriage, so away went the pair of riders at a rapid pace.
 
Captain Torrance was a widower with this one boy of nine years. Parent and child were almost inseparable, the child being taken everywhere that it was possible for him to go with his father.
 
"More's the pity," said many, who saw Captain Jack and little Ralph so constantly together.
 
"That young chip is the very model of the old block," thought Mountain, as he glanced at the boy. "Same black eyes, curly hair, and dreadnought look with him. And it stands to reason that the child will be like his father in ways, growing up with such a pattern always beside him. Captain Jack is fond of the lad, according to his lights; pity he doesn't show his love by sending Master Ralph to a good school a long way off, where his father wouldn't find it convenient to call too often. There's the making of a fine man in him; but he'll be marred;¹ he'll be marred past the mending. His mother was a sweet young lady, too, with a fine fortune. But she is gone, and if all tales be true, it is gone, or pretty nearly so, while Monk's How, the captain's property, is mortgaged to the full worth of it."
 
¹Spoiled.
 
"They do say the captain is on the look-out for another wife with plenty of money. There are not so many of that sort about, and girls, with fathers and mothers to see that they don't throw themselves away, will be kept out of his reach as far as possible."
 
Mountain's thoughts became a prayer, and he murmured, "God grant that Captain Torrance may not set his mind on my dear young mistress, or, if he does, that her eyes may be opened to see what he is, and what her life would be as his wife!"
 
"But then girls can seldom look farther than a man's face, if it is a handsome one, and if it's ugly, they won't look at it at all, however good a heart may be shining through it."
 
"I saw what the captain was after when he came by just now. He would have liked me to stop, so as he might poke his head in at the window and tell Miss Kathleen what a cruel shame it was that she must not ride Polly to the meet. But I can be a match for the captain when I'm on the box. I was not going to stop for the lifting up of his hand. There's none so blind as them that won't see, and I only pretended I didn't see him, and whatever Miss Kathleen may feel about it, I know the old mistress would be pleased, for anybody can tell that she cannot abear the captain."
 
Mountain laughed and chuckled to himself at the thought of having out-manoeuvred clever Captain Torrance, but he was not wholly successful in the long run. Later on, when Miss Mountford was looking with mingled envy and admiration at the gay gathering in front of Hollingsby Captain Jack found the opportunity which he had vainly sought on the road.
 
He brought his boy to the side of the carriage, and managed to say all the sympathetic words to Kathleen which were certain to have an irritating effect upon her.
 
By way of showing her vexation at not being allowed to display her pretty figure and fine horsemanship, and thus divide the honours with Mrs. Stapleton, she manifested her interest in little Ralph Torrance, and detained him and his father until the last minute before the start for Helmer Wood. She praised the boy's dress, seat, pony, looks, in short, everything about him, and when Ralph asked, "Why do you not ride, Miss Mountford?" she answered, "I am not old enough to be trusted, Ralph," with an upward glance at the captain, half expressive of indignation, half of amusement.
 
"Why, you are grown-up, and ever so much older than I am. I was nine last week, you know, but of course you are a girl—a lady, I mean—and you couldn't go by yourself, could you?"
 
"Not very well, Ralph; but I think somebody might be found to take care of me," replied Kathleen. "Only I must not ride for all that."
 
"I see," said Ralph, gravely. "You have no father like I have. Father has taken such care of me, and shown me how to ride so well, that now I'm not a bit afraid. I could almost take care of you. Anyway, father would, I'm certain, for he says I want scarcely any looking after. You would look after Miss Mountford, would you not?" said Ralph, turning his bright eyes from Kathleen's face to his father's. Then he added, "Wouldn't it be just lovely for us three to go together?"
 
"Quite too lovely," replied the captain, as he gave his boy's curly head a pat. "Bravo, Ralph! You know how to contrive matters. I should be glad indeed if I were privileged to take care of Miss Mountford. I hope she knows that I would shield her from harm at the cost of my life."
 
The speaker did not look at the boy, but at Kathleen, as he answered the questions. The last sentence reached her ears only, and her face was all aglow in an instant, for the captain's look was more eloquent than were his words.
 
It was well that at this instant the huntsman's horn gave the signal for starting. Ralph was far too eager to disobey it, and, with a farewell salute to Kathleen and a laughing glance at the high-spirited lad who was already in advance of him, the captain joined the gay cavalcade on the way to Helmer Wood.
 
Kathleen bent from the carriage window, and watched until the gay procession was lost in the wood-then the order was given to Mountain to turn his horses homeward.
 
Kathleen lay back in the carriage seemingly lost in thought. The sky might keep its blue or become cloudy, the sun might shine, and leaf and berry glow with bravest colouring, but all were lost upon her now. Still, her thoughts must have been pleasant ones, for now and then a smile flitted across her face, and it kept the colour summoned to it by the questions of Ralph and the responses of his father.
 
Mrs. Ellicott was thoroughly annoyed. She strongly disliked Captain Torrance, or rather the character of the man, and she was not a little afraid of him. Who could look at his handsome face and perfect turn-out, and hear his well-turned compliments, without dreading the effect of them on a girl like Kathleen?
 
It was said of the captain that he gave way to outbursts of passion, and that he was overbearing and tyrannical to a degree, where servants and dependants were concerned. That to such his speech was coarse, and often profane. That the boy, so like him in person, resembled him also in his faults, and that both were on the high-road to ruin.
 
These things were, however, all matters of hearsay to Mrs. Ellicott, for in the company of ladies who so courtly as Captain Jack? Who so gentle in speech, winning in manner, delicate and apt in paying compliments and doing honour to the sex as he? So, whilst the young admired and listened with pleased faces and heightened colour, prudent mothers hovered round their daughters whenever the captain approached them.
 
During the few minutes that he held converse with Kathleen at the carriage window, Mrs. Ellicott had shown as plainly as possible that his presence was anything but agreeable to herself. A stiff inclination of the head in response to his low bow, as brief replies as were consistent with civility to his inquiries after her health, and a reserve and stiffness of manner very much unlike Mrs. Ellicott, marked her reception of Captain Torrance.
 
These indications of the elder lady's feelings only amused Captain Jack, and again he asked himself, "What care I whether the aunt frowns or not, so long as Kathleen smiles, and a little compliment from my lips can bring that lovely colour to her cheeks? She is pretty enough and sweet enough for a man to give his heart to, quite irrespective of her more substantial attractions," mused the captain. "If I were a rich man, instead of being worse than poor, in debt, I should delight to lay my fortune at her feet. Knowing this, I have less compunction about taking hers, if I can get it, along with her sweet self. How like her mother she is! Fair, and with the same lovely Irish eyes that poor Mrs. Mountford had. I could never name the colour, and sometimes I thought they were deep grey, at others violet, but both mother's and daughter's were of the tint that I never saw except in an Irish girl's head. They remind one, by their liquid brightness, of the glorious nights we see now and then, when the stars seem as if they were fairly trembling and quivering with light. My Adela was handsomer than most fair women, but she was not to name beside Kathleen Mountford."
 
"I wish Ralph were like his mother, instead of being such a ridiculous image of me. I do not want the boy to grow up another Captain Jack, and sometimes I think, if his face were a reflection of Adela's, it would help me to be a better man, by reminding me of all she was to me. I love the boy even more for his mother's sake than for his own." No one could doubt the captain's affection for his son, however much opinion might be divided as to his manner of showing it. The redeeming trait in his past life had been his unswerving devotion to his wife, during the few years they spent together. He might well love her when living, and reverence her memory when dead.
 
She had given him her whole heart, when men and women were looking coldly upon him. She had refused to listen when friends would have told her hard truths and whispered words of warning. She had repaired his damaged fortune by the gift of her own, and thought nothing too good to bestow upon him.
 
Captain Torrance might spend his wife's money as recklessly as he chose; if only he were the happier for doing it, she never complained. Her single regret was, that she had no more to give. It was perhaps well for Mrs. Torrance that she did not live long enough to become fully acquainted with the darker, more selfish sides of her husband's character. These would have shown themselves, had money failed during their short married life. There was no scarcity of cash, no call for self-denial on the captain's part, so he remained an ideal husband in the eyes of Mrs. Torrance, and he really loved her as deeply as his nature permitted.
 
Her last look was for him. Her last words were, "I only care about dying because I have to leave you, Jack, and our child." Her last act had been to place unreservedly in his hands the small portion of her fortune which up to then she had held in her own right.
 
"You shall have it to the last penny, dear," she had said. "There are only you and Ralph. No fear of your failing to care well for him."
 
And so he did and had done, according to his idea of caring, during the years that had passed since the death of his wife.
 
CHAPTER III A HEAVY PENALTY

 
CAPTAIN TORRANCE made no mistake when he spoke of the great beauty of Kathleen Mountford's mother, and of its reproduction in the girl herself.
 
Mrs. Mountford was under twenty when she became a wife. She was a poor, but well-born Irish girl, named Kathleen Dillon, whom Mr. Mountford met when he was past forty, and regarded by all his friends as a confirmed bachelor. After a very short acquaintance the two were married, and he proved a most devoted and indulgent husband to the young wife who was less than half his own age.
 
Mrs. Mountford was proud of her conquest, and truly loved her husband, but she was of an impetuous and somewhat wilful disposition. She would often take advantage of Mr. Mountford's almost unlimited indulgence, and liked to show that she had only to ask and to have, or to have without the asking, whatever she set her mind upon, whether wisely or otherwise. In time, however, Mr. Mountford realised that he might be more truly kind in refusing than in granting some of his wife's demands, and that her real happiness would be best furthered by the exercise of his own sober judgment. Then followed a sort of struggle for mastery. Mrs. Mountford had been so long used to follow the bent of her own will, that she chafed under the slightest opposition. Sometimes, when her silence led Mr. Mountford to think that she agreed with him, she would take the first opportunity of setting his orders at defiance. If he showed displeasure, she would try him sorely by keeping out of his sight, or when in it, answering only by monosyllables and resolutely declining to share in anything he might propose.
 
Probably Mrs. Mountford punished herself quite as much as she did her husband. For, with her lively disposition and impetuosity of temper, such a state of things was no light trial. A few hours of it, and her lovely face would look like that of a troubled child. Her eyes would fill with tears, her lips would tremble, and she would look at her husband with an expression half penitent, half reproachful, as if mutely asking—
 
"How can you be so cruel, and treat my little faults so seriously? I am only a child compared with one who is so wise as you."
 
One pleading pitiful look from those wonderful eyes, and Mr. Mountford was certain to yield unconditionally. His arms would be extended, the young wife would fly to them, and as he clasped her to his breast she would sob out complaints of his unkindness.
 
"You know I never want to vex you, Kenneth," she would say. "But I am just a spoiled child, and you have helped to make me worse. You will have to be ever so patient with me, and you know you ought to be, because you are older, and so very wise. When you were so cross and looked grave, I felt perfectly crushed. Oh, Kenneth, how could you be so hard?"
 
Mr. Mountford might conscientiously feel that he had been anything but cross or harsh, considering that his wife had deliberately disobeyed commands which were wholly for her own good. He might be certain that he was the injured party, that he ought to insist on obedience to his will, especially when it involved no privation worth the name. But his intense love for his wife made him as wax in her hands, and while conscious that he had right on his side, he was full of remorse at the thought of having pained a creature so loving and beautiful, and so like a child in her wilfulness.
 
After such an outbreak there would be peace for a time. Home would be a little heaven, blessed too, at length, with music of a kind unknown in paradise, that of a baby voice.
 
The birth of Kathleen, which did not take place until three years after her parents' marriage, brought added sunshine to the home. Mr. Mountford had hoped for a son, but was more than satisfied with the baby daughter whose face was a reflection of her mother's. Husband and wife were more devoted to each other than ever, and during Kathleen's early days Mrs. Mountford was willing to live more quietly, and gave herself up without regret to the new sweet cares her child had brought her. But when the little one was three, and there was no further addition to her family, Mrs. Mountford began to resume her old life, and longed for pleasures outside the sphere of home. Not that she wearied of her little one, but her watchfulness over Kathleen only occupied a small portion of her time, and she was incapable, owing to differences in tastes and education, of entering into many of her husband's pursuits.
 
Mr. Mountford was doubly indulgent, on account of the difference in age between himself and his wife. He was older than his years, she younger than hers, and he felt it alike a privilege and a duty to give her every lawful pleasure natural to her youth, without considering himself in any way.
 
Mrs. Mountford was a graceful, but somewhat daring rider, and her husband had delighted to mount her in fitting fashion. The horse she had ridden for a couple of years met with an accident, became lame, and was condemned as unfit for her further use. A new one was bought, and she was full of admiration at its appearance, and eager to try if its other qualities equalled its looks.
 
"I shall try the new horse to-morrow morning, Kenneth," she said. "He is rightly named Prince, for he is a magnificent animal. How good you are to replace poor Rajah with such another royal quadruped! You must have been sadly extravagant though, for I am sure only a high price can have bought him."
 
Mrs. Mountford had risen from her seat, and was about to rush towards her husband in her usual impulsive fashion, and pay him for his gift by a shower of kisses. But a word stopped her on the way.
 
"Never mind the price, darling. If Prince suits you, he will be well worth all I have paid for him. But you must not ride him for a day or two. His temper must be well tested before I trust my treasure on his back."
 
A shade of annoyance passed over Mrs. Mountford's face, and she answered quickly, "Who so fit to test the horse's temper as myself? You say he has been used to carrying a lady."
 
"They say so from whom I bought him, dear; but horse-dealers have been known to conceal a fault which was not to be found out except on closer acquaintance. If you were less precious to me, I should be less careful of your safety, perhaps. Nay, I will not say that. I trust I should be incapable of exposing any human being to risk of life. I would rather peril my own."
 
"But, Kenneth, you know how I can ride. When I was a mere child, my father would let me mount any horse he had, no matter what its temper, and say, 'If Kitty cannot ride him, no one can.' I am not afraid either of Prince or for myself."
 
"But I am afraid for you, my darling. Think now, if anything went wrong for want of precaution on my part, what would become of our child and me? The light of my life would be extinguished."
 
Mr. Mountford looked at his wife with a world of honest love in his eyes, but his voice trembled at the bare thought of such a misfortune as his words suggested.
 
"No fear, Kenneth. I can manage the horse well enough, and I mean to try."
 
She answered with a glance of defiance, in no way moved by the tender words, because they clashed with the indulgence of her own whim.
 
"You shall try, dear, as soon as I am satisfied that you can do so with safety. And now come, darling, and pay me in your own sweet way for your new steed."
 
Mrs. Mountford, however, hung back, and with a little impatient toss of her head replied, "You know the old saying, Kenneth, 'There are only two bad paymasters, those who pay in advance, and those who never pay at all.' You must wait until Prince is mine, before you ask for his price from me."
 
"I do not know how he can be more yours, seeing that I have paid for him."
 
"He is yours no doubt, Kenneth. He will only be mine when I am permitted to use him."
 
"Which shall be as soon as—" began Mr. Mountford, but his wife did not wait for the rest of the sentence. Without even resuming her seat or holding further conversation with her husband, she swept from the room. If she had given one look behind her, the sight of Mr. Mountford's face might have moved her. It was so full of sorrow, and all for herself. He might well have been angry, for he had spent a large sum to give her pleasure, and if he had bidden her stay her hand before taking possession of Prince, it was only to insure her safety, and she well knew this.
 
There was bitter disappointment, too, for the loving husband. The pair had been much more united of late, and consequently, far happier. Mrs. Mountford's old wilfulness had apparently softened down, and she had manifested greater confidence in her husband's judgment, and willingness to fall in with it.
 
Even in this moment of renewed trouble Mr. Mountford was chiefly anxious for his wife's pleasure.
 
It was the eve of the great meet at Hollingsby, and, as on the morning just described, the event of the season to which every one was looking eagerly forward. Mr. Mountford knew the keen delight with which his wife anticipated this gathering, and he had ever been proud to see her the centre of admiring eyes, as they rode to Hollingsby together.
 
How disappointed she would be that the new purchase had come too late for her to use! What could be done in the short time that remained? Anything rather than she should not take her usual place.
 
A few moments' thought, and Mr. Mountford went to his wife's room to tell her of his plan. She was not there, or in the nursery, and one of the servants said, "Mrs. Mountford is out, sir. I don't think she's off the place, for she wasn't dressed for a proper walk."
 
Mr. Mountford instinctively turned towards the stables, and met his wife on the threshold.
 
"I have been looking at your new horse, Kenneth," she said. "He really improves on acquaintance, so far as appearance goes," she added, with marked emphasis on the last words.
 
Mr. Mountford noticed this, but made no comment.
 
"I have been thinking, dear, that you might ride my hunter to-morrow, and I will take the other horse, which is as good in everything but looks."
 
"I shall do nothing of the kind, Kenneth. I may be selfish, but I am not so selfish as to deprive you of your usual mount. I shall not accompany you to Hollingsby. Still, I must not forget my manners. Thank you for offering me your animal."
 
Mrs. Mountford dropped a demure little curtsey, then turned towards the house, without heeding whether her husband followed or not. She had given him a fresh sting, she knew, but she was not in the mood to care for having hurt his feelings. As to the husband, how could he help being displeased?
 
"She must take her own wilful way," he decided. "For once she shall punish herself; and I know it will be no light punishment for her to stay away from the meet to-morrow."
 
Accordingly, Mr. Mountford made no further allusion to the subject; and when the time came he left the house after an affectionate farewell, to which his wife responded, as if she were perfectly contented to see him set out alone. He did not notice the look of determination in her face, or the mischievous light in her eyes. He was only glad that there were neither tears nor reproaches.
 
A few minutes after his departure, the new horse, saddled and ready for a lady's use, was led round by the groom, and Mrs. Mountford appeared in riding-dress ready to mount it.
 
"I beg your pardon, madam," said the groom, touching his hat, "but are you sure there's no mistake about taking this horse out? I hope I know my place, but the master spoke so particular to me, and said the new horse was on no account to be ridden by anybody without his orders."
 
"I am not anybody, James. I suppose you know that Prince has been bought specially for my use, and naturally Mr. Mountford would not wish it to be used by any one else. We talked about the animal last night, and I told him I should try Prince this morning."
 
"Of course, madam, you know best, and if you and my master settled it, no doubt it will be all right. He cannot blame me."
 
"Why should you be blamed for doing as I tell you?" asked Mrs. Mountford sharply. "Have you ever been found fault with for obeying me?"
 
"No, madam. I would not have said a word, only the master was so very particular in giving the order. He seemed anxious to make sure of Prince's temper by more than hearsay. And besides, I never knew him change his mind about any order he had given without letting me know, until now, and I've lived fifteen years with him."
 
"When your master comes back you can ask him whether I told him or not, that I should ride Prince this morning, and see what he will say to you. Long service will hardly excuse your impertinence even in his eyes. When I join him at the appointed place, I will prepare him for your question."
 
"I've done it," said James, to a stable-boy who had listened open-mouthed to the conversation, wondering the while how anybody dared cross the mistress.
 
"She'll do you no harm. Everybody says that she just flies up for a minute, and then it's all over."
 
"I didn't mean that I was afraid of the mistress. I'm only afraid that, after all, I've done wrong in letting her have the new horse. I wish I'd locked the stable door and set my back against it, and shouted the master's orders straight at her, instead of doing as she told me. I should be almost glad if she were to get a bit of a tumble, only it would hurt him worse than her."
 
In the meanwhile Mrs. Mountford was taking a roundabout route to Hollingsby, so as to approach the meeting-place by another entrance, and not to arrive until after her husband. She had some qualms of conscience, but Prince was so easy to ride, and looked such a perfect animal, that the enjoyment was worth risking something for.
 
"Kenneth would feel angry at first, but—" and then a laugh followed the thought, as Mrs. Mountford looked back on the many occasions when the witchery of her ways, joined to his deep affection, had driven the cloud from his brow, and in place of fault-finding, she had met with loving words and caresses. At the worst he would only preach a little, and she was used to that. He was the dearest, best of men, only anxious about her, and graver of speech and ways, as was natural to one about twenty years her senior.
 
Mr. Mountford was answering inquiries about his wife, and listening to regrets on account of her absence, when a neighbour exclaimed, "Why, Mountford, you said your wife was not coming. She is here, and what an animal she is riding! A beauty to look at, but somehow I think I have seen him before, and—"
 
The speaker hesitated, and Mr. Mountford, hiding the surprise and indignation which agitated him, replied hastily, "She has changed her mind and followed me. I hardly thought she would have trusted herself on her new horse, and she refused to take mine, and let me ride another." In an anxious whisper he added, "I hope you know nothing against the animal. I had the best of characters with him, but he is untried, so far as my ownership goes."
 
"I really am not sure that I know the horse," was the somewhat hesitating reply. "In any case, if I ever saw him before, he had a lady on his back, and with Mrs. Mountford's perfect horsemanship you can hardly be anxious. She can ride anything."
 
Mr. Mountford thanked the speaker, and set out to join his wife. He was justly displeased, but displeasure was overborne by anxiety, and all he could think of was his wife's safety. She saw him coming, and, impelled by a spirit of mischief, evaded him again and again, showing off her horse and turning laughing glances at her friends, as if to invite them to share in her amusement.
 
It would be useless to tell the thoughts which occupied Mr. Mountford's mind. He felt powerless. He would not say a word which would betray the real state of the case. He would watch over his wilful darling, and hope for the best.
 
Later in the day that gay company saw a pitiful sight. A horse, with the bit between his teeth, and a lady on his back, was tearing at breakneck speed towards one of the most dangerous spots at which a leap could be made.
 
An agonised husband was following as best he might, with the sense that only a miracle could save his wife from death.
 
A little later still, and Mrs. Mountford lay a senseless heap on the other side of a barrier from which the most daring riders had thought it no shame to turn aside, and the horse was careering madly onward at his will.
 
Mrs. Mountford was not killed, but beside several lesser injuries, there was one to the spine, which rendered it improbable that she would ever walk again. And what seemed almost more terrible to herself, her eyes had come in contact with an outstretching bough, and all the skill that could be brought to bear upon them would neither preserve nor restore her sight.
 
Mr. Mountford's distress and self-reproach were sad to witness. It might have been thought that he had little cause to blame himself, seeing that he had striven to hedge his beautiful wife round from harm in every possible way. But true love makes, if it cannot find, excuses for the faults of its object, and is willing to share the blame, though itself guiltless, and to endure the suffering which is the result of them.
 
Whilst Mrs. Mountford's life was in danger her husband harassed himself with undeserved reproaches.
 
"Knowing her temperament as I did, I ought not to have left her. She is so young still, and what in the eyes of older people seems blamable, in hers was a girlish frolic to be laughed over and readily forgiven. I thought my orders to James were so positive that he would never dream of disobeying them, and that she would be unable to ride Prince, if she thought of doing so. But I forget that whilst I was head and master she was mistress, and that I had never brooked disobedience to her orders. If I had only stayed at home to watch over her, all would have been well. She might have been angry and pouted a little, but I could have borne these trifles, as I had often done before."
 
One thought brought an additional sting with it. Mr. Mountford had ascertained by what arguments his wife had induced the groom to bring out Prince for her use, and he knew that it was by an implied falsehood she had succeeded.
 
CHAPTER IV BLIND, YET SEEING
MANY a weary day and watchful night were passed by Mr. Mountford, before his wife was pronounced out of present danger. But the sentence of hopeless blindness, and a life, probably a short one and of comparative helplessness, hung over her, and no human skill could avert these.
 
At length the state of the invalid was so far improved that she could be wheeled into another room on a level with that in which she slept. It was a bright morning in early spring before she reached this stage, and the air was fresh without coldness.
 
"Wheel me close to the window," she whispered. "I want to feel the sunshine that I shall not see again." Tears streamed from the sightless eyes, still beautiful, for the injury had left them undisfigured, though the life was gone from them.
 
Mrs. Mountford's wish was carried out, and the couch placed in the deep bay-window. The sun shone straight in upon her, and made the tear-drops glisten on her wan face. She thanked the nurse and her maid with a smile which brought moisture to their eyes. She had been very gentle and patient through her illness, for pain, which in some cases causes irritation, had in hers been overmastered by remorse, and all the old petulant ways were gone.
 
"You can leave me now, and tell Mr. Mountford I am ready for him to come," she added.
 
"I am here, darling," replied her husband.
 
"I might have known," she whispered, as he bent over her, and drawing his head down, she kissed him tenderly again and again.
 
He seated himself so as to be on a level with her, but again she drew his head to her breast and held him in a close embrace. Hitherto, neither of them had spoken to the other of that terrible day, but now Mrs. Mountford whispered—
 
"Can you ever forgive me, Kenneth? I have been longing to ask you, ever since I knew what my wickedness had brought on you. I say you, darling husband, for though I know you will place my loss of sight and helplessness as worst of all, because I have to bear them through all my life, I am sure you have suffered even more than I have. Besides, bodily pain is not the worst part, though you have borne that along with me. I understand something about what sympathy means, when such love goes with it; for whenever our little one was ill, every pain she had was a double stab to me. And once when you were ill, my husband, it was the same or worse. To see those we love suffer is so hard. It would be bliss to bear the pain, if by doing this one could spare them. If such a poor, weak, wilful creature as I am can feel in this way, what must you have endured for my sake?"
 
Mrs. Mountford spoke softly and slowly, still holding her husband clasped closely to her.
 
He could not answer, and she knew why. She passed her slender fingers over his face, and felt the tears that he could not keep back, and knew, by the heaving of his breast, that he was too much overcome by emotion to utter a word in reply.
 
She waited patiently for a while, dried the tears as they fell, and kissed his hair, even, as his; head lay close to her. She could not, and never would, see how it had changed of late. Where only a few silver threads had been, it was now all grey.
 
"Kenneth," she whispered at length, "you must not grieve. I am not worth such love and tears, but I want you to tell me I am forgiven first, and then—"
 
"My darling, do not speak of forgiveness. I forgave you long, long ago," said Mr. Mountford.
 
"That is what I wanted. I should not have liked you to say that there was nothing to forgive, because even when I was planning to deceive you on that awful day, conscience was showing me my wickedness, and striving with me, only I would not listen. Do you know, Kenneth, I was worse than wilful, defiant, and disobedient? I was untruthful. I who had always been proud to say, that whatever were my faults, falsehood in any shape had never been one of them. It was so mean, Kenneth, to deceive James, by saying that I had told you I should ride Prince that morning, and not saying that you had forbidden me to mount him until you had made sure that he was fit for me to use with safety."
 
"I ought to have stayed with you and made sure," said Mr. Mountford. "I have reproached myself ever since for having left you alone. It would have been no privation for me to give up the meet."
 
"Do not reproach yourself, Kenneth. If I had been such a wife as you had a right to expect, there would have been no need for you to stay. Looking back, it seems horrible that my wilfulness should have made it necessary for me to have a keeper as well as a husband in you, and that if I were out of your sight you were made miserable, lest I should bring harm upon myself. I shall need no watcher now," added Mrs. Mountford, with a pitiful realization of her helplessness.
 
"But you will have my companionship, dearest. All that I can do I will. I will be eyes to you, and tell all that is passing. Thank God, you have seen, and as I describe the changes that are going on around us, memory will enable you to picture them, though you cannot now see them. My feet shall turn whither you will, and be your messengers. My hands shall be such willing hands in your service. Every day our child will grow more able to join me in loving ministry, and her prattle will cheer you."
 
"I know, Kenneth dearest, what you will be. My sorest trial is that I cannot see your face and our child's. Perhaps, after all, it matters less about seeing yours, for I can never forget it, and you will grow no older to me, though I may live to be a white-haired grandmother."
 
Mrs. Mountford laughed at the thought, for Kathleen was but three and a half years old. But the laugh died almost as it was born, as she added with a sigh—"They say that all the other senses become more acute when sight is gone. I shall have to pass my hand over Kitty's face and hair, and measure her height from time to time, and you will tell me about everything, will you not?"
 
"I will, dearest."
 
"And when I am a little stronger you will bring poor James to see me, and I will ask his pardon for having deceived him. I shall not be quite happy till I have done that."
 
Mr. Mountford promised, and in due time James was taken to see his mistress and hear her confession. He came away blubbering, poor fellow, like a school-boy, and declaring that if by taking her helplessness on himself he could restore her strength, he would do it; and those who heard believed him.
 
But neither love nor skill could greatly prolong Mrs. Mountford's life, and four years after the accident she died.
 
In spite of the elements of suffering and sadness, which of necessity were always present, those four years were not unhappy ones. The outer vision of the invalid might be gone for ever, but the spiritual vision became clearer and brighter day by day, in the case of both husband and wife.
 
"It needed a terrible lesson to show me myself first, for I had never been conscious either of my ignorance of all that is best worth knowing, or of what I was in God's sight: I was always sorry when I grieved you, Kenneth, for I did love you, and I knew something of your love for me. But I never felt any sorrow for the real sin, or penitence towards God. I have never known or wanted to know much of Him, though I suppose I should have been shocked and angry if any one had accused me of not believing in God; but they would have told the truth. I just took it for granted there was one, and never troubled myself any more about the matter. Not knowing, how could I love Him who never came into my thoughts as a great reality? But now—oh, the blessed difference! It is true happiness to be allowed in ever so little a way to love Him who is love. The pity of it is, that now I can never show my love by service. I cannot go about amongst the poor and tell them the sweet lesson I have learned, or do them good for Christ's sake."
 
"My darling, you think of and care for many whom you cannot visit or cheer with your presence and kind words."
 
Mrs. Mountford shook her head. "The only thing I can do is to bear my blindness and helplessness with patient submission, and to thank God that I did not die without having time for repentance. If I have been patient, He has made me so in answer to prayer."
 
"You are patience itself, dearest. Every one feels it a privilege to wait upon and learn sweet lessons of endurance from you," replied her husband.
 
"Every one is good and kind. You, my husband, most of all. I see now what a precious gift God gave me in you. We have been happy, in spite of everything. We are of one mind now, and as each day brings us nearer to the parting hour we are drawn closer in love. When my place on earth is empty, you will always remember that God sees us both, though we cannot see each other."
 
"I shall not forget, but I hope to keep you and minister to you for years to come."
 
"Better say 'wish;' for you can hardly hope now. I remember how I used to say so glibly, 'I believe in the communion of saints,' when I repeated the creed in church, along with others. But now I know what the words mean. When you praise God on earth, Kenneth, and I, by His grace, in the home above, there will still be communion."
 
"True, but communion which will be perfected when we meet again, dear wife."
 
"Yes, to us; but I suppose it will be always perfect to Him who sees and hears us both."
 
Such conversations were frequent between the husband and wife, and gave them great comfort. Both were deeply anxious about little Kathleen. It cheered the dying mother to think that, as her child was nearly eight years old, she was not likely to forget her altogether.
 
"Keep my memory green with Kitty," she would say. "The child is so constantly with you, and will be more so, if possible, when I am gone. Do not let her forget her mother, though she will only picture me as blind and helpless."
 
"No fear of her forgetting you whilst I live," replied Mr. Mountford, and he ever took the greatest pains to carry out his wife's wish. One thing was, however, carefully kept from Kathleen, not only when she was a child, but afterwards. She knew that her mother had been injured by being thrown from her horse, but the story of her wilfulness and disobedience was never repeated in Kathleen's presence.
 
Mrs. Ellicott, the widowed sister of Mr. Mountford, had been invited to remain with him after his wife's death. The sisters-in-law had always been great friends, and it had comforted Mrs. Mountford to think that Kathleen would have sweet motherly influences around her as she grew up to girlhood and womanhood.
 
So long as her father lived, the girl was fairly amenable to these, but she was only fifteen when she lost him, and before that time he had noted with some anxiety the great resemblance between her and her mother, as he had first known her. In one sense the likeness gave him pleasure, in another pain.
 
Kathleen had almost equal beauty and the same high spirits and winsome ways. But sometimes Mr. Mountford caught glimpses of wilfulness and an ungovernable temper, such as had cost her mother so dear. She would be a great heiress, for though a generous man, Mr. Mountford was a prudent one. From the date of his wife's accident he had lived very quietly, and he continued to do so after her death. His property was not entailed, and he never contemplated leaving any portion of it to a male relative. It was all for Kathleen, and would be hers absolutely when she was twenty-one, or married with the consent of her guardians. These were Mrs. Ellicott, who with her daughter, Geraldine, would, he hoped, live at Hollingsby Hall with Kathleen, at least, until she attained her majority.
 
Her other guardian was a young man of only twenty-two at the time of his appointment to this somewhat onerous position. His father, Mr. Mountford's oldest friend, had been originally selected, but whilst willing to accede to the request made, he pleaded unsuitability on account of age.
 
"When people appoint guardians and executors, they need not only to consider the character and business qualities of the individuals chosen, but whether they will be likely to see the trust to an end. I am ten years older than you, and much less vigorous in many ways. Humanly speaking, you are far more likely to outlive me than I you, and I trust you will see your bright girl developed into a noble woman. I will, however, consent to be named as your executor and Kathleen's guardian, if my son may be associated with me in the trust. Then you will have an old head and a pair of young shoulders, but not united in the same individual."
 
The speaker, Mr. Matheson, of Westhill, noticed a peculiar look on his friend's face as he made this suggestion, and without waiting for a reply he continued: "I see that amused look, Mountford, and I know what it means. You think that to appoint a young fellow of two-and-twenty to be co-guardian with his father of a beautiful girl only eight years younger than himself, and an heiress to boot, is suggestive of match-making in the future."
 
"I do not deny it," replied Mr. Mountford, "but I will add more than the smile expressed. Knowing what Aylmer is, I could wish nothing better for Kathleen than to be the wife of such a man. But all the same, I would not by word or act influence the choice of my child or your son."
 
"And by appointing Aylmer as one of her trustees, you raise a very effectual barrier to any nearer union between him and Kathleen. Though I say it, and he is my only son, Aylmer Matheson will put every thought of self aside in his fulfilment of the trust reposed in him, if he should have to act as Kathleen's guardian. But I fervently hope that no one will have to take a father's place to her."
 
This wish was not fulfilled, and though Mr. Mountford died before his old friend, Mr. Matheson only survived him about two years.
 
From the age of seventeen, Kathleen had been under the joint guardianship of Mrs. Ellicott and Aylmer Matheson, the latter combining the double qualifications of young shoulders and the wise head which is not generally supposed to accompany them. In appearance he was tall and well-proportioned, rather fair than dark, with rebellious brown hair which no amount of cutting and brushing would deprive of its natural wave and tendency to curl. It was, however, carried well back from a broad and high forehead, and a pair of dark grey eyes, whose expression betokened courage and honesty. A brown moustache and otherwise clean-shaven, rather pale face, and the description is fairly complete. Perhaps, however, the paleness was rather comparative, as it was only noticeable in contrast with the colour which was never lacking on the face of Captain Torrance, between whom and Aylmer Matheson, it was commonly said, there was no love lost.
 
Those who knew these two men were not surprised at the saying, and would have deemed anything like friendship between them as equally impossible and absurd. Unlikeness is often a help to friendship rather than otherwise. Weakness, whether of character or person, generally looks for strength in its chief friend. Beauty often honestly admires ugliness, or while admiring the other qualities of a plain-visaged friend, is secretly glad that in her she has a foil which enhances her own charms by contrast, instead of a rival.
 
The waverer is thankful to be taken possession of and managed by the friend who can promptly decide whether to say "Yes" or "No," and who is equally able to give a reason for her answer.
 
And so on ad infinitum; but in friendship as in marriage, it is only when opposite qualities in the individuals concerned tend to mutual well-being, and the formation of a harmonious whole, that satisfactory results can be hoped for.
 
Candour cannot be friends with cunning, honesty with fraud, truth with falsehood. The nature which delights in good-doing, even when it demands self-sacrifice, can never join hands with one whose sole aim is self-indulgence and self-aggrandisement. The merciful and the cruel, the liberal and the churlish, the brave and the cowardly, are in each case separated by barriers none the less real because they are invisible to the eye.
 
The higher nature may pity the lower and long to elevate it, but the two cannot work as friends without such assimilation.
 
There must at least be kindred principles strong enough to overcome, or even utilize the many minor points of difference which may exist, without proving any bar to a real friendship, or the closer union of which marriage should be the precursor.
 
Alas, that so close a union should not always mean true unity of hearts, aims, hopes, and lives!
 
Of Captain Torrance's character something has already been told. Of Aylmer Matheson's only good can be written.
 
An only son and idolized by his father, he repaid this affection by filial devotion. A man of scholarly attainments and refined tastes, whose society was much sought after, Aylmer was content to share the country pursuits in which his father delighted, and to live almost wholly at Westhill after leaving Oxford. Whilst at college he had been the generous friend and helper of young men who needed such aid. In society he was self-possessed, but modest; in manners as courteous and considerate to the lowly as to those who filled high places.
 
In one respect Aylmer and his father closely resembled each other. Unlike too many young men, Aylmer was not ashamed to confess Christ before the world, but gladly acknowledged that his chief desire was to be numbered amongst His true soldiers and servants, and to spend and be spent in doing His will.
 
It will be easily imagined that friendship between Captain Jack Torrance and Aylmer Matheson could hardly exist.
 
CHAPTER IV BLIND, YET SEEING
MANY a weary day and watchful night were passed by Mr. Mountford, before his wife was pronounced out of present danger. But the sentence of hopeless blindness, and a life, probably a short one and of comparative helplessness, hung over her, and no human skill could avert these.
 
At length the state of the invalid was so far improved that she could be wheeled into another room on a level with that in which she slept. It was a bright morning in early spring before she reached this stage, and the air was fresh without coldness.
 
"Wheel me close to the window," she whispered. "I want to feel the sunshine that I shall not see again." Tears streamed from the sightless eyes, still beautiful, for the injury had left them undisfigured, though the life was gone from them.
 
Mrs. Mountford's wish was carried out, and the couch placed in the deep bay-window. The sun shone straight in upon her, and made the tear-drops glisten on her wan face. She thanked the nurse and her maid with a smile which brought moisture to their eyes. She had been very gentle and patient through her illness, for pain, which in some cases causes irritation, had in hers been overmastered by remorse, and all the old petulant ways were gone.
 
"You can leave me now, and tell Mr. Mountford I am ready for him to come," she added.
 
"I am here, darling," replied her husband.
 
"I might have known," she whispered, as he bent over her, and drawing his head down, she kissed him tenderly again and again.
 
He seated himself so as to be on a level with her, but again she drew his head to her breast and held him in a close embrace. Hitherto, neither of them had spoken to the other of that terrible day, but now Mrs. Mountford whispered—
 
"Can you ever forgive me, Kenneth? I have been longing to ask you, ever since I knew what my wickedness had brought on you. I say you, darling husband, for though I know you will place my loss of sight and helplessness as worst of all, because I have to bear them through all my life, I am sure you have suffered even more than I have. Besides, bodily pain is not the worst part, though you have borne that along with me. I understand something about what sympathy means, when such love goes with it; for whenever our little one was ill, every pain she had was a double stab to me. And once when you were ill, my husband, it was the same or worse. To see those we love suffer is so hard. It would be bliss to bear the pain, if by doing this one could spare them. If such a poor, weak, wilful creature as I am can feel in this way, what must you have endured for my sake?"
 
Mrs. Mountford spoke softly and slowly, still holding her husband clasped closely to her.
 
He could not answer, and she knew why. She passed her slender fingers over his face, and felt the tears that he could not keep back, and knew, by the heaving of his breast, that he was too much overcome by emotion to utter a word in reply.
 
She waited patiently for a while, dried the tears as they fell, and kissed his hair, even, as his; head lay close to her. She could not, and never would, see how it had changed of late. Where only a few silver threads had been, it was now all grey.
 
"Kenneth," she whispered at length, "you must not grieve. I am not worth such love and tears, but I want you to tell me I am forgiven first, and then—"
 
"My darling, do not speak of forgiveness. I forgave you long, long ago," said Mr. Mountford.
 
"That is what I wanted. I should not have liked you to say that there was nothing to forgive, because even when I was planning to deceive you on that awful day, conscience was showing me my wickedness, and striving with me, only I would not listen. Do you know, Kenneth, I was worse than wilful, defiant, and disobedient? I was untruthful. I who had always been proud to say, that whatever were my faults, falsehood in any shape had never been one of them. It was so mean, Kenneth, to deceive James, by saying that I had told you I should ride Prince that morning, and not saying that you had forbidden me to mount him until you had made sure that he was fit for me to use with safety."
 
"I ought to have stayed with you and made sure," said Mr. Mountford. "I have reproached myself ever since for having left you alone. It would have been no privation for me to give up the meet."
 
"Do not reproach yourself, Kenneth. If I had been such a wife as you had a right to expect, there would have been no need for you to stay. Looking back, it seems horrible that my wilfulness should have made it necessary for me to have a keeper as well as a husband in you, and that if I were out of your sight you were made miserable, lest I should bring harm upon myself. I shall need no watcher now," added Mrs. Mountford, with a pitiful realization of her helplessness.
 
"But you will have my companionship, dearest. All that I can do I will. I will be eyes to you, and tell all that is passing. Thank God, you have seen, and as I describe the changes that are going on around us, memory will enable you to picture them, though you cannot now see them. My feet shall turn whither you will, and be your messengers. My hands shall be such willing hands in your service. Every day our child will grow more able to join me in loving ministry, and her prattle will cheer you."
 
"I know, Kenneth dearest, what you will be. My sorest trial is that I cannot see your face and our child's. Perhaps, after all, it matters less about seeing yours, for I can never forget it, and you will grow no older to me, though I may live to be a white-haired grandmother."
 
Mrs. Mountford laughed at the thought, for Kathleen was but three and a half years old. But the laugh died almost as it was born, as she added with a sigh—"They say that all the other senses become more acute when sight is gone. I shall have to pass my hand over Kitty's face and hair, and measure her height from time to time, and you will tell me about everything, will you not?"
 
"I will, dearest."
 
"And when I am a little stronger you will bring poor James to see me, and I will ask his pardon for having deceived him. I shall not be quite happy till I have done that."
 
Mr. Mountford promised, and in due time James was taken to see his mistress and hear her confession. He came away blubbering, poor fellow, like a school-boy, and declaring that if by taking her helplessness on himself he could restore her strength, he would do it; and those who heard believed him.
 
But neither love nor skill could greatly prolong Mrs. Mountford's life, and four years after the accident she died.
 
In spite of the elements of suffering and sadness, which of necessity were always present, those four years were not unhappy ones. The outer vision of the invalid might be gone for ever, but the spiritual vision became clearer and brighter day by day, in the case of both husband and wife.
 
"It needed a terrible lesson to show me myself first, for I had never been conscious either of my ignorance of all that is best worth knowing, or of what I was in God's sight: I was always sorry when I grieved you, Kenneth, for I did love you, and I knew something of your love for me. But I never felt any sorrow for the real sin, or penitence towards God. I have never known or wanted to know much of Him, though I suppose I should have been shocked and angry if any one had accused me of not believing in God; but they would have told the truth. I just took it for granted there was one, and never troubled myself any more about the matter. Not knowing, how could I love Him who never came into my thoughts as a great reality? But now—oh, the blessed difference! It is true happiness to be allowed in ever so little a way to love Him who is love. The pity of it is, that now I can never show my love by service. I cannot go about amongst the poor and tell them the sweet lesson I have learned, or do them good for Christ's sake."
 
"My darling, you think of and care for many whom you cannot visit or cheer with your presence and kind words."
 
Mrs. Mountford shook her head. "The only thing I can do is to bear my blindness and helplessness with patient submission, and to thank God that I did not die without having time for repentance. If I have been patient, He has made me so in answer to prayer."
 
"You are patience itself, dearest. Every one feels it a privilege to wait upon and learn sweet lessons of endurance from you," replied her husband.
 
"Every one is good and kind. You, my husband, most of all. I see now what a precious gift God gave me in you. We have been happy, in spite of everything. We are of one mind now, and as each day brings us nearer to the parting hour we are drawn closer in love. When my place on earth is empty, you will always remember that God sees us both, though we cannot see each other."
 
"I shall not forget, but I hope to keep you and minister to you for years to come."
 
"Better say 'wish;' for you can hardly hope now. I remember how I used to say so glibly, 'I believe in the communion of saints,' when I repeated the creed in church, along with others. But now I know what the words mean. When you praise God on earth, Kenneth, and I, by His grace, in the home above, there will still be communion."
 
"True, but communion which will be perfected when we meet again, dear wife."
 
"Yes, to us; but I suppose it will be always perfect to Him who sees and hears us both."
 
Such conversations were frequent between the husband and wife, and gave them great comfort. Both were deeply anxious about little Kathleen. It cheered the dying mother to think that, as her child was nearly eight years old, she was not likely to forget her altogether.
 
"Keep my memory green with Kitty," she would say. "The child is so constantly with you, and will be more so, if possible, when I am gone. Do not let her forget her mother, though she will only picture me as blind and helpless."
 
"No fear of her forgetting you whilst I live," replied Mr. Mountford, and he ever took the greatest pains to carry out his wife's wish. One thing was, however, carefully kept from Kathleen, not only when she was a child, but afterwards. She knew that her mother had been injured by being thrown from her horse, but the story of her wilfulness and disobedience was never repeated in Kathleen's presence.
 
Mrs. Ellicott, the widowed sister of Mr. Mountford, had been invited to remain with him after his wife's death. The sisters-in-law had always been great friends, and it had comforted Mrs. Mountford to think that Kathleen would have sweet motherly influences around her as she grew up to girlhood and womanhood.
 
So long as her father lived, the girl was fairly amenable to these, but she was only fifteen when she lost him, and before that time he had noted with some anxiety the great resemblance between her and her mother, as he had first known her. In one sense the likeness gave him pleasure, in another pain.
 
Kathleen had almost equal beauty and the same high spirits and winsome ways. But sometimes Mr. Mountford caught glimpses of wilfulness and an ungovernable temper, such as had cost her mother so dear. She would be a great heiress, for though a generous man, Mr. Mountford was a prudent one. From the date of his wife's accident he had lived very quietly, and he continued to do so after her death. His property was not entailed, and he never contemplated leaving any portion of it to a male relative. It was all for Kathleen, and would be hers absolutely when she was twenty-one, or married with the consent of her guardians. These were Mrs. Ellicott, who with her daughter, Geraldine, would, he hoped, live at Hollingsby Hall with Kathleen, at least, until she attained her majority.
 
Her other guardian was a young man of only twenty-two at the time of his appointment to this somewhat onerous position. His father, Mr. Mountford's oldest friend, had been originally selected, but whilst willing to accede to the request made, he pleaded unsuitability on account of age.
 
"When people appoint guardians and executors, they need not only to consider the character and business qualities of the individuals chosen, but whether they will be likely to see the trust to an end. I am ten years older than you, and much less vigorous in many ways. Humanly speaking, you are far more likely to outlive me than I you, and I trust you will see your bright girl developed into a noble woman. I will, however, consent to be named as your executor and Kathleen's guardian, if my son may be associated with me in the trust. Then you will have an old head and a pair of young shoulders, but not united in the same individual."
 
The speaker, Mr. Matheson, of Westhill, noticed a peculiar look on his friend's face as he made this suggestion, and without waiting for a reply he continued: "I see that amused look, Mountford, and I know what it means. You think that to appoint a young fellow of two-and-twenty to be co-guardian with his father of a beautiful girl only eight years younger than himself, and an heiress to boot, is suggestive of match-making in the future."
 
"I do not deny it," replied Mr. Mountford, "but I will add more than the smile expressed. Knowing what Aylmer is, I could wish nothing better for Kathleen than to be the wife of such a man. But all the same, I would not by word or act influence the choice of my child or your son."
 
"And by appointing Aylmer as one of her trustees, you raise a very effectual barrier to any nearer union between him and Kathleen. Though I say it, and he is my only son, Aylmer Matheson will put every thought of self aside in his fulfilment of the trust reposed in him, if he should have to act as Kathleen's guardian. But I fervently hope that no one will have to take a father's place to her."
 
This wish was not fulfilled, and though Mr. Mountford died before his old friend, Mr. Matheson only survived him about two years.
 
From the age of seventeen, Kathleen had been under the joint guardianship of Mrs. Ellicott and Aylmer Matheson, the latter combining the double qualifications of young shoulders and the wise head which is not generally supposed to accompany them. In appearance he was tall and well-proportioned, rather fair than dark, with rebellious brown hair which no amount of cutting and brushing would deprive of its natural wave and tendency to curl. It was, however, carried well back from a broad and high forehead, and a pair of dark grey eyes, whose expression betokened courage and honesty. A brown moustache and otherwise clean-shaven, rather pale face, and the description is fairly complete. Perhaps, however, the paleness was rather comparative, as it was only noticeable in contrast with the colour which was never lacking on the face of Captain Torrance, between whom and Aylmer Matheson, it was commonly said, there was no love lost.
 
Those who knew these two men were not surprised at the saying, and would have deemed anything like friendship between them as equally impossible and absurd. Unlikeness is often a help to friendship rather than otherwise. Weakness, whether of character or person, generally looks for strength in its chief friend. Beauty often honestly admires ugliness, or while admiring the other qualities of a plain-visaged friend, is secretly glad that in her she has a foil which enhances her own charms by contrast, instead of a rival.
 
The waverer is thankful to be taken possession of and managed by the friend who can promptly decide whether to say "Yes" or "No," and who is equally able to give a reason for her answer.
 
And so on ad infinitum; but in friendship as in marriage, it is only when opposite qualities in the individuals concerned tend to mutual well-being, and the formation of a harmonious whole, that satisfactory results can be hoped for.
 
Candour cannot be friends with cunning, honesty with fraud, truth with falsehood. The nature which delights in good-doing, even when it demands self-sacrifice, can never join hands with one whose sole aim is self-indulgence and self-aggrandisement. The merciful and the cruel, the liberal and the churlish, the brave and the cowardly, are in each case separated by barriers none the less real because they are invisible to the eye.
 
The higher nature may pity the lower and long to elevate it, but the two cannot work as friends without such assimilation.
 
There must at least be kindred principles strong enough to overcome, or even utilize the many minor points of difference which may exist, without proving any bar to a real friendship, or the closer union of which marriage should be the precursor.
 
Alas, that so close a union should not always mean true unity of hearts, aims, hopes, and lives!
 
Of Captain Torrance's character something has already been told. Of Aylmer Matheson's only good can be written.
 
An only son and idolized by his father, he repaid this affection by filial devotion. A man of scholarly attainments and refined tastes, whose society was much sought after, Aylmer was content to share the country pursuits in which his father delighted, and to live almost wholly at Westhill after leaving Oxford. Whilst at college he had been the generous friend and helper of young men who needed such aid. In society he was self-possessed, but modest; in manners as courteous and considerate to the lowly as to those who filled high places.
 
In one respect Aylmer and his father closely resembled each other. Unlike too many young men, Aylmer was not ashamed to confess Christ before the world, but gladly acknowledged that his chief desire was to be numbered amongst His true soldiers and servants, and to spend and be spent in doing His will.
 
It will be easily imagined that friendship between Captain Jack Torrance and Aylmer Matheson could hardly exist.
 
CHAPTER V UNDER WATCH AND WARD

 
 
IT seemed strange that the huge building which was the country residence of the Honourable Edmund Arthur Holwynd, Earl of Waybridge, should be simply Hollingsby, whilst the smaller, but far prettier home of the Mountfords, should be styled Hollingsby Hall. But so it was, and though ignorant strangers would sometimes call the latter Little Hollingsby by way of distinction, such were always sternly rebuked by the older dwellers in the neighbourhood.
 
Everybody knew that the earl was only the representative of a very modern peerage, and that his rambling house, red brick with white stone facings, was no old family-seat, but the outcome of a large expenditure of money with the minimum of taste on the part of his father, the first peer.
 
The Hall, on the contrary, was known to occupy part of the site of a much larger building that had stood there centuries ago, and always this spot had been owned by a Mountford.
 
Kathleen's father had told her a good deal about her home and those who had owned it.
 
"You ought to know all about it, Kitty," he said, "for it will be yours some day. The estate which goes with the Hall is not a large one, but it is large enough to keep up a house of this size. You have heard of estates being burdened, and even lost, because some foolish owner could not be satisfied without building a place too large for his means. The Mountfords of old were wiser in their day and generation."
 
"One of them, four grandfathers back, I believe, was living like some who had gone before, in the old Hall, or rather part of it, for it was too big for the income. So like a wise man he saved enough to pull it down and to build this pretty nest in which you were born."
 
"The Mountfords have been very jealous about their lands, and proud of their name. They would never entail the estate, but trusted to each generation to pass it on intact to the next. So it has been hitherto, though, so far, an heir has never been lacking. Now the good name of the old Mountfords will have to be kept up by a slip of a girl when I am gone. Remember, dear, ours is an honest name. We have prided ourselves on living within our means, that we might have something wherewith to show our love to God by helping our neighbour; on hating debt and keeping aloof from habits and associates who were likely to lead us into it."
 
"Kitty darling, when you are mistress of Hollingsby Hall, keep to the old Mountford traditions, and show that in all that is lovely and of good report, a woman need not be a whit behind the men of her family. If I should be taken from you, you will be lovingly guarded, and I trust you will look on those to whose care you are committed as representing your parents, for they have been prayerfully chosen, and are worthy of your esteem."
 
Of course Kathleen had wept when she heard these words, and had thrown herself into her father's arms, ready to promise anything, and feeling resolved that the old name, home, and estates should never be lowered, lost, or lessened through her. All the same, she hoped that the dear father would live to see her quite old, a wish not destined to be realized.
 
Mr. Mountford had directed that Kathleen should be educated at home, and, as Mrs. Ellicott's daughter, Geraldine, or Ger, as her cousin called her, was only two years older, the girls would study together happily enough. A liberal income was to be set aside for the maintenance of the home, and Kathleen was to be brought up with the same surroundings as she would have been had her father lived.
 
"Better she should be accustomed to all that her means justify, than be deprived of what she has been used to from childhood, and then placed in absolute possession of a large fortune when she comes of age," he had said.
 
So Hollingsby Hall showed little change during Kathleen's girlhood. All the old servants stayed on under Mrs. Ellicott's rule; but the large sum of money which Mr. Mountford had left to his daughter in addition to the estate became larger each year, as the income from the latter more than met all expenses.
 
Geraldine Ellicott presented a great contrast to the young heiress; but the cousins were strongly attached to each other, and had many tastes in common.
 
Externally they were altogether unlike. Miss Ellicott was very tall, and too slender for her height, but erect and graceful in spite of it. She had no decided complexion. Her features would never have been chosen as models by painter or sculptor, and most people, looking at her face in repose, would have pronounced her decidedly plain. But her broad brow suggested intellect, and she was a most thoughtful student and reader.
 
Kathleen and she were alike musical, yet with a difference. Each was naturally gifted; but whilst the one was contented with the facility which followed a moderate amount of effort, Geraldine was ever working to turn to the best account every talent she possessed.
 
"When I play or sing, people listen, smile, and say, 'Thank you so much! What a charming voice you have, Miss Mountford!' or, 'What a lovely touch!' When you lift up that grand contralto voice of yours, there is a silence that one feels, and they pay you the greater compliment of forgetting to thank you. They are absorbed. They give little gasps as the last note dies away, and there is a look of awe on some faces, as if there might be an uncanny element in a voice which so entrances the hearers. How I envy your power!" Kathleen would often say.
 
Geraldine would laugh at her cousin's words, but there were many who felt what Kathleen expressed, and went further still, declaring that when Miss Ellicott sang, she became positively beautiful, there was so much soul shining in her eyes, which were as fine as Miss Mountford's, whilst in herself she was the dearest, kindest creature possible.
 
Pretty Mrs. Stapleton once ventured to remark that Geraldine Ellicott was a girl whom every one liked, but no one would ever fall in love with. The speaker was, however, one whose judgment was not absolutely infallible.
 
It sometimes happens that those whose good looks are their sole attraction, are unable to understand the attractiveness which exists and lasts, without them.
 
When Kathleen returned to the Hall, after her drive to the meet, she rushed to her cousin's room, and flung herself into an easy-chair without waiting to take off her outdoor garments.
 
Miss Ellicott was looking out of the window, but she turned to greet Kathleen with a bright smile on her face, as if it were reflecting happy thoughts.
 
"Well, Kitty, have you enjoyed your drive? I was just thinking how lovely the colouring would be on the hedgerows, with the sun shining. I have been revelling in it without leaving home."
 
"I might as well have stayed here, for the drive only made me ill-tempered and envious;" and Kathleen gave her cousin an account of what and whom she had seen on the road, a half-defiant expression showing itself in face and tone as she alluded to Captain Torrance.
 
"You must have laughed, Ger, had you seen the way aunty ignored Captain Jack and gave him the back of her bonnet to contemplate, when he was dying to speak to her. However, she had to be civil when he came up afterwards. What a splendid boy little Ralph is!"
 
"He is a fine little fellow. I always feel so sorry for him," replied Geraldine, ignoring Kathleen's allusion to Mrs. Ellicott's coolness to Captain Jack.
 
"I cannot see much need for pity, Ger. Ralph's father dotes on that child. It is beautiful to see them together."
 
"I am sure it is. No one doubts the father's love for Ralph. But who would not pity a motherless boy, for the best of fathers could not make up for such a loss, and—" Geraldine paused, and Kathleen completed the sentence in her own fashion—
 
"And Ralph has not the best of fathers, I suppose you would say."
 
"Do not put words into my mouth, Kitty dear. It is not for me to judge, only, without disparaging Captain Torrance, one can hardly think it is good for that dear boy to be associated with his father's friends in all their pursuits. He must see and learn many things that are hardly fitting for a child to know."
 
The gentle reply mollified Kathleen, and she replied, "I dare say you are right, but I really believe Ralph's father is so fond of the boy, that he cannot bear him out of his sight."
 
"I can quite understand that, Kitty. You see, Captain Jack is of an affectionate nature, and the sort of man who could not endure loneliness."
 
Geraldine had no desire to prolong a conversation of which Captain Torrance was the subject. She could not agree with her cousin's estimate of his character, and would not irritate her by expressing her own opinion. She could, however, hardly suppress a smile at the idea of Captain Jack in solitude at Monk's How. Everybody knew that it was seldom without a crowd of guests, who were helping its owner to get rid of what was left of his once ample fortune.
 
"I need not say that my honoured guardian was not at Hollingsby this morning. Like Aunt Ellicott, he sympathizes with the fox," said Kathleen, after a pause.
 
"Mr. Matheson called here whilst you were out."
 
"Expecting to see me, no doubt. How disappointed he would be at finding only you!"
 
She looked archly at her cousin, but in Geraldine's face there was no self-consciousness.
 
"I am certain he was disappointed," continued Kathleen. "Perhaps he came round to make sure that I had not mounted Polly and gone after the hounds. Eh, Ger?"
 
"Do not say that, Kitty dear. Such a thought would never enter his mind. He knows you would never break your promise to your father."
 
"Yet, after I made it, my poor father himself doubted whether I should keep it. I cannot tell you, Ger, how the thought of this one thing troubles me, and all the more, because he had said so much about the Mountfords, and that I, a girl, need not be a whit behind the noblest of the men who had gone before me. I am certain something has been hidden from me. I was just told what everybody else knew, that my mother's blindness and helplessness were the result of a fall from her horse. But I am not prohibited from riding. It torments me to think there is a mystery about the whole thing. I am not a child. I ought to know all."
 
Kathleen waited for no reply, but snatched up her gloves and left the room hastily, that Geraldine might not notice her springing tears.
 
Mrs. Ellicott entered almost directly afterwards.
 
"Is anything wrong with Kitty?" she asked. "She rushed past me just now, and I fancied she was crying. Surely you girls have not been quarrelling!"
 
"No fear of that, mother," said Ger; and then she told what had passed, adding, "Can you not tell her? I do believe the knowledge of the whole truth about her mother's accident would help poor Kitty to battle against the fits of wilfulness which come on from time to time."
 
"Perhaps so, dear. I will think about it."
 
 
Mrs. Ellicott did think, and decided that what Kitty called "a hateful mystery" should be one no longer. Holding the girl's hand in hers, Mrs. Ellicott told her niece the story of her mother's misfortune, and what led to it. Tenderly, we may be sure, and not forgetting to picture the after penitence and patience of the sufferer.
 
"I loved your mother so dearly, Kitty," she said, "that it gives me a great pang to speak of the fault for which she paid so heavy a penalty. Your father gave me permission to tell you all, if it would be for your good to know it. He only concealed so much because it seemed hard to expose a mother's fault to her child, especially as you only knew her during those last years. You remember how lovely and how patient she was. Your father thought it would be best for you to picture her just as you saw her after—"
 
Mrs. Ellicott stopped to wipe the tears from her eyes.
 
"I am ashamed of myself!" cried Kathleen. "I might have been sure that my father was silent for a good reason; and here have I been giving way to pettishness and ill-temper, because he, in tenderness to my mother's memory, and out of love to me, withheld this sorrowful story from me. Forgive me for the trouble I have given you, aunty! I hope what I have heard will be a lesson and a help to me. I would not be without the memory of my sweet mother's face for all the world, and now I know everything, I grieve for her more than I can tell you."
 
Mrs. Ellicott could not regret having told Kathleen the truth, for she became much more gentle for a time and watchful over herself. An incident which occurred the same evening made her specially hopeful on the girl's account.
 
As Mountain was returning to his cottage, after a visit to the stables, he was accosted by a smart groom, whose face was strange to him, but whose livery showed that he was in the service of Captain Torrance.
 
"This is Little Hollingsby, isn't it?" asked the man.
 
"Not that I know of," replied Mountain.
 
"Why, don't you live here?" pointing to the Hall.
 
"I live there!" returned Mountain, indicating his humbler dwelling by pointing his thumb at it.
 
"Oh, come now, you know what I mean well enough! I have a message and something else for Miss Mountford, and I was told she lived at Little Hollingsby."
 
"There is no place o' that name," responded Mountain, looking as obtuse as he knew how.
 
"Can you tell me which is Miss Mountford's house?"
 
"I can."
 
"Then do, if you please."
 
"Since you, ask me in a mannerly way I will. That is the house, at least that is the way that leads to the back of it. I suppose you don't want the front entrance," replied Mountain.
 
"Why, you said this was not Little Hollingsby."
 
"No more it is. There is no place o' that name, as I've told you once already."
 
"You needn't be so short-tempered when I ask you a civil question!" retorted the groom indignantly. "What do you call this house, then?"
 
"It isn't what I call it, but the house is Hollingsby Hall, as everybody hereabouts knows, or ought to, by this time." The groom gave a prolonged whistle.
 
"Well, I never. Anybody would have thought that big place of the earl's was the Hall, not this—"
 
"I'd have you to know, young man," interrupted Mountain, in high indignation at the contemptuous stress laid on the last word, "I'd have you to know that Hollingsby Hall has been this place, and called nothing else for ages before that place of the earl's, which is as ugly as it is big, was thought of. Ay, or an earl to live in it, for the title and Hollingsby are new alike, though the village is old enough."
 
"Well, how was I to know? I have only been at the captain's place for a month or so, and I can't remember ages back, if you can!" retorted the groom.
 
"Who said I could? but let me tell you it's matter of history about the Hall, and the Mountfords, who used to have a bigger house than the earl's, but they pulled it down and built this, as better suited to their means. Not like some people as shall be nameless, that waste and spend all before them, and soon won't have a pigsty to call their own."
 
Mountain spoke severely, but looked triumphant, as if he had "about settled this puppy of a groom from Monk's How."
 
But the puppy in question was getting impatient, and not knowing to what lengths the speaker might go, he ventured to interrupt Mountain's tirade.
 
"It's all very interesting, no doubt; but as the family are strangers to me, and I've no partickler taste for history, I'll not trouble you to tell me any more. And as to people spending themselves out of house and home, and running into debt, I shan't put myself out for them. I shall manage to find a place, I dare say, and we shall neither of us be asked to pay anybody's debts but our own—if we have any. What I want to know is, how to deliver my message, and cetera, to Miss Mountford?"
 
"That's an easy matter, now you know your way to the back door."
 
"You don't mean to say that Miss Mountford will come to the back door to answer it, do you?" sneered the groom, who was waxing more and more indignant at Mountain's mode of replying.
 
"No, I don't. Neither would she answer the Hall door, if you went to that. She keeps servants enough to take the messages which other people's servants bring. One of 'em will take yours, if you give 'em a chance;" and turning on his heel, Mountain marched rapidly towards his own dwelling, without waiting for more words.
 
"If the indoor servants aren't pleasanter to speak to than the outdoor ones, it will be a pity!" shouted the groom after the retreating figure; adding to himself, "Captain Torrance told me to put what he sent into the hands of the young lady herself; and I mean to do it, specially as he promised me a five-shilling tip if I managed it, and brought an answer. I'm not often beat when I take a thing to do, and the captain said, 'Jem Capes, I can trust you better than most. You have got a head on your shoulders, and not a something which might as well be a turnip, for any sense there is in it.' And sure enough there are a many turnip heads about, particularly in these country places."
 
As Mr. Jem Capes finished his soliloquy he vigorously used the knocker to the back entrance of Hollingsby Hall.
CHAPTER VI A REJECTED TROPHY

 
IN a few seconds after Mr. Jem Capes had called attention to his presence by means of the knocker, a neat kitchen-maid opened the door of the servants' entrance to the Hall. The sight of a trim, female figure pleased Captain Torrance's messenger. He was young, and, according to his own notions, good-looking, and with plenty to say for himself, therefore well calculated to make a favourable impression. He glanced admiringly at the girl, and, with a full consciousness of the absurdity of the remark, said—
 
"You are the lady's-maid here, I believe, miss?"
 
"You are mistaken," was the quiet reply. "I am a kitchen-maid; but if you want to see Cameron, who is Miss Mountford's own maid, I will let her know."
 
"I have no desire to see any face but yours, and I'm sure I couldn't find a prettier, if I had my pick of all in the house. I mean, of course, amongst them that are in service here. It isn't for such as me to pass an opinion about the ladies."
 
The girl heard this flattering speech with an unmoved countenance, and, much to Mr. Jem Capes's surprise, ignored it entirely when next addressing him.
 
"Please to tell me what you want, or whether you wish to see any of the men-servants. There are none of them in the house just now," she said.
 
The groom's face fell at the ill-success of his insinuating looks and compliments, and he answered, rather sharply, "I want nothing with servants—men or girls. I have had enough of one outside, the coachman, I think, who is about as sweet as a sloe or a crab-apple."
 
"You are speaking about my father. What is your message, please?"
 
Probably Jem Capes never felt so angry and humiliated as he did at this moment, when, for the second time, Patty Mountain, ignoring alike his compliments to herself and his impertinent allusion to her father, asked his business.
 
"My message is for your mistress, young woman," he replied in a sullen tone. "The gentleman who sent this note and something along with it, said I must give it into her own hand. What I have to ask you is, can I see the lady?"
 
"I cannot tell, but I will find out;" then, after civilly requesting the groom to take a seat, Patty disappeared, in order that the inquiry might be made.
 
Capes was not sorry when he saw another servant in place of Patty, but the new-comer proved to be older and still more staid-looking.
 
"You have brought something for my mistress, I believe," she said. "Miss Mountford cannot see you, but if you will send the note by me, she will answer it now, or forward a reply, if a message will not be sufficient."
 
"I was told to give it and the other article into her own hand; but if so be she will not see me, of course you shall take the note, and I'll wait here," said Capes, resuming his seat. "I dare say the lady will see me, though, when she has read the letter."
 
Capes waited what he thought an unconscionable time, but at length the messenger reappeared.
 
"This is the answer," she said, "and I am to tell you to please take back the other article. The note will explain."
 
"You don't mean that I'm to take the—the—what Captain Torrance sent—back with me. You must have made a mistake. You'd better ask again," replied Capes, unable to believe his ears.
 
"There's no mistake. I have told you exactly what my mistress, Miss Mountford, said."
 
"But she has not seen the captain's present."
 
"I know that. I can only tell you what message she sent. She made it very plain to me."
 
Capes almost snatched the note from the bearer's hand, put on his hat, and without another word left the house. He closed the door behind him with a bang, and once outside, gave further vent to his feelings in words which shall not be repeated in full, though part of them may.
 
"To think of me being so done out of everything. The captain will be so angry he'll be fit to strike me, though he'd better not. I've done my best and been beaten all round, by coachman and his girl, the waiting-maid and the mistress. But what aggravates me beyond anything is, that the finest brush of the day should have been in a way flung back in the captain's face. Such a compliment as it was for him to send it, when the lady was not present at all. I reckoned on a sovereign from her at the very least."
 
Capes's anticipations of what his master would say were more than realized, for the captain broke into a perfect tempest of anger after reading Miss Mountford's note, and, very unreasonably, blamed the messenger for what was no fault of his.
 
Captain Jack had thought to please Kathleen by sending her the fox's brush with the following note:—
 
 
"DEAR MISS MOUNTFORD,"
"Every one who caught a glimpse of you this morning
was filled with regret at the thought that you were
prohibited from joining in the real pleasure of the
day. I think I may venture to say that no one felt
this more than myself. To be 'so near, and yet so far,'
in touch with, and not permitted to share in what had
brought so many of your friends together, must have
been a trial indeed. I know what it was for me even
to witness your disappointment. I am venturing to send
you the finest trophy of to-day's sport—the brush of a
magnificent animal. I trust you will honour it with a
glance, then send it back by my man, that I may have it
fittingly mounted for you, as a souvenir of the first
meet of the Hollingsby Hunt this season."
"I am, dear Miss Mountford,"
"With much respect, faithfully yours,"
"JOHN TORRANCE."
"Monk's How, November 4."
 
 
Kathleen's reply was simple and straightforward.
 
 
"DEAR CAPTAIN TORRANCE,"
"I am most grateful for your kind thought of me,
and for your intended present. I know that many girls
would greatly value such a trophy, but in my case it
would cause only pain to possess it. Believe me, you
are mistaken in supposing that I shall ever feel
disappointment in connection with the Hollingsby Hunt.
I was pleased to see such a gathering for once, and I
greatly admired it as a picture. Beyond this, it can
never have the smallest charm for me, and I think it
more than probable that I shall never again be present
at a meet."
"With renewed thanks for the compliment you have
paid me, and best wishes,"
"I am, sincerely yours,"
"KATHLEEN DILLON MOUNTFORD."
 
"Hollingsby Hall, November."
 
 
A second perusal of this note left Captain Torrance in a better temper.
 
"I see it all now," he thought. "I was a fool to send such a present to her. She must know the story of her mother's mishap on the field, whether she knows how it came about or not. Naturally, she hates the thought of a woman actually joining in the hunt, though, this morning, I could have been certain that she was pouting because she could not show off on that handsome mare of hers."
 
"At any rate, she must feel that I have paid her the greatest compliment a hunter could, whether she takes his offering or leaves it. I must give Capes the tip I promised him, after all. He will be disappointed at not receiving one from the fair hands of Miss Mountford."
 
Captain Jack laughed with keen enjoyment at the idea of his messenger's indignation at a double loss.
 
Half an hour later Capes was mollified by receiving the promised douceur from his master, together with a few conciliatory words.
 
"You did your best, no doubt. It was really I who made a mistake in offering such a present to a lady who takes no interest in the hunt. I shall send you with it to Mr. Stapleton, and ask him to present it to his wife. Only mind, Jem. Not a word must be breathed about Miss Mountford's having had the first chance of it."
 
"Hope I know better than that, sir," replied Capes, touching his hat and looking sagaciously at his master.
 
Captain Jack was fully convinced that Kathleen would not allude to the incident, and that Mrs. Ellicott and her daughter would be far from wishing that any one should know of even this slight correspondence between Miss Mountford and himself. So in a few minutes Capes was on his way to Oakwood with a note to Mr. Stapleton, in which the captain begged that gentleman to present the brush to his wife, as the most graceful and the bravest lady-rider on the field that day. And, with the offering, he asked Mr. Stapleton to express the hope, on his behalf, that she would for many years grace the Hollingsby Hunt with her presence.
 
Captain Torrance could be sufficiently punctilious on occasion, and with all his faults there was a dash of chivalry in his composition. Besides, he had the memory of the faithful heart which was all his own during that short married life of his. In every young wife and mother he seemed to see a reflection of his own lost Adela, and pretty Mrs. Stapleton, with her little daughter, called forth all the best traits in Captain Jack's character. Hence the respectful message sent through the husband, and the offering which gave all the pleasure at Oakwood which it had failed to give at Hollingsby Hall.
 
Capes returned to his master in high glee with a note of thanks, and with his own pocket the heavier by the sovereign which he had given up as lost.
 
Both master and man were well pleased. The former was rejoicing that Kathleen's rejection of his offering had opened for him a new way of approach to her, and Capes, as he fingered his douceurs in gold and silver, said to himself, "Better luck next time. If I am not mistaken, the master is not real sorry for what has happened, and he's not the one to be daunted by a slap in the face from a girl. He'll find a way of paying her out some day."
 
In Kathleen's present mood, she was hardly likely to make a secret to her own people of Captain Torrance's letter. She was too full of self-reproach, and a deep sense of the goodness of those whose only desire had been to keep from her a story that must pain her if told, to allow of concealment on her part now.
 
So Mrs. Ellicott, Geraldine, and Aylmer Matheson all saw Captain Jack's letter, and the last-named, not being present at the time, was told exactly what answer Kathleen had sent. All were hopeful that the slight intercourse between Monk's How and Hollingsby Hall would become slighter still, and perhaps die away altogether.
 
Kathleen continued to be very gentle in manner for some time after, and there was a look of thoughtfulness, occasionally of sadness, on her face not usually seen there.
 
Aylmer Matheson, who was ever most careful not to take advantage of his position as guardian, in order to force himself into his ward's presence with unreasonable frequency, was cheered by the gentle welcome which Kathleen gave him. One evening she called him "Aylmer," for the first time since his father's death, which had made him her sole male trustee. His quick glance of pleasure, as he replied, brought a bright colour to Kathleen's cheek, and this in turn made the young man's heart beat rapidly.
 
On his homeward way Aylmer began again to picture happy possibilities. He asked himself a thousand questions about Kathleen's changed manner, and wondered if her alternate shyness, coldness, and frankness towards him might, after all, be favourably interpreted.
 
"A proud girl like Kathleen would never allow any man to think that he was preferred above others," thought he. "One has heard of cases where girls have treated those they loved best almost with scorn, and kept them at the greatest possible distance, lest they should betray their feelings. But this has been when they imagined their affection was not reciprocated. I have kept aloof from Kathleen, for I could not bear that any human being should accuse me of taking advantage of my position. No one shall say that I have striven to entrap my ward into an engagement during her minority. She must be absolutely her own mistress before I make any open attempt to gain her affections, though she can hardly be ignorant of my love for her."
 
After coming to this conclusion, Aylmer Matheson began to harass himself with doubts as to the wisdom of this mental decision. There was another side to be considered. If he held himself aloof, others would not, and Kathleen might be wooed and won in the meanwhile by some one of whom no true friend of hers could approve. The "some one" always took the face and form of Captain Torrance in Aylmer's cogitations, and whilst he would have been generous enough to resign his own pretensions in favour of a good man to whom Kathleen had given her heart, he was by no means inclined to yield them in favour of Captain Jack.
 
"I must think of Kathleen's welfare, rather than of my own pride. Surely my character is sufficiently well-known by all for whose good opinion I need care, to prevent me from being misjudged. No one could well accuse me of mercenary motives, since I have abundant means of my own, and Westhill is unencumbered. I would not touch a penny of Kathleen's money. All should remain entirely at her own disposal after marriage, as it will be when she comes of age a year hence. Am I to allow a profligate spendthrift, whose past career will not bear looking into, to win this girl, who is beautiful, innocent, and rich, because I am afraid of what the world might say if I strove to gain her affections whilst she is still my ward?"
 
The conflict was a severe one, and all through the small hours Aylmer Matheson debated with himself as to the course he ought to adopt. He knew one thing of which the dwellers in the little world around him were in ignorance, and so was Kathleen herself.
 
When Mr. Mountford had associated him with his father and Mrs. Ellicott in the guardianship of Kathleen, it will be remembered that a conversation took place between the elders as to the possibility of a marriage between Aylmer and his young ward in the distant future. Then Mr. Matheson confidently asserted that to his son, their positions as guardian and ward would prove a barrier to any nearer union, as Aylmer would put aside every thought of self in relation to Kathleen.
 
Mr. Mountford then expressed his opinion of the young man's worth in the strongest terms, but shortly before his death he said a few words to Aylmer himself.
 
After again commending Kathleen to his care, he added, "Remember, Aylmer. If when my child is grown-up, you and she desire to enter into the sweetest and closest of all relationships, you must recall our conversation of to-day, and feel assured that had her father been living, his consent and blessing would have been given, and his dearest wish fulfilled by such a union. But I know you, my dear boy, and that you will place Kathleen's happiness before your own. I desire, therefore, that unless you have given her your whole heart and won hers in return, you will never allude to this conversation. Afterwards, if all go well, Kathleen will be the happier for knowing that you would have been the man of all others to whom I would have given my only child, had I lived to see her married."
 
The memory of these words was most cheering to Aylmer, but they could not be used to further his suit. Indeed, he would have scorned to owe its acceptance to any influence, save that of a whole-hearted love on the part of Kathleen.
 
Aylmer finally decided to watch and wait for a while, and he was rewarded for his patience by a little season of greater happiness than he had known for a long time past.
 
It was hardly likely that the effect produced on Kathleen by hearing her mother's story would pass away all at once. The girl seemed to have made a great effort at self-conquest, and, since that memorable evening, had caused Mrs. Ellicott no heart-aches by her fits of wilfulness.
 
Aylmer spent more time at the Hall, and no face beamed a brighter welcome or gave him a sweeter smile of greeting than did Kathleen's.
 
Geraldine rejoiced—as only an unselfish nature can rejoice—at the new state of things. She had divined Aylmer's secret, and succeeded in hiding her own.
 
As to Captain Torrance, nobody seemed to know what had become of him, except that he had left home two days after the meet, and taken his boy with him. Everybody wondered at this, for it was seldom indeed that Captain Jack absented himself from Hollingsby during the hunting-season.
 
Kathleen never mentioned him, which was, perhaps, a less favourable sign for Aylmer than he took it to be. Aylmer himself might well be forgiven for wishing that the captain's absence would be indefinitely prolonged, though there were a good many others who hoped that he would soon return with a replenished purse.
 
So the time passed until the first week in and Aylmer spent the interval in a fool's paradise from which he was soon to be rudely ejected.
CHAPTER VII CAPTAIN JACK'S APOLOGY

 
THE sun was shining gloriously overhead, the sky was blue, the snow hard and crisp underfoot, and of wind there was only enough to give a barely perceptible movement to the topmost twigs of the leafless trees. It was an ideal winter's morning for walking, and as Kathleen Mountford looked on the beautiful picture spread before her windows, she determined to enjoy it more fully out-of-doors.
 
"It is of no use asking you to walk with me, aunt," she said, addressing Mrs. Ellicott.
 
"If I were a few years younger, Kitty, there is nothing I should enjoy so much as a long brisk walk with you. But when I do go out with young people, I always feel that I am like a clog to their heels. At my slow pace, I should starve and shiver in the keen air, and the worst of it is a young companion would shiver with me, and be longing all the while to keep up her circulation by movements better befitting her years. I shall nurse the fire to-day, my dear, and battle against the feeling of envy that will intrude into the minds of old folks as they witness the movements of the young."
 
"It must be hard, aunty, especially when any one has led an actively useful life like yours."
 
"We ought to remember that we have been young, and I, for one, can thank God as I look back, since He has left me bright memories of a healthy, happy girlhood, free from serious anxieties of any kind. You, Kathleen, are laying up such memories day by day."
 
"You can hardly say that my girlhood has been all brightness," replied Kathleen, in a low voice, and with a sudden look of gravity on her fair face. "When one has lost both parents years and years before one grew much beyond childhood, there has been sorrow enough to fling a veil over much of its brightness."
 
"True, darling. But God has left you so many mercies, and you have had no unloved girlhood."
 
"I know that, aunty. Still, with neither parent, brother, nor sister, the best places in my heart are hopelessly empty, though others are wonderfully filled."
 
Mrs. Ellicott saw Kathleen's look of affection, as the girl bent to kiss her tenderly, and she was deeply moved. She was very nearly replying—
 
"The best place of all has yet to be tenanted, and when you bestow your affection on one who is to be the partner of your future life, you will be less sensible of the vacant places which trouble you now;" but she refrained from uttering this thought, and only returned her niece's caress with added tenderness.
 
Soon Kathleen shook off the momentary sadness, and said—
 
"I am afraid my walk must be a solitary one, for Geraldine has breakfasted in her room, and is trying to ward off a threatening cold. If I call at Oakwood, and try to coax Hetty Stapleton to join me, she will keep me indoors to listen whilst the trio growl at the frost which has prevented to-day's hunting, or she will take so long to dress that lunch-time will be upon us before we are ready to start. I will e'en go alone, and try to be satisfied for once with the company of Nature."
 
"You will have beauty enough to interest you, Kitty, if you keep your eyes open to it."
 
"I am becoming less blind than I was, thanks to you and Ger, who have made me ashamed of myself by the way in which you extort enjoyment from everything. The blades of grass, the simplest wild flowers, the shapes of the trees, the lights and shadows on hill and dale, the changing clouds, or the absence of them, bird, beast, and insect, sights and sounds, all go to make up your enjoyment. It is glorious to be born with such a faculty for extorting pleasure from everything. It is next best to be with those who have it, and who strive to stir up others to share their pleasure, though the taste may be lacking."
 
"Yours was not lacking, Kitty. It was only dormant, and needed awakening and cultivating."
 
"Thank you, aunty. Anyway, I shall enjoy my walk this morning without Hetty Stapleton, for I have decided not to call at Oakwood. You knew that Hetty had come to spend the winter with her brother and sister-in-law, did you not?"
 
"I believe you told me, dear, but I am not sure."
 
"It was not I, it was Aylmer who mentioned that she was come to stay for some months, when he was with us the other evening. I was glad of the news, for I like Hetty, and have always found her a pleasant companion, though she is five years older than I am."
 
"I like her too," replied Mrs. Ellicott. "She has plenty of common-sense, and though her face is not a handsome one, it bears on it the stamp of a true nature. I could never imagine Hetty Stapleton capable of littleness or meanness in any shape. I wish she lived at Oakwood, for your sake, Kitty."
 
"So do I, aunty. Girls, of the sort to make friends of, are few indeed within walking distance of home, and by your own account Hetty would be the perfection of one. Sensible, true, incapable of meanness, and, most important of all, not too handsome, she would leave nothing to be desired," said Kathleen, with an arch look on her face as she alluded to Hetty's personal appearance. "Now I must go, or I shall lose my walk. Take care of yourself, there's a dear."
 
Away went Kathleen alone, a little to her aunt's regret. Mrs. Ellicott had purposely held her in talk, half hoping that Mr. Matheson would make his appearance and offer to accompany her, as he had spoken of calling during the morning. Perhaps Kathleen would meet him before she passed out of the grounds, and in that case Aylmer would certainly offer his escort.
 
Mrs. Ellicott went to the window and watched her niece's rapidly-retreating figure until she could see it no longer, then resumed her easy-chair by the fire, where for some time she sat alone and in deep thought.
 
Though no word had passed between Geraldine and herself respecting Aylmer Matheson's devoted affection for his ward, both had divined it. But Mrs. Ellicott never for a moment dreamed that Aylmer had won the heart of her own daughter, without seeking it. Indeed, no one would have guessed this, least of all Aylmer himself. Only Kathleen had occasionally twitted her cousin by jesting allusions to Mr. Matheson's perfections, and Geraldine's evident appreciation of them. But even she had been silenced by her cousin's gentle replies and calmness of manner whenever Aylmer's name was mentioned.
 
"She cares nothing about Aylmer, except as a sort of adopted brother," had been Kathleen's mental conclusion.
 
"I wish she did, and that he cared for her. They would make a model couple, and suit each other to perfection. But the wrong people are constantly getting mated, and I suppose there is no help for it. However, Ger may be sure that she will never have a rival in me."
 
This last thought was passing through Kathleen's mind as she left the Hall and started on her walk. By the time she passed beyond her own boundaries, she found herself wondering whether the owner of Monk's How had returned, or if there were any truth in the report that he was not likely to be seen again in the neighbourhood of Hollingsby, unless his empty pockets were refilled by some extraordinary piece of good fortune.
 
Then Kathleen began to dream on her own account. She pictured Captain Jack as having another side to his character—a brighter, better, purer one than that which was open to the world. Evil reports were always exaggerated. Let people get hold of a little scandal, and it grew with every pair of lips the tale passed through. Lovers of slander delighted to show the worst side of a character, that they might the more readily find listeners. It was horrible to think how much more willing people were to pull characters to pieces than to give any one credit for what was good in them, much less to imagine any person's inner life could be better than what was on the surface.
 
Captain Jack was handsome. No one could deny that. Every one said he had wasted his wife's fortune, but few told how Mrs. Torrance had always believed in her husband, and that with all his faults he had loved her while living, and mourned her early death.
 
Captain Jack idolized his boy, yet nobody gave him a good word for this. All shook their heads, and said Ralph was being ruined by companionship with his father, and the friends he gathered round him, instead of being treated like a child and placed under a wise teacher to be fittingly instructed.
 
"They forget that poor Captain Torrance would be alone if he sent the boy away. He must have some one to cheer him, and if his friends are not everything that could be wished, that is partly the fault of his position. He has neither sister, wife, nor brother. A household with no good woman to guide it must be all wrong," decided the girl in her own mind.
 
Kathleen did not herself look at both sides of the question, or consider that, unless Captain Torrance's character made him unfit for the society of good men, or that his tastes disinclined him for theirs, he might as well have such under his roof as those whom he invited. That, failing wife or female relative, he might have engaged a lady of suitable age to manage his household, watch over his boy, and receive his guests. But the girl was in the mood to excuse every fault of her absent hero, and even to think how delightful it would be for some girl, good, beautiful, and rich, to prove an angel of mercy to Jack Torrance. To lure him away from evil companions by the greater attraction of her purer life, and a whole-hearted, self-devoted love. To be a real mother to a fine boy, whom Kathleen pictured as growing up to repay her by his more than filial affection, and proving a credit to her training. To pay Jack Torrance's debts, so that he might make a new beginning, owing no man anything, except a great debt of love to his rescuer, which he would pay by a life-long devotion. Yet this would not be payment, only an exchange, for the ministering angel would give as much as she received in the way of affection.
 
"I am sure Captain Torrance might be—"
 
But the progress of Kathleen's day-dream was at this moment interrupted by a smart groom, no other than Jem Capes, who touched his hat respectfully and paused just in front of her, thus intimating that he had a message to deliver.
 
It was not a verbal one. Jem touched his hat a second time, held out a letter, and said—
 
"I was going straight to the Hall with this, miss, but seeing you coming along, I thought I'd better ask if I should give it to you, or go on there with it."
 
Jem saw Miss Mountford's face flush as she held out her hand for the letter, saying, "I may as well take it, and spare you the trouble of carrying it to the house. If an answer is required I will send it later."
 
"No trouble at all, miss. My master, Captain Torrance, said there would be no answer. He only got back last night. Master Ralph hasn't been very well."
 
"I am sorry to hear that," said Kathleen. "I hope he is better."
 
"Yes, ma'am, miss, I mean. My master thinks the country air will put him to rights again. Is there any message I can take, or—"
 
"Nothing, thank you."
 
The groom touched his hat, and retraced his steps to Monk's How.
 
"You are soon back," said Captain Torrance, who was inspecting his horses, and saw Capes coming towards the stable.
 
"I met the lady, sir, and I took the liberty of asking whether she would have the letter, or if I should carry it to the Hall. She took it, sir."
 
"Is Miss Mountford well?" asked the captain, with affected carelessness.
 
"She looked very handsome, sir, if I may take the liberty to say as much, and I never saw a beautifuller colour on any young lady's cheeks than there was on hers after she took the letter. She was a little pale when I first saw her. She was walking, and by herself, sir."
 
The effect of this artful speech was sufficiently apparent to the groom, in the gratified expression which overspread his master's face, but Captain Jack made no further remark about Miss Mountford for the moment. He had some instructions to give on stable matters, then, as he turned away, he said—
 
"You must have saved yourself half the walk by delivering the letter on the way."
 
"Just about half, sir;" and Capes proceeded to describe the exact spot at which he met the young lady, and hazarded a guess as to the direction in which she was going. He did not need to be told that this was just the information which his master wished but would not ask for, and he smiled to himself as he saw Captain Torrance leave the grounds a few minutes later, though his face had hitherto been as stolid as possible. Master and man looked equally unconscious of any secret understanding between them, but each read the thoughts of the other.
 
"The captain will just manage to meet the young lady by taking a little round, and he is stepping out," said Capes to himself, as he watched his master.
 
"The rascal read me like a book," was the captain's conclusion, "and answered every question I wished to ask, without my needing to utter a word. He is a sharp fellow, and appears devoted to my interest; but, all the same, he would throw me over or betray me to-morrow, if by so doing he could advance his own. Never mind, I can take care of myself; and when Jem Capes ceases to be of use to me I shall get rid of him."
 
Meanwhile Kathleen was hurrying onward with the letter, which she held tightly concealed in her muff. She was longing to read it, but conquered the inclination to break the seal until she could do so without being observed. She felt herself trembling with surprise and excitement. It seemed so strange, that when her thoughts were wholly occupied by the writer, a message from him should be so suddenly placed in her hand. He was near when she believed him to be far-away. Kathleen's guardians had rejoiced at Captain Torrance's unexpected absence. Kathleen herself had been disturbed and rendered anxious by it, and whilst all around her imagined that it was a matter of indifference to her whether he returned or not, she had bestowed a larger share of her thoughts upon him than at any previous time. Part of these have been unveiled. But Kathleen had gone further, and in the depth of her own heart she had pictured herself as being the instrument of saving Captain Jack from himself; and changing him, his home, and his boy. She had heard, too, often, how many tens of thousands would be absolutely hers a twelvemonth hence, hoarded during the last years of her father's retired life and her own minority. The money was mere dross now—of no use to anybody—and Kathleen almost loathed it on this account. But what a glorious thing it would be if, by the judicious expenditure of a part of it, a new life could be opened for Captain Jack!
 
She forgot, poor girl, that this man had spent his own patrimony, and that another girl, good, pure, and unselfish, had dedicated to him her life and her fortune, with the same object in view, but all in vain.
 
Kathleen soon reached a quiet lane, which led to a field-path by which she meant to return home. There was beauty enough all around to attract her admiration, but she saw none of it now. Her thoughts were concentrated on the letter, and the moment she felt herself secure from observation she opened it, and read as follows:—
 
 
"Monk's How, December 4."
 
"DEAR MISS MOUNTFORD,"
"Before I left home, nearly a month ago,
I was most anxious to ask your forgiveness for an
act which I shall never cease to regret. The thought
of it has haunted me continually, and I have
sat down, again and again, in order to express
my penitence in writing, yet have feared to do so."
"I have no excuse to offer. It is not enough
to say that I meant only to pay a sportsman's
compliment, and to give you a momentary pleasure.
I ought to have known better. Nay, I cannot plead
ignorance, I did know better, yet acted as though
you were made of the same stuff as most of the
girls I have met. In offering what I did, I must
have caused you acute suffering and wrung your
tender heart, which I would have saved from sorrow
at the cost of my life. I can now only own my fault
and express my deep regret. I dare not ask you to
forgive my barbarity."
"Believe me, dear Miss Mountford,"
"Your devoted servant,"
"JOHN TORRANCE."
 
Kathleen's eyes were moist as she finished reading Captain Jack's effusion. Coming as a sequel to her previous train of thought, it was calculated to produce a great impression on the mind of a romantic girl, already predisposed in the writer's favour.
 
To Kathleen the letter opened a view of Captain Torrance's inner self which agreed with her own fanciful conception of his character. Of course he had acted on the spur of the moment in sending what he did, but second thoughts had shown him that he had made a mistake; no doubt he knew her poor mother's story, though it was not likely that an event which had happened so many years before, and when he was out of England, would at first come into his mind. Her refusal of his offering and reply to his letter would bring back the half-forgotten tale, and then how sorry he had been! To think that for a month he had grieved about his mistake—Kathleen could use no harsher word in mentally referring to it, and would have acknowledged it, but could not find courage to write. And now he had written, his regret and self-reproach were touching in the extreme.
 
Kathleen deposited the precious letter in the depths of her pocket, and went on her way with shining eyes and elastic step. All the world seemed the brighter for the message which had come to her. She was no longer indifferent to the sunlight which made the snow-crystals sparkle like diamonds. The darkest days of the year had yet to come, but Kathleen almost fancied that there was a promise of spring in the cloudless sky, and in the sense of happiness which pervaded her whole being.
 
The next half-mile was quickly traversed, and approached a turnstile she hesitated whether to continue her walk by the field-path, or to take a short cut more public road to the Hall. A moment later, and before she had settled the question, she found herself face to face with Captain Torrance.
 
CHAPTER VIII MISUNDERSTANDINGS

 
 
THE rencontre between Captain Torrance and Miss Mountford had been well planned, thanks to the information given by the groom.
 
It took Kathleen by surprise, startled her, indeed, and her sensitive face flushed and paled in turns, as Captain Jack bared his handsome head with one hand, then used the other in adjusting the stile for her to pass through. He did not speak, but would have allowed the girl to pass with only a low bow, had not Kathleen addressed him. He was looking so sad and respectful, that his face said more than words could have done.
 
"Captain Torrance, I have read your letter," said Kathleen. "I know you meant only kindness in what you did a month ago, and I was grateful for it; please forget everything else in connection with it."
 
"Is it possible that you forgive me, Miss Mountford? I shall not easily forgive myself," replied the captain, with a radiant face.
 
"To need forgiveness one must have done an intentional wrong, and I am sure that was as far from your thoughts as it was from mine to pain you by refusing what you sent."
 
As Kathleen said this she raised a smiling face, and extended her hand.
 
Captain Jack took it and held it gently for an instant, then released it. He would have liked to lift it to his lips, but he dared not, though his heart was beating rapidly with a sense of coming triumph. The tell-tale expression on the face of that innocent girl appealed to the little of good that was left in his nature. He was now certain that he was not indifferent to Kathleen, and what there was of conscience in the man appealed to him on her behalf. It seemed to say, "What right have you to mar another fair life, by seeking to link it with your sin-soiled, dishonourable career? Look at your past. Think of the young wife whose friends thanked God for the early death that saved her from prolonged sorrow. What can your very love be but injurious to such as Kathleen Mountford? Spare her a future of misery, a fearful awakening from a dream of hope and happiness; for the sake of the one who was the mother of your boy, and whom, after your selfish fashion, you loved."
 
But the voice of conscience was silenced by louder pleadings going on at the same time within the man's mind. His circumstances were desperate. He had really been in London to stave off law proceedings which would have revealed his hopeless position. He had only succeeded by entering into an agreement whereby the Monk's How estate, his home, and its contents would pass out of his possession fifteen months hence, and he would be penniless and homeless, unless he could in the meanwhile retrieve his fortunes by marriage.
 
Captain Torrance had made more than one attempt to do this already, but parents and guardians had proved too watchful as regarded those who combined youth with wealth, and his efforts had proved futile. In Kathleen, everything that he could desire was united. Her unencumbered property would be an ample provision for life, Hollingsby Hall, a good house for a ruined man to hang up his hat in. Kathleen's carefully accumulated thousands, which popular rumour numbered at fifty, would redeem Monk's How, if he chose to spend them on it. Besides, what possibilities of future pleasures, which need not be particularized, opened before him, the one condition for securing these being marriage with a girl, young, beautiful, and lovable!
 
As to Monk's How! Captain Jack had always been sorry to think that it would not go down to Ralph as it had come from his father to himself, but it might yet be saved. Miss Mountford would be her own mistress in a year, or perhaps rather less now, and he had secured an extra three months' breathing-time, in case of difficulties.
 
"Matheson will take care that Hollingsby is settled on Kathleen, and he would be an idiot indeed if he did not. However, I will not be too hard-hearted. It will be just as much to my advantage as to hers, for I cannot trust myself to take care of money. If I get the ready cash under my control, I may well be contented, and the value of everything will be trebled by the pleasure of cutting out that puritanical fellow. Anybody can guess that he would like to shut out all suitors from Hollingsby Hall."
 
Thought is rapid, and these arguments, pro and con, none of them new to the mind of Captain Jack, rushed through it during that brief pause with Kathleen at the turnstile. Needless to say which side conquered.
 
But for the meeting with Captain Torrance, Kathleen would have taken the field-path. She would not now choose this more private road, in case he should turn and walk by her side. People might misjudge her, and imagine that the meeting was not an accidental one, if they were by chance seen together on the less frequented way. So she turned towards the high-road and, as she half feared, half hoped, Captain Torrance took the same.
 
"I was going this way back," he said, "and now that through your goodness I am forgiven, I trust you will add to it by allowing me to walk with you to the Hall."
 
Kathleen gave a smiling assent, and the two walked on, talking chiefly about Ralph, and his father's anxiety on his account during his stay in London. The captain waxed pathetic as he bewailed the boy's motherless condition and his own comparative helplessness. He sighed as he added—
 
"If only one, as good, tender, and fair as my poor Adela, would take her place and be a mother to Ralph, I should care little for myself; but I ought not to speak in this way. Even the thought of Ralph must not make me forget—"
 
Kathleen's look of sympathy was carrying Captain Jack beyond himself. He was beginning to venture on ground which he had hardly dared to believe he should be able to approach for months to come, for he was far too politic to risk a refusal by haste or rashness.
 
How far he might have gone, tempted by Kathleen's readiness to talk of Ralph, and her evident sympathy with the father's anxiety, cannot be told. At this most opportune moment Aylmer Matheson came in sight, as he turned a corner only a short distance in front of the pair. He had been at the Hall, and was going homeward, having declined Mrs. Ellicott's invitation to luncheon.
 
Captain Torrance was inwardly delighted at the meeting, and not in the least sorry that his conversation with Kathleen was interrupted at this point. He was becoming afraid that he had gone too far already, and that his impetuosity might have the effect of injuring his cause. Now he should stop, leaving Kathleen plenty to think about, and perhaps wishing the sentence had been completed before Aylmer appeared in sight. She could not doubt his earnestness, for he meant every word he had said.
 
Captain Jack changed the subject abruptly, and said—
 
"Some day I shall hope to talk about my boy again, with one who can sympathize with a motherless child, and with a father who longs to care for him in the best way. But here comes your lawful guardian, Miss Mountford; perhaps I had better retreat and resign you to his care."
 
There was just a suspicion of mockery in Captain Jack's tone, and his smile was less pleasant to look upon than it had been before Aylmer came in sight.
 
Tone and look had the effect of rousing Kathleen to show her independence, and she answered—
 
"Indeed no, Captain Torrance. You were good enough to say you would walk with me to the Hall, and your escort will be more than sufficient, for I expected that my walk would be solitary. Mr. Matheson is my guardian and my good, true friend, not my jailer."
 
The captain laughed heartily at this speech, and said some complimentary words at the moment of Aylmer's approach, with the result that Kathleen's face was full of amusement, and her heightened colour could not fail to be noticed by her guardian.
 
Aylmer was intensely surprised at seeing Captain Torrance in Kathleen's company, and at the apparently good understanding subsisting between them.
 
Mr. Matheson did not stop. He merely bowed to Kathleen, just acknowledged the captain's salute, and then went on his way, greatly disturbed by what he had seen. Painfully self-conscious in everything that concerned his ward, Aylmer tormented himself with conjectures as to the means by which her meeting with Captain Torrance had been brought about. Until the pair came in sight, he had no idea that the latter had returned to Monk's How.
 
He had heard, without repeating them, rumours of his neighbour's ever-growing money difficulties, and perhaps at the bottom of his heart hoped that these might eventually remove him from the neighbourhood. Now, Aylmer walked homeward, unable to see, hear, or think of anything but the half-mocking, half-triumphant look on Captain Torrance's face, the mirthful one on Kathleen's, the sound of the ringing laugh, and the impression that these were caused by some jest of which he was himself the subject. He had been so happy for a month past, even hopeful for Kathleen and for himself. Now he was miserable, full of fears, terribly conscious of his own responsibility, and at the same time of the strength, resources, and unscrupulous character of the man with whom he would have to deal, in protecting his ward against herself.
 
Arrived at home, he sent away his luncheon almost untasted, and his thoughts became prayers for help and guidance to do the right, and to forget self in doing it for Kathleen's sake.
 
Captain Jack left Miss Mountford at the entrance-gates, and she walked through the grounds alone. He would have accompanied her to the Hall door; but, in spite of that touch of the old spirit which had induced her to insist on his continued escort thus far, Kathleen shrank from braving the look of dismay which would become visible on Mrs. Ellicott's face, if she saw her niece thus accompanied. So she paused at the gates, and, holding out her hand, said—
 
"Good-bye, Captain Torrance. I shall hope to hear only good news of Ralph."
 
"Many thanks for your kindness. I shall be only too glad to be the bearer of such news."
 
Thus they parted, the captain in the highest spirits, Kathleen in a flutter of excitement, not altogether of a pleasurable character. The moment she found herself alone she felt a certain amount of compunction for what she had done, and she realized that the having one's own way is not always the only thing to be desired.
 
Aylmer had met her. Well! If he had not, he would soon have heard that she had been seen walking with Captain Torrance, for there were plenty of lookers-on from doors and windows, and in the passers-by in the village street.
 
Probably, Aylmer had heard her companion's laugh, and seen that she shared in the amusement caused by some remark of his. She would be honestly sorry if he imagined that she was laughing at him. He could not know that she had spoken of him as her "good, true friend" the moment before.
 
"And Aylmer is good," said Kathleen to herself. "He has a right to advise me, indeed, to control me, whilst I am under age, though I am sure he has a thankless office with such a wilful ward. How grave his face was as he passed us!"
 
"Aunty will be sadly put out, too, for Captain Torrance is her bête noir. She shall not hear of my escapade from any one else, for after lunch is over I will tell her just how the thing came about, and show her the letter. It will touch her tender heart, I know, as it touched mine."
 
Full of good resolutions, Kathleen entered the house, and ran lightly upstairs to take off her walking trim. Halfway up she met with her cousin.
 
"Oh, Ger," she said, "I am glad to see you up. I was afraid you would feel it necessary to stay in bed all day. Are you better?"
 
"Yes, thanks, Kitty. Have you enjoyed your walk?"
 
"Very much, and I am as hungry, as a bear I was going to say; but I suppose even bears are not always in a ravenous condition."
 
"Probably not. Did you see Aylmer whilst you were out?"
 
Geraldine was looking at her cousin, and could not help wondering at the vivid colour which mounted to her very forehead at this question.
 
"Yes," replied Kathleen. "I saw him, but not to speak to. He passed me when some one else was talking to me."
 
"Then it was not he who came back with you to the gate a few minutes ago?"
 
Kathleen turned sharply round, and asked in an angry tone, "Pray, were you watching me? Is it needful that some one should play the spy on my movements, if I leave the house alone, and am absent for an hour or two?"
 
"Kitty, Kitty, what do you mean? What have I done to call forth such a speech?" said Geraldine, and dropping down on a seat, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
 
Kathleen's irritation gave place to regret in an instant. Nothing could be more unlike Geraldine than the act of which she had been accused, and she could not have imagined it possible that her cousin would associate what savoured of meanness with her character. She was not given to frequent tears, but she was feeling far from well, and Kathleen's angry questioning caused her acute distress.
 
"What a wretch I am, Ger! do forgive me! I am horribly ashamed of myself. To think I could say such dreadful things to you, and make you cry by my unkindness. Of course you were not watching me on purpose, even if you saw me. Oh dear, dear, when shall I learn to govern my temper and my tongue?"
 
"I will tell you how it happened," replied Geraldine, raising her head and wiping the tears from her pale cheeks.
 
"No, no. Tell me nothing," cried Kathleen. "I should wrong you by listening. Do I not know that you would not do a mean thing to save your life? Only forgive me."
 
"Please listen, Kitty. I must tell you."
 
"Then, listening shall be my penance," said Kathleen, "for every word of your defence will be an added reproach."
 
"I will cut my words very short, dear, out of consideration for your present penitence, and," added Geraldine, with a smile, "your hunger."
 
"Ah, I was forgetting that in the business of hating myself; but it will come back with double force directly, as all merely animal wants persist in doing."
 
"I was getting ready to come downstairs for luncheon, and I stopped to rest for a moment, as my head felt giddy at first. As I looked across the grounds and park, I was struck with the wondrous loveliness of the winter landscape, and I felt a little envious of you, Kitty dear, as I pictured you going merrily over the crisp path, and revelling in your surroundings."
 
"Without any idea of even seeing you, I glanced in the direction of the entrance. You were just parting with some one whom I took to be Aylmer. That is all. Let us say no more about it."
 
Geraldine bent to kiss Kathleen, who had dropped down on the rug beside her, and then rising from her seat said—
 
"Make haste, Kitty. There goes the luncheon bell."
 
Kathleen clung round her cousin's neck, and kissed her repeatedly.
 
"I will tell you and aunty all about my walk afterwards," she replied, and then hurried to her own room to make herself presentable.
 
When the ladies gathered at the table, Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine were, probably, the only persons under the roof of Hollingsby Hall who did not know that its mistress had been seen walking out with Captain Torrance, "just for all the world as if they were keeping company," said one of the under-gardeners to Patty Mountain, in the simple words which would have been used of one of her own degree seen under similar circumstances.
 
"Ha! Keeping company with my young mistress!" replied Patty, angry at the very mention of such a possibility. "As if Miss Mountford would demean herself by looking the side he's on—in that way. You had better hold your tongue altogether than talk nonsense like that."
 
"Nonsense or no, Patty, our young mistress did go a long walk with the captain this very morning, and whether you believe my tongue, or think I'm telling you what isn't true, won't alter what is. I've got my eyesight, and I saw that groom of the captain's give our young lady a letter, as I was coming back from the smithy, where I'd been getting a tool mended. A little while since, after dinner-hour, I saw the captain and her walking this way together, as smart as you please, laughing and talking, and he brought her as far as the gate."
 
Such evidence was overpowering; but Patty, staunch to her mistress's cause, was not going to allow that any importance was to be attached to it.
 
"You might know," she said, "that Captain Jack, as folks call him, just because he belongs to the county, as one may say, though by all accounts he's no real captain now, seeing he had to leave the army years ago, has impudence enough for anything. He would push himself into our mistress's company without saying, 'By your leave, miss,' and he would stick by her side like a leech, just to show off. What could she do?"
 
"They meet in company sometimes, though very seldom, and a good thing too; and of course she couldn't say straight out, 'Go away, I don't want to be seen speaking to you.' And now, William Burns, if we are to be friends, you'll not say another word to any living soul about having seen that man walking with our young mistress."
 
"I wish nobody knew but me, Patty, and then no one else should know. But plenty of people saw them walking together, your own father for one, as they came up to the gates. And everybody would tell you, same as I have done, that Miss Mountford looked as merry and pleased as could be. As to not turning the side the captain was on! Why, you know he's a rare handsome man, and good looks sometimes go farther than good lives in gaining favour."
 
William Burns cast a sly glance at Patty as he gave utterance to this opinion, which was intended to express a well-known truth, and to be a quiet reproof to the listening damsel. William was Patty's open admirer, but thus far had not received the measure of encouragement his devotion merited. He attributed his ill-success to the fact that he had a rival whose personal appearance was allowed to be far superior to his own, and who, having seen service in the neighbourhood of London, knew far more of the great world and its ways than honest William, who had never been far from his native village.
 
"Don't tell me about looks!" retorted Patty. "Many an apple looks tempting enough outside, but sets your teeth on edge when you taste it. I prefer good ways to good looks."
 
Patty smiled on her faithful admirer more kindly than was her wont. She was, like many another girl, proud to show her absolute power over him. But, despite the various snubs she had thought fit to administer during the conversation, William went away happy and hopeful after this last conciliatory speech.
 
CHAPTER IX A REPENTANT REBEL

 
 
"AUNTY," said Kathleen, after luncheon was over, "I want you to read a letter which I received this morning; not by post, or I should have told you about it at breakfast. It was given to me on the road by a messenger who would have brought it here, only he met me, and asked if he were to come on to the house, or if I would take it then. As it needed no answer, it was as well to spare the man a longer walk, was it not?"
 
"Certainly, dear. Somebody wanting you to patronize those village concerts that are being got up, I suppose. I had a note about them this morning, and so had Geraldine."
 
"The letter was not about the concerts, aunty. I promised to patronize them more than a week ago, and before the formal appeal was sent out. My letter was from Captain Torrance. Read it, please, or Geraldine can read it to you, if you like, and then tell me what you think of it."
 
Kathleen put the letter into Miss Ellicott's hand, and then went to the window, where she stood during its perusal She had resolved not to notice the dismay with which her aunt heard of this further communication from the captain, and trusted to the letter itself to produce a favourable impression. She waited some little time, standing at the window with her back to the room and its occupants, but as neither spoke she walked to the fireside, and asked—"What do you think of the letter, aunty?"
 
"My dear, I cannot find fault with it."
 
"I should think not indeed," replied the girl, drawing herself up in the stately way she put on at times.
 
"And yet, Kitty dear, I cannot help wishing that the writer had been content to leave the matter as it was."
 
"With his feelings he could hardly do that. You see, he thought he had pained me, and wished me to know that he never meant to do so."
 
"He might have imagined that the wound, if any, would be healed, so far as he was concerned, before this time, my dear."
 
"But you see what he says. He simply could not summon courage to write. Only, as he was back at Monk's How, he had a dread of meeting me with his fault unacknowledged—I mean apologized for."
 
"Happily, Captain Torrance is not often seen in our little circle of friends, Kitty, so there was not much fear of his being quite overwhelmed by your displeasure. As I have said, the letter is not to be found fault with, and as it requires no answer, were I you, I would put it into the fire, and forget both it and the writer as far as possible."
 
"Thank you, aunty," said Kathleen, taking the letter, but with no intention of following Mrs. Ellicott's advice in the disposal of it; "I have answered it."
 
"What! you have already written to Captain Torrance? I wish you had not done that without naming the matter to me or Aylmer."
 
"I have not written; but if I had, surely I do not require the consent of my guardians, before I can reply to a simple note of apology."
 
The girl's hasty temper was roused in an instant, and she went on defiantly—
 
"I gave my answer to Captain Torrance himself. I met him at Crosspaths Corner, when I was turning homeward. He was kind enough to walk with me to the gates. Had I felt as if I dared to take such a liberty in my own house, I should have asked him to luncheon."
 
"My dear child, my dear Kathleen, how you misunderstand me!" said Mrs. Ellicott, in great distress. "Never during my guardianship have I interfered with your correspondence. Never has a guest been invited by you who could afterwards complain of a scanty welcome from me. I have never for an instant forgotten that I am only the temporary head of this household, and that in a little more than a year you will be its absolute mistress. But in the meanwhile I am here by your father's dying wish, and I can only lay down my post and its responsibilities at the time appointed by him."
 
"You well know, Kathleen, that only Captain Torrance's character has stood in the way of his being welcomed in this house and other homes in the neighbourhood."
 
"I know that if either man or woman has done anything wrong once, the people who think themselves good never forgive, even though they have not suffered by the wrong-doing. It seems to me there is a horrid lot of hypocrisy in the world—the good people's world, I mean, or else instead of turning their backs on those who had committed a fault, and were sorry for it, they would encourage them to do better for the time to come. As to Captain Torrance, he is very much to be pitied. He may have done wrong, though I cannot tell in what way, for people just shrug their shoulders, and appear to know a great deal about him, which I feel certain they would not tell to his face, the cowards! I believe," continued Kathleen, vehemently, "that he just longs to lead a good life, and to set his boy the best of examples, but he has nobody to help him—nobody. I did think you, who are so kind to most people, aunty, would have felt sorry for him, as I did, when I read that letter. But you are just as cold as all the rest, and as hard when Captain Torrance's name is mentioned. Yet you say nothing. Tell me, if you know, what he has really done to make people scorn him and speak ill of him behind his back."
 
Mrs. Ellicott was shocked at this manifest reaction in favour of Captain Torrance on Kathleen's part. Never before had she posed as his champion, or shown such temper in his defence. So, in spite of the girl's defiant manner, she strove by her very gentleness to disarm her niece, and quietly answered—
 
"My dear Kitty, it is not for me to tell the whole story of Captain Torrance's past life, and I could not if I would. Much of it is common property, and what is known is surely enough to prevent a pure-minded, innocent girl from desiring his society, or posing as his defender. I can only repeat that your other guardian and I desire nothing but your happiness, and if out of all our neighbours we say, 'There is one whose companionship can be only hurtful to you,' dear Kitty, can you not trust us to judge and decide for you in a matter where a girl's very kindness of heart warps her own judgment? Ah, my darling! It is one of the trials of age, that experience has taught it so many lessons of which, happily, the young are ignorant. We old folk have perforce to avail ourselves of that experience on behalf of the young whom we love, and whom it is our privilege and duty to guard. They often rebel against our decisions, but later in life they learn the same lessons as time and observation have taught us, and can then thank God that in their young days they were not left to themselves."
 
Kathleen made no reply to her aunt's kindly words. She stood leaning against the chimney-piece, and tapping the floor with her foot in a restless fashion. There was the old wilful look on her face, and the very pose of her head told that she was resolved not to yield a hair's breadth. Not that she was altogether unmoved by Mrs. Ellicott's words. She could never doubt either her aunt's kindness or the judiciousness of her decisions. But her feelings had been worked upon by Captain Torrance's letter and words, and then the old spirit of rebellion had revived, and she was in a state of towering indignation at being treated like a child.
 
After a somewhat prolonged pause Kathleen spoke.
 
"I can see that it is useless for me to venture on thinking for myself on any subject. I must reconcile myself to remain in leading-strings for another year, or rather more. No fear of my forgetting the day that sets me free, and then—"
 
The girl's eyes fairly flashed with triumph as she spoke, but she did not finish the sentence. She left the rest to the imagination of her listeners.
 
Geraldine had said nothing hitherto, but she was grieved on her mother's account, on Aylmer's, and on Kathleen's most of all. She was far from well herself, and this miser able scene was not likely to make her feel better. It was in a tremulous voice that she said, when Kathleen paused—
 
"Spare my dear mother, Kitty."
 
"Why do you speak in that way, Ger? What have I done to pain my aunt? I came to her as I would have gone to my father, had he been living. I showed her that letter, I looked for her sympathy for the writer. I have been frank and straightforward in everything, and I am disappointed—bitterly disappointed. As usual, I have had a lecture on the wickedness of presuming to think for myself, or even to feel towards any human being otherwise than my lawful guardians do. Their opinions seem to be based on the judgment of the little world of gossips, who are full of malice and all uncharitableness. Happily, thought is free, and for the future, instead of opening my mind, I will think for myself, and bide my time of emancipation as patiently as I can. It goes without saying, that I shall beat against the bars sometimes."
 
"How you grieve me, Kathleen! You know that I have always been so glad of, and thankful for, the perfect confidence which has subsisted between us. It is not in your nature to be otherwise than frank; Aylmer says the same. Perhaps, if anything, we are over-anxious, but I know he will feel with me about Captain Torrance. If he had seen him walking with you—"
 
"He did see us. We met him on the road," replied Kathleen, with a triumphant look. "To do Aylmer justice, he showed no inclination to seize and carry me away from such bad companionship by main force. He was grave, as 'tis his nature to be, but he passed us with the usual courtesies, and went on his way. To do Captain Torrance justice, he proposed handing me over then and there to the custody of my lawful guardian, though Aylmer was going in the opposite direction to ourselves. I, however, insisted on his escorting me to the gates of my own domain, and I told him that Mr. Matheson was my good, true friend and guardian, but not my jailer. Now, aunty, I shall go to my own room. I have made a full confession of my doings when I was out of your sight this morning, and I have a clear conscience on the score of any evil intentions when I went for a solitary walk, because I had no one to go with me. That it turned out other than solitary was not my fault, or," she added, "my misfortune. It was very pleasant, and I am not going to say that I am sorry I saw Captain Torrance and had a talk with him, which I am not likely to forget."
 
"Kitty, do not go away, I beg of you. You cannot have understood me. Aylmer will be here for an hour this evening, and then—"
 
"I shall have a second lecture, I suppose. Thank you, aunty. I mean to try and have a little peace in my own room. I will leave this with you;" and the girl threw Captain Torrance's letter lightly on to the table. "Let Aylmer see it, please, and tell him all I have told you. I am tired—tired of everything!" she cried; and, quitting the room, she ran to her room, locked herself in, and throwing herself on a couch, burst into a passion of tears.
 
"I am always wrong," she exclaimed, "no matter how much I try to do right! I thought aunty would be pleased at my showing her the letter, and telling her everything. I might as well be deceitful, for any good my frankness does me. There was not one word said this morning that all the world might not have heard, except that poor Captain Jack would not have opened his heart to every one as he did to me. And I don't care what anybody says. If I can be a friend to him in his loneliness, and help him to be better and happier, I will. It must be right to do that."
 
Arrived at this conclusion, Kathleen dried her eyes, and began to dream of bright possibilities once more. She could do a great deal of harm, and cause a vast amount of pain to others in a very short time when she gave way to temper; but the fit passed away much sooner than did the effects of it.
 
Kathleen was tired. The large fire burned brightly, and the couch in her room looked most inviting. A large fur-lined wrap was lying across the end of it. A few minutes later Kathleen was sleeping like a child, snugly ensconced beneath the fur, and with the firelight dancing across her face and making the lingering moisture on her dark eyelashes sparkle like diamonds, which, however, quickly disappeared, together with every trace of the tumult through which she had lately passed.
 
The fire had burned low, the early wintry twilight had followed daylight, when Kathleen awoke. At first she hardly understood where she was, but soon she roused herself, and called to mind how she had left her aunt and cousin.
 
Sleep had effected a wondrous change in her feelings, and instead of being angry at Mrs. Ellicott, she began to reproach herself for her hastiness and hard words.
 
"If I could but learn to be patient; but after a month of delightful peace and comfort, I have made aunty miserable, and Ger, poor Ger, is, I dare say, ever so much worse through my conduct. She was wan and white when she came down; not really fit to be out of bed, but always thinking about other people. I don't think I was a bit wrong in standing up for Captain Torrance, but I get angry so soon, and I ought to think of aunty's goodness and how she must feel. I often forget the things I have said when my temper is over; but she cannot, and it is not likely. I said I would not go down to dinner, but I think I will. It is of no use to put off. I shall have to go. Tea will be over. I wonder Cameron never came to see if I wished for a cup."
 
At this moment a light tap came at the door, and Kathleen called, "Come in," forgetting that she had locked it, and the one leading to her dressing-room also. She had to unlock it and welcome Cameron and the tea she brought.
 
"I have been in a sound sleep, Cameron," she said.
 
"You would be tired with your walk in the frosty air, miss," said the maid. "After the cold, a warm room always makes one sleepy."
 
Cameron lighted the gas, drew the curtains, replenished the fire, and restored the look of brightness to the room.
 
"Has any one called this afternoon?" asked Kathleen. "Yes, miss. Mr. Matheson first, then Miss Stapleton. She left a message for you. She was very sorry not to see you, and hoped you would soon go to her brother's, where she is staying for some time. Mr. Matheson went out with Miss Stapleton. I think he was going to walk to Oakwood with her, as it was getting dusk."
 
"Indeed! I am sorry I missed Miss Stapleton. I shall not dress yet, Cameron. There is plenty of time. I did tell my aunt that I should not go down to dinner, but I am so thoroughly rested I have changed my mind. I will ring when I want you."
 
Cameron retreated, and, with the inconsistency not quite uncommon amongst girls, her young mistress gave way to just a shade of annoyance, because Aylmer had walked home with her friend Hetty.
 
"Not that I care a straw about Aylmer in that way," she decided, "but I should not like him to take a special liking to Hetty. She is a good girl—twenty times better than I am, but when I am of age, and have perhaps chosen for myself, I should be glad for Aylmer to marry Ger."
 
Kathleen felt quite generous in deciding the fates of her cousin and Mr. Matheson; but had any one else read her thoughts, it would have appeared a little selfish on her part to consent to such a match, only when she had made a choice on her own account.
 
Before Cameron received her summons Kathleen went to Mrs. Ellicott's room, feeling sure of finding her there and alone. Her question, "May I come in, aunty?" was answered in the affirmative.
 
"I have come with the same old story," said Kathleen. "I know I do not deserve that you should speak to me, but I never meant to get angry to-day. You know, too, how I have fought and struggled, but it all seems useless. What shall I do?"
 
"Begin again, my dear child. The battle against temptation is a life-long contest, but we need not fight alone or unarmed."
 
"I know you will help me, aunty. I wonder you can bear to look at me, and yet your very face beams forgiveness before I have asked it."
 
"My darling, I want you to feel that a stronger than I is ready to help and make you strong. But, Kitty, have you thought that He knows all your inward struggles, your longings to conquer what you feel to be your besetting sin, your sorrow when, in place of coming off victorious, the old failing overcomes you and your good resolutions? You come to me penitent and grieved at having grieved me. Have you been to Him to seek His forgiveness, or shall you be contented with mine?"
 
"I am afraid I have thought only of having troubled you, and made poor Ger ill by my temper. I wish I could feel the peace and comfort that you get by going to God with everything."
 
"Take the one thing that presses upon you most heavily. Remember that whilst we are encouraged to go with everything, we cannot tell the story of all our needs at once. We have to leave so many to His love and providential care, just as little children lay down their heads at night, and sleep without a care as to how the wants of the morrow are to be met. 'That is father and mother's business,' they say, if they think at all. So we, Kathleen, have to leave so much to our Heavenly Father's foreseeing love, and the many every-day wants of His children are mercifully and lovingly supplied. But our spiritual needs must be taken to God and by ourselves. I can plead for you, Kitty, aye and with you, but unless you acknowledge your fault and ask forgiveness, your weakness and ask for strength, your ignorance and long for guidance, your helplessness and pray that God will enable you to take the armour of His providing, you must be beaten in the fight. Don't get disheartened, dear. All you need is to be had for the asking, and the great army of Christ's soldiers and servants, fighting against temptation and sin, for their own souls and the souls of others, is made up of all ranks and all ages. The hoary head fights, it may be, beside the stripling, the mere child beside the parent. Young men and maidens, old men and children, look alike to Jesus, the Captain of their salvation, the only Conqueror who never knew what it was to yield when the tempter strove to vanquish Him. He will lead you on that path which He trod when in the flesh. Seek Him. Trust Him; make a new beginning in His strength."
 
"I will try," whispered Kathleen; and before Cameron received her summons, the girl knelt to ask the help of which she felt her need to be so pressing and so constant.
CHAPTER X CONFIDENCES AND FOREBODINGS

 
 
HETTY STAPLETON had so often stayed with her brother and his wife at Oakwood, that she was regarded by Hollingsby folk almost as belonging to the family circle there. She and an unmarried brother, considerably older than herself, had a home together in town, but went their several ways in an independent fashion, and if their opinions of persons and things did not always accord, they agreed to differ.
 
Though only twenty-five, Hetty was the friend and chosen adviser of quite a crowd of girls, who went to her with their troubles and difficulties, for comfort and guidance. If the troubles were real, who so sympathetic as Hetty? If imaginary or self-made, no one could be more sternly straightforward in administering the needed reproof, or more forcible in pointing out unthankfulness for undeserved blessings, and the wisdom of self-examination and confession of wrong-doing.
 
Naturally, Hetty was not always successful in her endeavours to benefit other girls. Like her elders, she found, often enough, that her advice was only valued and followed when it fell in with the wishes of those who asked it, and that many who bemoaned their lot and made more troubles for themselves, instead of bravely meeting and conquering adverse circumstances, only wanted to be pitied and excused, when really they merited blame. But, despite such failures, there were numbers of girls who had cause to thank God that they had found a friend in Hetty Stapleton.
 
Aylmer Matheson was one who gauged Hetty's character correctly, and honoured her, despite certain little eccentricities of which he could not help being conscious. He and Hetty were thoroughly agreed in their estimate of Captain Torrance. She had told him certain particulars, which had come to her knowledge through her brother Gerard's intimacy with some officers who had known Captain Jack during his brief military career. She had kept back much that a pure-minded girl would not like to repeat, and which Hetty herself would have preferred not to know. Of one incident she had never spoken to any human being, and probably only Aylmer Matheson suspected the whole truth.
 
Eighteen months before, Captain Torrance had taken some pains to throw himself in Hetty's way. He knew that her fortune was inferior to Miss Mountford's, but it was considerable and in her own hands, whilst Kathleen was not nearly of age. He never dreamed that a girl with no pretensions to beauty would refuse him, though Hetty's manner was sufficiently distant to discourage a wooer less satisfied with himself than was handsome Captain Jack. In his own mind he decided that Miss Stapleton drew back, in order that her vanity might be satisfied by a more conspicuous wooing. When, however, he tried his fortune by sending a written proposal, he realized the mistake he had made.
 
Hetty's reply was courteous, but decisive, and from the moment of receiving it, Captain Torrance understood that there was one girl who had formed a true estimate of his character, and valued his professions of admiration and affection at just what they were worth.
 
A few plain words in that note of Hetty's roused feelings of varying kinds in Captain Jack's breast. He could not help respecting the writer for her straightforwardness, but anger, fear, and dislike were in equal proportions.
 
It was dreadfully mortifying to have been refused by any girl, but doubly so when the individual was such as Hetty Stapleton, and mortification produced anger and dislike also when he thought of her. Her quiet good sense and plain speaking inspired fear, lest Hetty should, in the future, interfere to prevent his success in another quarter. With such feelings, it may well be imagined that Hetty Stapleton was about the last person Captain Jack wished to see at Hollingsby for any length of time.
 
It was quite in accordance with Miss Stapleton's downright way of doing things, that she should speak to Aylmer Matheson about what had set all the village tongues going a few hours before.
 
"I am so sorry," she said, "that any mischance should have given people the power to couple the names of John Torrance and Kathleen. One feels sure that, so far as she was concerned, the meeting was unexpected and the companionship on the road a thing that a girl like Kitty would not know how to prevent. You see, she is not like me. She is so lovely and lovable, so fearful of hurting anybody's feelings, that she would be helpless to send a man like that to the rightabout, though his presence might be distasteful."
 
"I quite agree with you that to Kathleen the meeting was unexpected, for she, in common with the rest of us, believed that Captain Torrance was absent from the neighbourhood. I wish I could as easily believe that his company was distasteful, but had you met the two as I did, you, like me, would have doubted this. Torrance's face was full of triumph, and the mocking laugh I heard just before I reached them, together with Kathleen's amused face, told a different tale."
 
"And of course you were as self-conscious as most of us would be under similar circumstances. You took it for granted that you were the subject of John Torrance's jest, and that Kathleen enjoyed it, and joined in the laughter. Excuse my calling the man by his Christian name to you."
 
"He is not entitled to be called captain, though everybody uses the appellation. But I hate shams, and I will not insult the army by pretending that he belongs to it, after having left it perforce."
 
"Now, about the man's laugh. I am quite certain that he wished to annoy you by it and his whole manner. But that Kathleen would ever join in aught, whether word, deed, or gesture, that savoured of mockery towards yourself, I will not for a moment believe. She is one of the most impulsive, and, as a consequence, one of the most self-tormenting creatures on this earth, but she is true. Have I not heard her again and again speak of you in terms of the warmest esteem, and express her thankfulness that her father had chosen such a guardian for her? She could not be so false to her own generous nature as to join a man like John Torrance in holding you up to ridicule, with a view of wilfully causing you pain. Kitty is incapable of acting a lie."
 
Even in the dim light of the early winter's evening Hetty could see how Aylmer's face brightened under the influence of her cheery words. He believed them, and blamed himself for his over-sensitiveness in all wherein Kathleen was concerned.
 
"You have done me good, Hetty, by your common-sense words, and I have wronged Kathleen by my hasty judgment. God knows how I long to shield her from harm! and here am I judging her without a hearing, blaming her so that you need to be her champion, and all because she laughed at the idle words of a man who had forced his society upon her."
 
"Of course you have tormented yourself needlessly, but happily you have relieved your mind to me, made confession, and, if you have not promised, you have determined not to do so any more. I only wish," added Hetty, in a low tone, but one that expressed deep feeling, "that you were going to be Kathleen's life guardian by her own election."
 
If ever a man was longing for a friend and confidante, in whose ear he could pour out his tale of love, of fear, and of the doubts and scruples that harassed him, Aylmer Matheson was one. He had no one in his home to whom he could speak of anything which involved others than himself, though the faithful servants who were about him had grown grey at Westhill, having served his parents before him.
 
To Mrs. Ellicott he had never spoken, though he believed that she would be in his favour, and some instinctive feeling, which he could hardly have explained, had put Geraldine out of the question.
 
Now Hetty had boldly touched upon that dearest subject of all. The very wish she had uttered was an invitation to confidence. He knew she was his friend, and to be trusted, and he resolved not to lose the chance thus given him.
 
"Thank you, Hetty, for the wish, and thank you still more for having put it into words," he replied.
 
"Why thank me more for speaking than for the feeling which I expressed in the wish?"
 
"Because the words enable me to speak, and claim your continued sympathy. The wish unuttered would have been unknown to me, and I should have lost the comfort and sense of sympathy it has already given. You have been a good friend to many a girl, Hetty. It is doubly kind of you to extend your friendship to me, for I am, in a sense, a very lonely man."
 
"You may trust me, Aylmer, as the girls have done," replied Hetty simply; and it was really a pity that the sun had gone down, and the expression on her honest face was not more fully visible. But Aylmer had seen it many a time, and needed no assurance. It was a great comfort to him to open his heart, and to show Hetty all that was in it as regarded Kathleen, and he did it.
 
"And now," he added, "you can speak from a girl's point of view. You know what scruples have kept me from telling Kathleen my secret, and how fear of what the world might say, if I seemed to take advantage of my position to secure the hand of a rich ward, has kept me silent."
 
Hetty paused for a few moments, then asked—
 
"Has this fear been the only thing which has kept you silent? If it has, I should say the answer as to what you ought to do need not come from me. You are in earnest. You have given Kathleen your best affections, and without reserve. What is the value of such a gift? Is it to be measured by a market-standard?"
 
"Certainly not," replied Aylmer, unable to resist a smile.
 
"Then, if a girl gave you her heart in like manner, you would not begin to ask yourself whether your money, all told, was enough to offer in exchange?"
 
"Surely not. Love for love, heart for heart, can be the only fair exchange," said Aylmer.
 
"Put the money right out of the question, then, since it is not to be a matter of merely valuing your separate worldly goods, and considering whether the one will equally balance the other. Never mind the world's tongue. The voice of an approving conscience is better worth listening to than all the babel of tongues which goes by the name of the world's opinion of things. Remember my question, though. It must not be overlooked, and I want my answer to it."
 
"What was that?"
 
"I asked you if fear of the world's opinion were the only thing that had kept you from speaking your mind to Kathleen? If so, we have settled the question, and you will speak without further hesitation."
 
"I dare not say yes," replied Aylmer. "The greater fear is with regard to Kathleen herself."
 
"I thought so. You cannot divine how she would receive the confession you long to make."
 
"No man wishes to risk a refusal by over-haste, or to lose the prize for want of decision. I own that Kathleen has never given me cause to hope."
 
"Or to fear?" asked Hetty.
 
"I think I am all fears now, though had we been talking together last evening, I should not have said this, for of late our intercourse has been very pleasant."
 
"During John Torrance's absence, I suppose?"
 
"Yes; and I was beginning to think that I would not trouble myself about the opinion of outsiders, but would tell my story to Kathleen. Then I hesitated on her account."
 
"You were afraid lest she should be moved to accept you by any feeling short of that which inspired you, such as gratitude, esteem, the memory of her father's trust in and affection for you."
 
"Partly; but there was more still to hold me back."
 
"Probably the thought that should Kathleen not accept you, the charm of the present sweet intimacy would be broken, its growth checked, and that even your relations as guardian and ward would be unpleasantly strained. You must continue your oversight of Kathleen and her affairs, and it would have been pretty trying for you to meet constantly under the circumstances. You would have been thinking that everybody knew of your rejection, and Kathleen would have been miserable every time she saw you, because she cares far too much for you to feel other than sorry for having caused you pain."
 
"What a witch you are, Hetty! You have read my thoughts like an open book," said Aylmer.
 
"No witchcraft in that. Do I not know Kathleen's character and yours? Given this acquaintance with characters and circumstances, it is easy to picture how people would think and act towards each other. I can imagine what a shock it would be for you to meet Kathleen and John Torrance together this morning, when you were indulging in a sweet day-dream on your own account. Fancying that your most dangerous rival was far-away, and Kathleen and yourself growing nearer every day."
 
"It was a shock. You agree with me that John Torrance is trying to win Kathleen?"
 
"No doubt about it, and I fear for her and for you. He is a strong opponent, in spite of his blemished past, he ruined fortunes, and the fact that he is only tolerated amongst county society because he bears a name which was once an honoured one hereabouts."
 
"The fact and the memory that he loved and was beloved by so sweet a wife, and that he lost her."
 
"Yes, these two things have enabled John Torrance to keep his place, such as it is, and they are two of his most dangerous possessions—the old name and the fair memory."
 
"Then he is the handsomest man, I know, and looks count for a great deal," said Aylmer.
 
Hetty thought, though she did not say so, that on the score of looks Aylmer had little cause to be discouraged. "In his style, he is John Torrance's equal; and as to expression, there is no comparison. Mr. Torrance's face may well be dark, and Aylmer's what it is—the reflex of a pure mind and faithful heart," was what Hetty said to herself.
 
Her remark to Aylmer was very different.
 
"As to looks, they count for less than most people think, and that is fortunate for me, since I have none to speak of, in a complimentary way, I mean. Never trouble about looks. If you are anxious on account of John Torrance's, just call to mind the beautiful girls of your acquaintance who have married what are called plain men, and vice versa. Girls and men who have been poor as well as plain, have wedded with riches and good looks. And often enough their partners have had cause to thank God for having gained in exchange what was more precious than wealth or beauty, in the humble Christ-like nature and the unselfish life."
 
"That is true, Hetty; but all the same, when a girl is so impulsive and easily impressed as Kathleen, the personal appearance of an admirer will not fail to have its effect."
 
Hetty nodded. "I admit so much; but if you regard John Torrance's looks as all-important in Kathleen's sight, you will make a great mistake."
 
"Tell me, Hetty, where you think the chief danger lies," said Aylmer, not a little puzzled by the girl's manner, but impressed by her words.
 
"In little Ralph," she replied. "He will woo Kathleen most effectively by means of the boy. She is very fond of the fine little fellow. I have heard her speak regretfully of his motherless condition, and compare it with her own."
 
"Kathleen is very differently placed from Captain Torrance's unfortunate child. She is hedged round from evil influences as far as possible. He is constantly exposed to them by the one person, of all others, who ought to protect him—his own father," replied Aylmer.
 
"True, and here is where John Torrance will work upon Kathleen's tender heart. You know how she cherishes the memory of her parents. She pictures her own beautiful mother during her last years of helplessness, and if she had been likely to forget, Mr. Mountford's efforts would have kept the memory of his wife alive in the child's mind, so long as he lived. She knows what care and love have done to surround her young life with good things, and to keep her 'unspotted from the world.' Kathleen will contrast all she has with what Ralph needs, and has not; John Torrance will never lose an opportunity of talking about the dead wife, and the boy she left him. He will not pose as a good father, but he will as a loving one. He will lament his unworthiness to have the charge of Ralph, though he is his natural guardian. He will say how helpless he is in his loneliness, and that yet he cannot part with his boy, the only comfort left him. He will point out how possible it would be for one, equally beautiful and good, to prove the saviour of the boy, and turn Monk's How into an earthly paradise."
 
"Probably he will say more against himself, and own that he could never hope to win such a mother for Ralph, because, with the child, she who would act as the 'angel in the house,' must be the father's good angel also. Then such a nature as Kathleen's would be wrought upon, and she would be filled with sweet longings and noble aspirations. She would pity both Captain Jack and his child, and could not be contented without doing something to remedy the evil. She would see lofty possibilities, alike for the boy and his father, and would deem it a glorious privilege if, by dedicating her fortune, her time, her very life, she could turn possibilities into realities."
 
Hetty paused. She had spoken under a profound conviction of the truth of her impressions, and with an earnestness which convinced her only listener.
 
"You frighten me, Hetty," said Aylmer. "You have opened my eyes to dangers I never fully realized till now, though a dim notion of them may have flitted across my mind. After all, there is much that strikes me also in the picture you have drawn. The enterprise would be a glorious one, worthy of a pure soul and a noble nature. One could not be surprised that it should have attractions for a girl like Kathleen."
 
"Only we have to think for her, and to pray that we may be enabled to prevent her from undertaking it. For Kathleen would fail, and make shipwreck of her happiness and her life. I know John Torrance too well to suppose that more than a very temporary impression would be produced on him. If any human influence could have saved him, his wife's would have done it, for he loved her as much as his nature could love one so unlike itself. No, Aylmer. It would sacrifice another life, and leave him where he is, or it may be lower still, were Kathleen to become his wife, for, you see, he would have another fortune to squander."
 
"That, in any case, could be secured to Kathleen."
 
"She would not let you secure it. She is just the girl, if she gives aught, to give all. You will be powerless. Now I must go in, for my anxiety about Kathleen has kept me walking round these grounds with you too long already."
 
"You have been very good, and kind, and wise. I cannot tell you how much I value your advice and your friendship for Kathleen and me, for I know I may count on it."
 
"You may indeed. Now mind you don't scold Kathleen. Speak of her meeting with John Torrance as if any other neighbour had seen her and strolled with her to the gate. I hope and I pray for the best."
 
Hetty vanished round the corner of the house, and Aylmer Matheson walked homeward, with abundant material to occupy his anxious thoughts, but feeling more hopeful than he had ever done before.
CHAPTER XI GOOD RESOLUTIONS

 
BEFORE Aylmer Matheson's talk with Miss Stapleton, he had intended to remain at home and alone during the evening. Afterwards he decided to go, for the third time that day, to the Hall. He was deeply impressed by the grasp Hetty had taken of Kathleen's position and his own, and thankful too, for the friendship of one whose feminine instincts enabled her so to divine the working of another girl's feelings.
 
"It is true," thought Aylmer, "that either man or woman working alone works at a disadvantage. Each wants the mind and the varying nature of the other to ensure success, especially in all that relates to the most sacred ties and duties, ay, and affections of humanity. Hetty has opened my eyes to many things that I should never have noticed until they were manifest to all. And whilst warning me, she has cheered and strengthened me wonderfully."
 
It was no small satisfaction to the housekeeper at Westhill that Aylmer did justice to his evening meal, and left the house half an hour afterwards, humming a favourite air.
 
When Aylmer entered the drawing-room at the Hall, he made a half apology for his appearance.
 
"I have been here twice before, Kathleen," he said. "Once you were out, the second time you were resting, so, as Mrs. Ellicott and I pretty well exhausted all topics of conversation whilst Miss Stapleton was here, I must be considered your special visitor to-night. Ought I to apologize for haunting this home at all hours? If so, I shall plead my loneliness and weariness of my own society."
 
It was a relief to Kathleen to hear Aylmer speak in this tone. She had dreaded his coming, lest their meeting should result in a lecture.
 
"We have met before, to-day," she replied, "but I am very glad to see you now. Aunty and I are so constantly together, that she must find it a relief to hear another voice than mine, when even poor Ger is unable to turn our duet into a trio."
 
Aylmer made no direct reply to Kathleen's allusion to their earlier meeting, but asked after Geraldine, talked of Hetty Stapleton, and lastly, challenged his ward to a game at chess.
 
Kathleen readily agreed. She was on her best behaviour, and full of good resolutions, after what had passed. She felt the comfort of having acted on her aunt's advice, and her softened manner again cheered both Mrs. Ellicott and Aylmer.
 
The two were soon deep in the game. They were keen players and pretty equally matched, Kathleen having been her father's pupil, and an apt one, from her childish days. On this occasion the girl proved victorious. Just as the "mate" passed from her lips and a little smile of triumph lighted her face, Mrs. Ellicott was called from the room.
 
"I am fairly beaten, Kathleen," said Aylmer, "but ready to meet you again, in spite of that triumphant look of yours."
 
"Surely a girl may be allowed to rejoice in her victory over such a champion," replied Kathleen, as they replaced the pieces ready for the next game.
 
"I do not grudge you your success. Your excellent play deserved it, and I could not be beaten by a fairer adversary."
 
Kathleen lifted her eyes to Aylmer's with a merry glance, but she dropped them instantly before his. The man's heart was stirred to its utmost depths, and overflowing with tenderest affection for his wilful ward. And Kathleen read the story of it in the look he gave her. A moment after she spoke hurriedly and with some appearance of confusion, as if, too, she dreaded that Aylmer's tongue might become as eloquent as his eyes.
 
"I am glad aunty is away for a few minutes," she said; "I wanted to speak to you about—about—this morning. You met me with Captain Torrance."
 
"Yes. I was surprised to find that he had returned, as I have no doubt you were, when you saw him."
 
"Not exactly, though when I started on my walk I had no idea he was at Monk's How. In fact, he only came home last night. On my way I met his groom, who gave me a letter which he was bringing here for me."
 
It was unfortunate that Aylmer did not wait until Kathleen had finished what she had to tell.
 
"Surely Captain Torrance had not the impertinence to ask you to meet him?" he exclaimed, in a tone which almost startled the girl.
 
With quiet dignity she answered, "I should have thought you knew me better than to suppose I should regard such an invitation in any light but that of an insult. Yet, seeing me afterwards in company with Captain Torrance, you must have concluded that I not only received the invitation, but accepted it."
 
What would not Aylmer have given to recall his words? He began to speak, but Kathleen did not seem to heed him. She walked across to the letter-rack, in which Mrs. Ellicott had placed the note in question, and returning, handed it to Aylmer.
 
"Read Captain Torrance's note, if you please," she said.
 
"I do not wish to read it, Kathleen. When I saw you with him, I never for an instant supposed that the meeting was other than an accidental one. And just now I never meant to insinuate blame as regards yourself."
 
"Perhaps not," replied Kathleen, in a tone which conveyed the idea that she was weary of the whole affair. "But I must beg you to read this letter, which justifies the writer. For myself, I think I shall soon be equally indifferent to praise or blame."
 
There was no anger in the girl's manner, but it stung Aylmer to the quick.
 
"I have pained Kathleen needlessly, and injured my own cause by my impatience," he thought. "And yet how sternly have I played the part of judge towards others for impetuosity of temper!"
 
He read the letter, then returned it to Kathleen.
 
"I have wronged Torrance as well as you," he said. "I beg your pardon, though, believe me, I did not attach blame to you when we met this morning. I hope I shall have an opportunity of apologising to Torrance."
 
"No, no, Aylmer, please let the matter rest. I am quite satisfied, and you must see that it would not be pleasant for me, if you treated this simple affair so seriously. I should not like my name to be even mentioned again. I told aunty all about it, and how he met me at Crosspaths Corner, and walked back with me. That was all."
 
"You are right, Kathleen. Your name ought not to be brought up again. As to the letter. It is creditable to John Torrance, and the reading of it stirred my sympathy, as I am sure it would yours. He may have been and is much to blame in many respects, but he is also much to be pitied."
 
Kathleen's eyes filled at these words.
 
"It is like you, Aylmer, to be both just and generous," she said. "When you turned round so sharply just now, I could hardly believe it was my wise and patient guardian. Well, you have blamed and judged yourself, so there is no need for me to say another word on that side. Now I am going to confess."
 
Then Kathleen told Aylmer exactly what had passed between Captain Torrance and herself as they met him in the morning, and what had given rise to the laugh which had so pained him at the time.
 
"I was a little wilful, as usual, but I told Captain Torrance, what I would say to all the world about you, Aylmer, that you are my guardian and my good, true friend, not my jailer."
 
"You make me very happy by saying this."
 
"How could I speak otherwise of you? Besides, I never can bear to hear people run down behind their backs, much less those I—I—care a great deal about. I felt like this, though not in the same way, of course, when aunty, after reading that letter, would not say a single kind word for the man who had written it. Not like you, Aylmer. You can be just to people who are not at all perfect."
 
"Thank you again, Kathleen. Your opinion of my justice is very comprehensive. It takes in all the world, for who is perfect?"
 
"That is just what I so often ask myself, by way of gaining comfort from the thought. It seems almost treason to say this, Aylmer, but don't you sometimes find that very good people, like aunty, for instance, are just a little hard on those who are exposed to far greater temptations than themselves? It ought to be easier to do right when every one is anxious to help you. Stay, though, I should not say that," added Kathleen, before Aylmer had time to speak. "Every one wants to help me, yet I try, and fail again and again. I failed this morning. I was horribly angry and rude, because I thought aunty was very unjust to poor Captain Torrance. She will not believe there is a bit of good in him. So I got into a temper, said disagreeable things, then ran upstairs and shut myself in my room, and cried till I fell asleep, like a cross child tired with its own passion. I punished myself, for Hetty came, and I had been longing to see her, and I missed seeing you, though as you came this evening, that has made up for it."
 
"And shall I add what you have not told me? You were honestly sorry for having grieved your aunt, and did your best to make amends. I knew by both your faces that there had been a little storm, but peace-making and sunshine had followed. And you made good resolutions, I doubt not. I pray, with all my heart, that you may have God's blessing upon them, and His strength to enable you to keep them, Kathleen."
 
When he was taking leave at a later hour than usual, Kathleen said—
 
"It was good of you to come to-night, Aylmer, and how quickly the time has flown! But for your kindness in walking here for the third time to-day, I should have spent much of the evening alone. Geraldine wanted only quiet, so I could be of no use to her. Aunt has had calls, as usual, for somebody is always coming with a tale of trouble which she only can relieve. Fancy what my feelings would have been, for I do not care for too much of my own society."
 
"I cannot fancy yours, Kathleen. I know that I could not have too much of your society, though I, too, weary of my own often enough."
 
Kathleen laughed and blushed at the compliment. But she did not dislike it, and when her "grave, wise guardian," for the first time since he had held that office, lifted her shapely hand to his lips, before he said good night, she only thought to herself, "He is growing more like what he was in the old days. How good he was to me when I was quite a little creature, and he was so tall and strong! To think that, when I was eight, he carried me on his shoulder, and when my mother died, only my father seemed more to me than Aylmer was. I sometimes wish he had never been my guardian, for the idea of having to take care of me made him ever so much older. I have been a great trouble both to him and aunty, but I hope I shall repay them yet. I wish Aylmer were my real brother."
 
A wish which the subject of it would certainly not have echoed.
 
Kathleen went to Geraldine's room after Aylmer left the house, and found her cousin much better.
 
"Nearly well, Kitty," she said, in answer to loving inquiries. "The rest has done so much for me, and a quiet night will complete the cure."
 
"Not sufficiently so to allow of your driving with me to Mellingham, I am afraid, so I shall put off going. I can send a telegram to Miss Pritchard, to say I will be there a day later, instead of to-morrow."
 
"Don't do that, Kitty. It would be certain to inconvenience her, by upsetting her arrangements for the week. You know how particular you are in expecting that she will keep her promises about the delivery of articles ordered by you, and surely it is fair that we should keep our engagements."
 
"In a way it is; but of course Miss Pritchard will have plenty of other work. It will only mean finishing some one else's gown instead of mine, and if she is as much pressed with orders as she usually professes to be, the change may help her. You know my dresses are never a success, unless you are with me at the choosing and fitting of them."
 
"I think I shall be well enough to go with you. At any rate, do not send the telegram until I know," said Ger. "I am going to sleep as soon as possible now, and mean to 'pay attention to it,' as my old nurse used to say children ought always to do."
 
Kathleen went to her room in an unusually happy frame of mind, at peace with all the world.
 
After the excitement of the morning and afternoon, the calm that followed had been very welcome. Aylmer had been delightful, as a whole. If he had uttered one sharp sentence, what did it matter? It only made him seem more akin to Kathleen herself, since she was always saying sharp things, and being sorry afterwards. "If only I were half as good as Aylmer!" she thought. Then the girl asked herself whether the greater self-restraint she had been enabled to exercise could have resulted from that longing cry for help which had gone from her heart to God, after the talk with Mrs. Ellicott? Could this sense of peace within, and of love and goodwill to all around her, be another result of her pleading "in real earnest," though only that once? If so, she must go again and again, and in the same spirit.
 
Kathleen was deeply sensible of the difference between her ordinary prayers, and the cry which went up from her very soul that day. It was a new experience and a sweet one, and it led her to think how vast, how far-reaching must be the Divine love which had been waiting to bless, to pardon, and to cheer her, as soon as these mercies were asked for, because they were really wanted.
 
The following morning proved bright and pleasant. Geraldine came down to breakfast, with no trace of illness, except that she was paler than usual, and professed herself ready to share Kathleen's drive and shopping expedition.
 
"I hope you are not going without feeling fit for the journey, Ger," said Kathleen. "It would be so easy to send a telegram."
 
"I am really fit. I shall enjoy the drive, which involves no fatigue, and I shall have the further satisfaction of seeing all the pretty winter things, without feeling it my duty to spend money which I cannot spare at present."
 
"Sometimes I wonder what you do with your money, Ger, for though you are beautifully dressed and look far better than I do, you spend much less."
 
Geraldine laughed, and replied, "You do not know my special extravagances, Kitty. I have several, but I conceal them, that you may not be influenced by my spendthrift tastes. Believe me, dear, I am not hoarding. In fact, I am on the verge of bankruptcy, and counting how long it will be before quarter-day will replenish my purse."
 
"I'll lend you some when we get to Mellingham."
 
"I will not borrow, Kitty. The debt would be a debt all the same, if even you were my creditor;" and Geraldine left the room to prepare for her drive.
 
Mrs. Ellicott remained at home to write letters. Kathleen was ready first, and, as usual, went to the door as soon as she heard the sound of the horses' feet on the gravel, that she might pet the pretty animals, and give each some lumps of sugar. She spoke to Mountain, and praised the horses, but obtained only the shortest answers, consistent with the respect due from him to his young mistress.
 
"Are you not well this morning, Mountain?" asked Kitty.
 
"Yes, Miss Kathleen, I'm well enough."
 
"Has some one been vexing you, or is anybody ill at home? I had not heard of anything amiss."
 
"My people are well enough, miss, thank you for asking. Maybe I am vexed, but I shall have to get pleased again, for them that has grieved me aren't likely to put themselves out, whether I'm right side out or wrong."
 
Mountain's face assumed the most stolid appearance imaginable, and Kathleen thought, "Poor old Mountain! I wish I knew what is amiss. I hope he is not angry that William Burns is courting his daughter, Patty. He is a worthy young fellow, and would make her a good husband. I'll try to smooth matters."
 
How was Kathleen to know that, to use Mountain's own words, he was "just breaking his heart over his young mistress, and wishing he could run over that harum-scarum captain, by accident, of course, if by so doing he could get rid of him without hurting his own horses."
 
As coachman, Mountain always called the steeds he controlled "my horses," and he had a proper professional pride in them, and did not like them to be used for what he called "dirty work" of any kind. He would have deemed it an indignity to allow one of the handsome pair that "hadn't their match within twenty mile," to run single in a dog-cart, for instance. But he did not seem to think that it would be derogatory to use them as a means of getting rid of Captain Jack. Not that Mountain would have liked "to finish him outright," but to inflict such personal damage as would spoil his looks, and keep him a prisoner until Miss Kathleen was furnished with a husband of whom he could approve. And Mountain further thought it was a great pity he could not tell Miss Kathleen that she was the cause of his vexation, and that by evening herself with Captain Torrance, she was as deep in the "black books" of Hollingsby people generally, as it was possible for the much-loved young lady of the Hall to have placed herself.
 
It was well that Kathleen did not associate Mountain's grievances with herself, or it might have spoiled her drive. She was of too affectionate a nature to be indifferent to the goodwill of any person, however humble, and it would have troubled her to know that Hollingsby folk, and her faithful servants in particular, were "worritting" on her account, because of that walk in broad day with Captain Torrance, who had been judged and condemned as not worthy to black her shoes.
 
CHAPTER XII WORDS IN SEASON

 
 
WHEN the girls reached Mellingham after a pleasant drive, Geraldine's face was tinged with colour, and she looked almost her usual self.
 
"I am glad you brought me out, Kitty," she said. "I am quite ready to make a study of materials and styles on your account, and hope I shall not feel too envious when I see you wearing the results of it."
 
"No fear of that, Ger, or whilst you were planning for me, you would make arrangements for yourself."
 
"Don't you know that one of the first lessons my mother taught me, was to study what I could do without?"
 
"You do without too many things, Ger, and you will not allow anybody else to fill up blank spaces in your wardrobe."
 
"My dear Kitty, there are none. It is too full, and its contents are going to be thinned to-morrow."
 
"Just like you. The question in your mind is not whether you need all your garments, but whether some one else is in greater need of them. So they go before you have really done with them."
 
"Not before I can well spare them, though every article has its destination fixed in advance. And when one has an affection for a garment, despite its age and fashion, it is sometimes a trial to part with it a little earlier than one intended, because of the shabbiness of a pensioner's best gown."
 
"I believe you choose your own dresses largely with a view to their second-hand usefulness, Ger," said Kathleen. "I am afraid I could not do that. I am too anxious about my own personal appearance, to trouble myself as to what the effect of my garments will be on their next wearer. I would rather buy new ones of homelier stuff, for those who are in want of them."
 
Geraldine laughed, and replied, "You give me more credit than I deserve, Kitty. I think quite enough of my own wants and looks. Please to remember the compliment you paid me only last night."
 
"It was a true one. You are always beautifully dressed, and at a far less expense than myself."
 
"You know how fastidious I am as to the quality of my materials, so, being good, they stand more wear, and do substantial service second-hand."
 
At this moment the carriage stopped in front of the principal silk mercer's in Mellingham, and soon Kathleen, assisted by Geraldine and the principal dressmaker, Miss Pritchard, was busily engaged in choosing materials for evening dresses. Then styles had to be decided upon, and a previously ordered walking-gown fitted.
 
Miss Pritchard was looking pale and weary, and Geraldine said, "I am afraid you are very tired to-day."
 
"I am, rather. We had an unexpected press of business on Monday, and more work has been promised for this week than can well be got through."
 
"And you, being at the head of this department, will no doubt feel the responsibility a heavy one."
 
"Naturally I do; but those who are under me feel it equally, though in another way. But please do not think that I am complaining. My employers have their anxieties also."
 
"Undoubtedly they have," replied Geraldine, struck with the patient dignity of the young modiste, whose refined manners had struck her when they first met. "I hope you received the message I sent you a few days since," she added.
 
"I received no message," replied Miss Pritchard. "Was is about the dress I re-trimmed for you? I hoped it would please you, though, owing to a difficulty in matching the material, I was unable to carry out your instructions exactly."
 
"You made it look far prettier than I could have thought possible," said Geraldine. "The style is perfect, and I was very anxious you should know I was pleased with it, so I called and left a message with one of the assistants to that effect. He promised to deliver it at once."
 
"It never reached me, though I should have been glad to have it, for I was not sure you would like the unavoidable change. Praise travels slowly towards our work-rooms, but blame is winged on its way. It is a common saying amongst the girls, that if fault is found the messenger comes upstairs two steps at a time. If a word of commendation is spoken down below, it stays there, for fear workers should think too much of themselves and their work."
 
"But that is unjust," said Kathleen, warmly. "I should have thought it would be so pleasant to pass on a message of praise, and so much the opposite to be deputy faultfinders."
 
Miss Pritchard smiled, though rather sadly, as she answered—
 
"Messages of praise are comparatively rare. We workers generally think that the old saying, 'No news is good news,' applies to what we do, and are well contented to hear nothing. If, however, ladies wish to serve those whose work gives them satisfaction, they could do so very materially by expressing their approval to one of the firm. We should probably hear nothing about it, even if a note were written to that effect, but it would be remembered to our credit, all the same."
 
Kathleen recalled to mind an incident which had occurred a few months before, as she noted Pritchard's suggestion.
 
A milliner in the employment of another firm had been terribly nervous one morning when displaying some hats for her to choose from. She was young and attractive-looking, but there were traces of tears in her eyes, and her hands trembled visibly. Her employer was in the showroom, and watched the movements of the girl with a stern face. Kathleen's quick instinct divined that the girl was in trouble, probably in fear of losing her situation, and this, she happened to know, would be a serious matter to her, on account of an invalid mother, to whom her help and presence were essential.
 
Turning to the master of the place, Kathleen said, with her most winning smile—
 
"I have been looking at these pattern-hats, which I suppose I ought to consider perfect, but I shall not choose from amongst them. I much prefer the modifications produced under the superintendence of your own milliner, whose superior taste is often commended by my friends."
 
Kathleen mentioned the names of several of the proprietor's most valued customers, and gave her own order in accordance with her words. She chose only the colour she desired, and with a bright smile said to the young milliner, "I know I can leave all else to your good taste. You have always pleased mine."
 
The words were spoken loudly enough to be heard by the proprietor, who bowed the rich Miss Mountford out of his establishment with a face wreathed in smiles, after Kathleen had bade the girl good morning, and received a volume of grateful thanks expressed in her changed looks.
 
"I said nothing but the truth," was Kathleen's comment, when at a future visit the young milliner was able to express her thanks in words.
 
"You saved me and my mother," replied the girl. "Had I been dismissed, I must have sought a situation elsewhere, and, probably, at a distance. My mother could not have been removed, and I am sure the parting would have shortened her life."
 
It was generally either through something Geraldine did or said that Kathleen learned these lessons of thought for others, but she was an apt scholar. Sometimes, indeed, her impulsive nature would distance Ger's prudence, and she would say and do more than was necessary in a really good cause.
 
"You are so wise, Ger, as well as generous," she would say, "and I am always running into extremes. Never mind. Better do too much than too little, or nothing."
 
On this morning at Mellingham she was somewhat exercised in her mind about Miss Pritchard. She wished the new gown to be completed by the week end, but the sight of Miss Pritchard's pale face decided her to say—
 
"Do not harass yourself or allow any one to be overworked on my account. My dress can stand over till another week, if necessary."
 
"Thank you very much," replied Miss Pritchard. "It will probably be ready, but it is a relief to have your permission to leave it over."
 
Some other shopping had to be done, and sundry commissions executed for Mrs. Ellicott before they met the carriage at an appointed place. These completed, they started homeward.
 
Hollingsby Hall and village had no railway station very near to the bulk of the houses. The village was long and straggling, and the station was about half a mile distant from the end farthest from the Hall. Its position had been chosen so that it might be about equidistant from Hollingsby and another larger village, and as the inhabitants of both were wont to say, "It couldn't have been planted awkwarder for all parties if they'd had a judge and jury to settle where it should be." From which remark it will be divined that the rural mind had decided against the collective wisdom of these institutions.
 
A little before the carriage reached the station, Mountain pulled up, to wait until a passenger train had started and the gates been opened for him to drive across the line. As they waited, Kathleen noticed a boy intently watching the departure of the train, and waving his cap frantically to some passenger. There was no mistaking the little figure. It was Ralph Torrance, and Captain Jack was returning his boy's farewell by waving his hand from the carriage window. The father's eyes were far too intent upon Ralph to notice the Mountford carriage and its occupants, but Kathleen had time to think of what she saw.
 
"He is going away again, and without Ralph, so most likely he will not be long absent," she thought. Both ideas gave her a certain amount of pleasure. She was not sorry that Captain Torrance would be unlikely to cross her path again immediately. She would have been sorry, for Ralph's sake, to think that the boy would be left alone for any length of time. At least, Kathleen tried to persuade herself that pity for the lonely child was her reason for wishing his father a speedy return.
 
Both the cousins saw Ralph starting homeward on foot, and noticed that he was a great deal altered by his recent illness. He had passed through the turnstile, and was on the road, before the way was clear for the carriage, but as it passed him he took off his cap and stood aside, his dark curly head bared, and looking the very image of his father.
 
A moment after Mountain was signalled to stop, and Kathleen called to Ralph, who was slowly following.
 
"Would you like a seat with us, Ralph?" she said. "You look tired."
 
"If you please, Miss Mountford," replied the boy, and gladly took his place opposite Kathleen, adding as soon as he was settled in it, "Father did not know I should be at the station to see him off. He said good-bye to me after breakfast. He was calling somewhere between home and the station, and he did not want to take me with him. Besides, Kelpie—that's my very own pony, you've seen him often, Miss Mountford—had cast a shoe, and was gone to the smithy, so I couldn't ride. But I meant seeing father off, for all that, so I just ran to the station by the short cut across the fields, and was there in time. Only he was in the carriage and they were shutting the doors, so we could only wave to one another. I'm glad I went, and father wouldn't know that I was walking. He would think Kelpie had come back in time, and that I should ride home. Else he'd have been sorry, perhaps, and afraid of me being tired."
 
"Because you have been ill lately, I hear?"
 
"Did father tell you so? We only got home the night before last, and now he is gone back again."
 
"Yes, your father told me. I was sorry to hear of your illness. I am glad you are with us, and will not get too tired," said Kathleen.
 
"Oh, I'm not afraid of walking, though I like riding better. It's just nothing of a run to the station and back, when one is well. I wish father knew that you were giving me a lift home, seeing I haven't the Kelpie. He has been as frightened about me as if I were a girl. Boys are stronger than girls, you know, Miss Mountford, and can stand a great deal more."
 
"Sometimes, Ralph, not always. Illness affects both pretty much alike."
 
Ralph pondered Kathleen's reply, as if not altogether satisfied with it, whilst feeling that, as a boy and a gentleman, he ought not to disagree with a lady.
 
"Were you long ill?" asked Geraldine.
 
"Nearly all the while we were away. I had a cold and a cough, and then I got worse and stayed in bed, and a nurse came to the hotel to take care of me. Father was in an awful way one day. Nurse says I did not know him, but I can't just believe that. As if I could forget father!"
 
There was something touching in the way the boy drew himself up and threw back his head, in contempt at such an absurd notion.
 
"You would not if you were well, dear," said Kathleen, "but older people sometimes forget when they are very ill. They remember again afterwards."
 
"Older people might. I know Sarah's grandmother does not remember anybody, she's so old, and she stays in bed all the time. But I know I could never forget father."
 
Ralph said this in a tone so decisive that it was useless to reply. Geraldine and Kathleen smiled at each other, but made no attempt to alter his opinion.
 
Sarah was Ralph's personal attendant. She was a Hollingsby young woman, who had been his first nurse, and who had stayed on at Monk's How regardless of all save the child, for whom she had cared during his mother's lifetime.
 
Sarah was plain of face, staid in manner, often sharp of tongue, but wholly devoted to her charge, whom she would have shielded from bodily harm at the risk of her life. With regard to harm of another and more serious kind, Sarah was powerless. To the best of her ability she taught the child the simple lessons she had herself learned at her mother's knee, or in the Sunday school, hoping that some of them would abide, and perchance bring forth fruit after many days. As to the captain, Sarah was abundantly conscious of his shortcomings, and moaned over them in private; but she would hear no word uttered against him. She had idolized Mrs. Torrance, and knew that the wife's love for her husband had remained unchanged till death.
 
"Whatever the master may have done, he loved the mistress, and he's fond of his boy, though I often wish he'd show it in a wiser way," was Sarah's opinion. "It's my place to uphold him, and not to stand by and hear any tongue wag against the master, whose bread I've eaten for near on eleven years past."
 
In educational matters, Ralph was "seen to," as Sarah put it, by the Hollingsby curate, to whose rooms the boy went for two hours daily; but his manners were modelled on those of Captain Jack himself.
 
"Won't Sarah swear, I mean scold, when I get home, Miss Mountford!" said Ralph, as the carriage neared Monk's How. "Of course Sarah doesn't swear. I only say that for fun, and to tease her when she's vexed. I ought to have been in for dinner at one o'clock, and now it's nearly two, I'm sure. When father's at home I generally have proper late dinner with him as well."
 
"I suppose Sarah will be wondering what has got you," said Kathleen.
 
"Yes. I told you I had run away to see father off."
 
"Would you like to lunch with us, Ralph?" asked Kathleen. "We can leave a message at the lodge for Sarah."
 
"I should rather think so. It would be just lovely. Only," continued the boy, with a dubious glance at his garments, "Sarah will say I had no business to go without being dressed up, you know. Can you wait for me a few minutes, whilst I run in and tell her?"
 
"Your clothes are all right, Ralph. You only want a wash and a brush up, which you shall have at the Hall, whilst we are having ours, you know," replied Kathleen, quickly. She had asked the boy to accompany them on a momentary impulse, but was not prepared to drive into the grounds and wait at the entrance of Monk's How until Ralph's toilet had been performed to Sarah's satisfaction.
 
So the message was left, and much to Mountain's disgust, the boy, instead of being dropped at the lodge, accompanied the girls to the Hall.
 
"That's the first move," growled Mountain to himself, as he turned his horses towards the stables. "The father came with our young lady to the gates, the other day; the boy is in the house. One more step, and the captain as they call him, will follow. If I could but—" Here Mountain paused, and whatever he further thought must be guessed.
CHAPTER XIII A HOPELESS SUITOR

 
 
RALPH made good use of his time at the Hall. He was in some respects so manly, in others such a thorough child, but in every way so outspoken, that not only Kathleen but Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine were charmed with the boy.
 
Even Mountain thawed when the little fellow visited the stables, and made some knowing remarks about the animals he saw there.
 
"He might ha' been his own father by the way he reckoned up the horses," said Mountain afterwards. "And he is a little gentleman in his ways. If he only hadn't got a father at all, I'd never mind how often he was in and out here."
 
When Aylmer Matheson paid his next visit to the Hall, he was entertained, if not gratified, by an account of Ralph's sayings and doings. He heard Kathleen say that she must really ask the boy now and then, he was so delightfully bright and original; he had given them all something to talk and laugh over after he left them.
 
"You would have been charmed with the little fellow, Aylmer. You must help me to be kind to him."
 
What could Aylmer say? How could he object to Kathleen inviting a mere child, because of his father's antecedents? He knew that to suggest the exclusion of the boy would probably raise a storm of indignation on the part of his ward, and would appear to most people ungenerous and tyrannical. Yet Hetty Stapleton's words of warning were ringing in his ears, and he was profoundly convinced of their wisdom.
 
"He will woo Kathleen most effectively by means of his boy, of whom she is very fond."
 
It would be almost impossible to preserve the same distance between the Hall and Monk's How, if Kathleen made a pet of Ralph under her own roof. A mere outdoor intimacy, which allowed John Torrance to join her whenever they chanced to meet, would be worse still.
 
Aloud, Aylmer said, "I shall be only too glad to help you, Kathleen, in any plan for the boy's real good."
 
All the same, his mind was full of fears, which he vainly strove to stifle, and he wished that any one but himself filled the post of guardian to Kathleen. She was wonderfully sweet and kind in her manner to him that evening, asking his advice even about what seemed purely feminine matters, and promptly acting upon it, even where it did not accord with her own ideas. So stirred was Aylmer by the tender graciousness of Kathleen's manner, that he gave himself no further time for self-questioning. Hetty Stapleton's counsel had encouraged hope, his own doubts and scruples were put aside, and, availing himself of an unexpected opportunity, Aylmer told his ward the story of his love.
 
"I know not when I began to love you, dear," he said. "It seems to me that I cannot look back upon a time, since you were the merest slip of a girl, when you were not first and dearest of all to me. Though you were so much younger, and I grown to manhood, I never pictured a home for myself in which you were not the 'angel of the house.' Your father loved me, Kathleen, and gave me the place a brother might have filled, had you possessed one. Let me finish, dear Kathleen;" for the girl would have interrupted. "Hear my story out, and then give me your answer."
 
Then Aylmer told her how, whilst longing to be faithful to the trust reposed in him, it had raised a certain barrier between her and himself which had kept him silent until now, though he had longed to speak.
 
"I have been afraid that the world would misjudge me, and say that the guardian was selfish, and scheming to keep his beautiful ward and her wealth for himself. And yet, dear, you will believe me when I say that to me my sweet Kathleen, with only herself to bestow, would give me what is worth more than all the riches of the world, if she would put her dear hand in mine and bid me keep it."
 
"I wish I could—oh, how I wish I could!" said Kathleen. "It is dreadful to me to say a word that will grieve you, but I have never thought of you in that way. I have been trying so much of late to show you that I cared for you as if you were my own dear, good brother, and many, many times when I have pained you I have suffered more myself than you have done, though I have seemed hard and wilful, for you were always so patient. When I was a child, Aylmer, I used to think God had given you to me for a brother, because I had none of my own. Be my brother still, and try to forget."
 
Kathleen raised her beautiful eyes to Aylmer's, streaming with tears. Her hand was in his, for he had taken it, and she made no effort to withdraw it. Aylmer's clasp had been to her an assurance of safety ever since the stalwart youth had made her his child-playmate. Her look of distress went to his heart and appealed to his unselfish nature, whilst it caused him the bitterest pain and disappointment.
 
"I have been as a brother hitherto, dear Kathleen," he replied, "but I have always hoped to fill a yet dearer place in your affection. Now I reproach myself for abruptness. I have told my story too suddenly. Let me leave it with you unanswered for a while. Take what time you choose; I will have patience, and trust that when you have examined your own heart more closely, you may find me occupying more than a brother's share of it."
 
Kathleen shook her head. "Better answer now, Aylmer. The waiting would be trying to you, and very hard for me, because I should all the while be grieving at the thought of pain to come. You are so good and true. You have been brother, friend, guardian all in one, but in all my life I have never thought of you as you think of me, and I know I shall not change in this respect. I wish I felt differently, but, apart from such love as you ask, I have given you the best I had to bestow. There is no one whom I would place as friend and brother side by side with you. Let me tell you, too, that I know you would be glad to take me as a poor girl rather than as a rich heiress, and that I am certain, whenever you do choose a wife worthy of you, she will be one of the happiest women in the world."
 
"I shall not be likely to choose again, Kathleen. Mine will be a life-long love for you."
 
"Do not say that, Aylmer, except in the sense of remaining still my best and truest friend."
 
"I can never be less than that, dear Kathleen, never do less than the best in my power to promote your happiness, at any cost to myself. May God bless you, dear, and help me to bear my sorrow patiently!"
 
He touched her hand with his lips, then left the room and the house, without waiting to see Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine again.
 
To neither of these did Kathleen repeat what had passed between her and Aylmer. "It is his secret, and must be held sacred," she said to herself. "Besides, there is only Ger that I make a girl confidante of, and I could not tell her that he cares for me most of all. Perhaps he will learn some day to think of her as he now does of me. That is the one bit of comfort to be had out of the whole thing—the hope that through this present sorrow a great happiness may come to Ger in the future."
 
Not for one moment did Kathleen indulge in a feeling of triumph on account of her conquest. Wilful she was, but far above any littleness of that kind. She would have had Aylmer forget his disappointment and her refusal, had this been possible. Still, in heart she could not altogether silence the feeling of pride and joy at the thought of being the choice of one so good as her guardian.
 
"My father would have wished me to accept him," she thought; and it gave her a feeling of pain that she should go contrary to what she knew would have been his wish.
 
"But he would have put my happiness before even Aylmer's, and would never have desired my lips to say 'Yes' when my heart said 'No.'"
 
A few dull days followed—dull both in and out-of-doors. Grey skies, rare glimpses of sunshine, alternate drizzle and downpour, made up weather neither fit for walking nor driving. Aylmer was from home. He had talked of accepting an invitation to join a shooting party at a friend's place some fifty miles away; and when he sent a few lines to say that he should be absent for a week or more, they all concluded he had done so, as he gave no address. Only Kathleen guessed why he had left home so suddenly, and she missed him more than she cared to acknowledge to herself, whilst she dreaded his return. There would never, she thought, be the same happy, unrestrained intercourse that there had been in the past. Ever before them both would come the memory of pain inflicted by the one, and of rejected affection and hopes crushed on the other.
 
Kathleen thought the week which followed the longest she had ever spent. The weather which was so trying to her, was equally so to her neighbours, and visitors were few in a country place where friends' houses lay somewhat wide apart.
 
A change came at last, and with it Kathleen's spirits began to rise again. She was happier, too, after Aylmer's return, for he had bravely schooled himself to meet her as of old, and to reserve his regrets, or at least the manifestation of them, for lonely hours at home. Even there he did not sit down and give himself up to unavailing sorrow, but sought strength from God to endure his trial, and found comfort in the thought of that divine love which never faileth.
 
Aylmer had just one confidante—Hetty Stapleton. As he had already told her what was in his heart, so now he acquainted her with the downfall of his plans and the extinction of his hopes.
 
"You will think I was wrong to speak so soon," he said, "but Kathleen's kindness carried me out of myself, and, shall I own it? your own suggestion as to the use that John Torrance would make of Ralph, urged me to try my fortune, lest I should lose by delay what I would have exercised any amount of patience to win. With the boy going in and out at the Hall, Kathleen charmed with him and bent on doing him good, the lad himself such a winsome little fellow, and so loyal to his father, I foresaw that the thin end of the wedge had been inserted. A little while, and it would be impossible to keep John Torrance in his present position."
 
"I understand the difficulty, and I do not blame you, though I wish you had not spoken so soon. What can I do to warn Kathleen? If I only dare tell her what I know, and yet I should hate to do it. She might put a wrong construction on my speaking, for most people hereabouts thought at one time that John Torrance was paying attentions—I will not say to me, he has far too good taste for that, but to my money. He was terribly embarrassed just then, and would have swallowed any pill if it were sufficiently gilded. He found another way out of his difficulties, but he paid a high price for it, as my brother Gerard happens to know."
 
"If any one could say a warning word to Kathleen with a chance of success, you would be that one, Hetty. She likes and trusts you, and your good sense and tact would enable you to choose the right time."
 
"And that is not the present. Kathleen knows that we are good friends, and she would regard a word against John Torrance as suggestive of advocacy on your behalf. It will be very difficult for me to speak at all."
 
"You will understand, Hetty," said Aylmer, "that all I desire is Kathleen's happiness. If she could have loved me as I love her, I should have regarded her as a precious gift from God, and cherished her as such. This cannot be; but, all the same, I will leave no stone unturned to save her from herself, and from harm at another's hand. But no one must plead for me with her. I could not bear that."
 
"And you do not for a moment suppose that I could be so wanting in delicacy, or of true friendship to yourself as to dream of such a thing," replied Hetty stoutly.
 
"I am afraid I did think you capable of going almost any length that was not unwomanly, to help one whom you blessed with your friendship. You are so staunch always."
 
Hetty blushed with pleasure, but re-asserted her own views on the subject.
 
"That would have been unwomanly, in the higher sense of the word, though very woman-like in another, for the sex is very impulsive, you know, and apt to damage a cause by mistaken kindness. Trust me, Aylmer. I will never injure yours."
 
"I do trust you. Now let me ask if you have heard the last rumour as to Captain Torrance's pecuniary position? It is whispered that before long he will have to yield possession of Monk's How to his creditors, and that everything is virtually gone now."
 
"I heard this before I left town. At least it was said that he was about to make an arrangement of the kind, and that unless he married a rich girl, or had another fortune left to him, he would leave the old home of his family a penniless man, at a given time."
 
"When will that come to pass, I wonder? It is dreadful to think of, especially when Ralph is considered. His father will have robbed him of everything."
 
"When? In a little over a year from this time; and with all my heart I wish he were gone from Hollingsby now, never to return. We would take care of Ralph amongst us, or let Kathleen adopt him if she chose, and John Torrance out of the way, all would go well," said Hetty, in a tone that showed how much in earnest she was.
 
"I would rather think of John Torrance aroused to a sense of his responsibilities, starting to retrieve his fallen fortunes, and proving yet a wise as well as an affectionate father to that boy," replied Aylmer.
 
"What a sanguine nature yours must be! In the first place, there is no washing white, yet there is a better chance of doing that than of changing John Torrance. Then about the fallen fortunes. How would he begin to retrieve them? He has no profession, though he might perhaps turn jockey. He has no capital, and if he had, would he not be more likely to try to increase it by gambling than in any other way? He is just a hopeless black sheep. Nobody can help him, I tell you."
 
In Aylmer's mind was the higher thought: "There is One mighty to save to the uttermost, though human friends despair, or have become indifferent." But he did not say this to Hetty. He only replied—
 
"It is possible some friend might be found to help Torrance, if he were really inclined to make a start in the right direction."
 
"And I believe you would be foolish enough to do it, Aylmer Matheson. It would be like your Quixotic notions, and you would be rewarded as you deserved to be," said Hetty, indignant at the very thought.
 
"You judge my motives with your usual charity, dear friend. You are only just in thinking that there is no man to whom I would not lend a hand to help him upwards, if he were in earnest in wishing to rise."
 
"If you are desirous of devoting your means to John Torrance's service, he will find you plenty of opportunities. Perhaps you would prefer giving him Westhill and its appurtenances in the meanwhile. An extra fortune will not long encumber John Torrance," said Hetty with considerable warmth.
 
"Not quite that," replied Aylmer, "though I would sacrifice something for Kathleen's sake. If Torrance were worthy of her, I could bear my own disappointment, and feel rewarded by the knowledge that she was happy."
 
"You are simply too good for this world, Aylmer, but a Quixotic goose all the same, though I like you the better for a nobility that I could not imitate. Were I a man, in your shoes, for instance, now, I should set all my wits to work to circumvent John Torrance and win Kathleen in spite of him. Aye, and I would do it somehow. I cannot think that it is manly to accept one rebuff as a final defeat, or to hold out open arms and a full purse to your opponent, to furnish him with new weapons to turn against yourself. Think better of it, my friend, on all accounts."
 
Aylmer did think, but it was not of Hetty's advice. He thought of the Master he professed to serve, the one perfect Man who, though He was equal with God, "made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a servant"—for what?
 
Thinking of His blameless life of good-doing and His death of sacrifice, Aylmer Matheson might well feel that he would lose no manliness that was worth the name, if only he followed in the footsteps of his Divine Lord, "the Man of sorrows."
 
CHAPTER XIV FAST FRIENDS

 
THE friendship between Miss Mountford and Ralph Torrance grew rapidly. The ice once broken was not likely to close again, especially as the boy was feeling his father's continued absence a real trouble. His grievances were poured into Kathleen's sympathetic ear, and so far as she was able she comforted him.
 
"You see, father has never stayed away like this before," said Ralph. "If he went for a long time, he always took me, and if for a little while, he came back just when he had promised to do. I thought he was going to London for three days, and now, maybe he won't be back for Christmas. He says the people he is with cannot do with children, because of their grown-up visitors. I think they might have me, for I'm a boy, not a baby."
 
Ralph tossed back his head with an air of insulted dignity, but strove to keep back threatening tears. His father had been ten days absent, and Christmas was very near. There had always been visitors of some sort at this season, and if there had been no one else, his father's presence would have satisfied Ralph.
 
"Perhaps," said Kathleen, "one boy would have been considered in the way. If there were other boys in the house, you know, it would be different."
 
"I wouldn't have bothered anybody. But it's no use; a fellow can't go to a place unless people ask him, can he, Miss Mountford? 'Specially if they don't know him. Besides, I don't know where father is staying. He writes to me and sends me envelopes directed like this."
 
Ralph showed his latest, somewhat tumbled through being carried, together with his father's letter, in a pocket too narrow to hold it properly.
 
Kathleen declined to look at the address which Ralph was eager to show her, but she could not well refuse to listen when the boy said, "Here is a bit for you. Father says, 'Tell Miss Mountford that I do not know how to thank her for being so good to my motherless boy. I am more grateful to her than words can express. When I come back, I shall try to tell her how deeply I feel her goodness.'"
 
"And you have been good. You have asked me here four times, besides bringing me from the station that first day. You've let me ride out on the Kelpie twice, along with you, and once you let me try if I could sit your beautiful mare. I enjoyed that most of all, for Polly is a beauty, though she would be too big for me in a general way, you know."
 
"Fie, Ralph, to say you enjoyed riding Polly more than riding out with me, when I had her, and you had Kelpie. Your pony, in his way, is quite as good as Polly."
 
"You are not really vexed," replied Ralph, in a confident tone. "You are only pretending. People always pretend when they talk to boys, just as if we didn't know when they are in earnest. It was because you thought it would please me so much that you lent me Polly."
 
"Perhaps it was, Ralph. Any way, I am glad you were pleased."
 
The boy nodded. Then a grave look came on his face, and he asked, "Should you be very sorry if Polly were taken away from you, Miss Mountford?"
 
"I should indeed, Ralph, but I do not think any one will take her away from me. Why do you ask?"
 
"Because father once said, 'Maybe you and I will have to do without either horse or pony, my boy.' I cried awfully, for you see, Miss Mountford, a fellow can't help being fond of his pony, can he?"
 
"Certainly not, Ralph, and Kelpie is a darling on four legs."
 
"That's what I say, only I don't think I quite called him a darling. That's a girl's word. I say he is a plucky little chap, 'just as good as they make 'em.' It was Jem Capes taught me that. He's our groom, and he says funny things sometimes that make me laugh. If I tell them to Sarah, she scolds me, and says, grooms may talk so, but gentlemen should know better. I don't mind. I will say that nobody could make a better pony than the Kelpie. He's such a fellow to go, and such a kind, good-tempered one. I don't know what I should do without him."
 
"You shall not do without him, Ralph," said Kathleen, for she felt a lump rising in her throat as the boy ran on about his pet. "If your father ever wishes to part with Kelpie, I will buy him, and he shall still be your very own to ride and use as you like, only I will keep him here for you."
 
With a wild cry of delight the boy flung his arms round Kathleen's neck, and kissed her repeatedly, then lay sobbing on her shoulder.
 
The girl was deeply moved, and she returned the child's caresses whilst her arms clasped him lovingly.
 
After a few minutes Ralph raised his head and wiped away his tears, seeming, Kathleen thought, a little ashamed of them.
 
"I'm sorry I cried," he said. "It looks so silly for a boy to cry, but a fellow can't always help it, 'specially when his father isn't coming home for Christmas, can he, Miss Mountford?"
 
"I don't think you were foolish to cry, Ralph," replied Kathleen, who saw that the allusion to his father's absence was nearly making the boy break down a second time.
 
"I'm so glad of that. It is nice to have a real friend besides the Kelpie. Father does not want to be away. He told me so in his letter, and he said if only I could be with—But I ought not to tell you that. It would be like asking. It would be mean."
 
Ralph shut his lips and held them tightly, as if battling against the temptation to continue.
 
Kathleen guessed the rest of the sentence, and said—
 
"Do you know, Ralph, I had been wondering whether you could come here for Christmas Day. I knew that your father would want you if he were at home, so I did not ask you when I invited the Stapleton children and some more whom you know. But I meant to do so, if you were likely to be alone."
 
"Did you though, Miss Mountford?" asked the boy, with sparkling eyes.
 
"Yes," said Kathleen, laughing; and, crossing to her writing-table, she took up a dainty note, with a sprig of holly for a seal, and addressed to Ralph Torrance, which she handed to him.
 
The boy took it eagerly, and then said, "Please excuse me," after the fashion of his elders, and waited till Kathleen gave him permission before he opened the note.
 
"Shan't I be glad to come? It will be next best to having father home. Best of all would be if he were here too; wouldn't it, Miss Mountford? I suppose I ought to write a proper answer to this note," he added, without waiting for Kathleen's reply to his former question, or else taking it for granted that she would agree with him.
 
"As you have promised me the pleasure of your company, Ralph, I shall not want a written answer," said Kathleen, much to the boy's relief, for he was cogitating as to whether he should ask his tutor how to word his reply, or if Sarah would be able to help him in so important a matter.
 
"I will come, as you have been so kind as to ask me," said Ralph. Then he folded the precious note, and put it into his pocket in company with his father's letter and various boyish treasures, which made it bulge out to its utmost extent.
 
"Why, how rosy your cheeks are!" he added, looking at Kathleen, on whose face a fine colour had suddenly appeared when the boy spoke of having his father at the Hall.
 
Kathleen only laughed, and told Ralph she liked to have rosy cheeks, then gave the boy a list of the guests who were coming on Christmas Day.
 
"They are all children," she said. "I have asked no grown-up people."
 
"Not one at all? Not Mr. Matheson?"
 
"Yes, I hope Mr. Matheson will come, but he is away just now, only for a night, however. I don't know what I should do without him, for he always helps to make things bright for my young visitors. So does my cousin, Miss Ellicott, you know, but I do not count her or Mr. Matheson as visitors."
 
"They are very nice and kind to me always," said Ralph. "I think I may tell you what father wrote in his letter, now you have asked me to come, Miss Mountford. It is here. 'If you could spend your Christmas Day with your kind friend at the Hall, I should be quite happy about you, my dear boy.' I shall tell father I am coming, and that you did not know he was wishing I could be here till after you had really asked me. You quite understand why I didn't read that at first. It would have been asking for an invitation, wouldn't it now?"
 
"I don't think I should have taken it in that way, Ralph. However, it was best for you to do exactly what you thought was honourable. Besides, nothing could have made any difference when my note was written."
 
"But you might have thought I was asking, for all that," said Ralph, proud that he was placed above suspicion.
 
The boy's next letter to his father was an unusually long one. He had so much to tell. The writing of it cost him no little self-denial, and gave the Kelpie a holiday; but if the boy could have seen the delight with which his father read it, and the look of triumph on his face, he would have felt repaid for the loss of his ride.
 
Sarah was never allowed to see Ralph's letters to his father, much to her disgust.
 
"I mayn't be much of a scholar, Master Ralph," she would say, "but I'd be ashamed of myself if I couldn't do without snaking blots and smearing them with my thumb as you do. It's well the captain sends you envelopes ready directed and stamped, or the post people would never read your writing."
 
"I don't want them to read my writing, and I'll seal my letter and post it myself, so that you shan't," said Ralph defiantly, and in a very different tone from that in which he addressed Miss Mountford. "Father says he can read what I write, and that is good enough for me."
 
Ralph made a grimace at Sarah, waved his letter round his head, then raced off to post it.
 
"I'll be even with him yet," thought Sarah, for she was not a little anxious to find out something about her master's doings and whereabouts, Ralph having steadily refused all information. Her curiosity was not of an unkindly sort, but she had long known that her master's position was becoming desperate, and that utter ruin hung over Monk's How. She grieved for the downfall of the old name, for the mistress whom she had served so faithfully, for the boy she had nursed from his birth. She would have made any sacrifice for Ralph, and he, whilst he teased and harassed her, as only an over-indulged lad can tease, would have fought one far above his own size, if he had dared to annoy Sarah.
 
When Ralph returned triumphant from the post, Sarah was on her way to it by a different road. The postmaster was, of course, a village neighbour, and to him she appealed.
 
"Master Ralph has just posted a letter for his father," she said. "I'm afraid he has not put a stamp on, and I'm not sure if it's right directed."
 
"I'll look," said the postmaster, and accordingly he sought for and found the only letter addressed to Captain Torrance. "It's all right, only a bit tumbled, and the stamp is straight enough. The address is well-written, in a man's hand; if I'm not mistaken, the captain's own. I should know, I've seen it often enough."
 
"It's the inside I'm anxious about. Master Ralph is that self-willed, he won't let me see if the spelling is all right. I should like—"
 
"Come now, Sarah, that won't do. Neither you nor I have any business with the inside of a letter, or the outside either, for that matter, when it has once been posted. I've obliged you so far as seeing it is directed plainly, and stamped, because of it being a boy's letter. But I wouldn't go beyond that, no, not if the Queen herself was to ask me;" and the letter was dropped into the mail-bag again.
 
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged for what you have done," said Sarah. "It's lucky it is to the captain, who will excuse blots and bad spelling."
 
On her homeward way Sarah thought, "I can turn-out the boy's pockets after he's asleep. If I find the captain's letter to him, it will tell me what I want to know."
 
Again she was disappointed. Ralph knew the contents of that precious letter by heart, and feeling that no one could rob him of them, he had burned the letter itself to ashes. He, however, displayed Miss Mountford's note of invitation to her admiring eyes, and told her he should be all right for Christmas Day.
 
"And I am glad the lady has asked you, Master Ralph," said Sarah. "I have been making myself miserable about you being all by yourself here. Not but what no company is better than bad," she thought, but she kept this sentiment unspoken.
 
Sarah could look back on recent Christmases and lament, as she pictured the guests that her master had gathered around him then, and permitted this boy to mix with. She gave Ralph many admonitions as to his conduct, especially as to the language he should use in Miss Mountford's presence.
 
"I don't want you to tell me what to say," replied Ralph. "Do you think I shall talk to a lady as if she were Jem Capes? Father has taught me how to behave to ladies."
 
"Then don't forget, Master Ralph, that's all. Be a good boy, and a gentleman, whoever you are with, and then you won't need to be put in mind." From which warnings it will be understood that Sarah was aware how her charge varied his mode of speech to suit the company in which he found himself. If Miss Mountford could have heard her protégé in conversation with the groom, her opinion of him would have been modified.
 
Still, there was much that was lovable and even noble in the child, whilst his faults were inseparable from his surroundings. He copied his father's words and ways with the utmost exactitude, and John Torrance laughed as, from time to time, he noted this, but without rebuking his boy.
 
"How can I?" he thought. "If Ralph is to turn over a new leaf, I must set the example, for he makes me his model in all things. He is a sharp-sighted youngster, but blind on one point, for he thinks his father can do no wrong. I wish I were a better man, for his sake. The less he sees of me, especially now, the more likely he is to improve."
 
This last thought followed the reading of that letter which had cost Ralph so much trouble little disappointment. All she had learned was, that her master's correspondence went to the address of his London lawyer, but of his movements she knew nothing. It seemed as if every one in the neighbourhood was equally ignorant.
 
 
 
CHAPTER XV BOYISH CONFIDENCES

 
CHRISTMAS came and went. Kathleen's party was a great success, largely owing to the efforts of Aylmer, Geraldine, and Hetty Stapleton, who had been pressed into the service. Without them, the hands of the young hostess would have been too full.
 
In pity for Ralph's loneliness, he was invited to stay the night at the Hall. It would be too sad, Kathleen said, for the lonely boy to go back from all the brightness there to the dead quiet of Monk's How.
 
The boy enjoyed his visit to the full, but Kathleen noticed that he avoided Hetty Stapleton in a determined fashion.
 
"Don't you know Miss Stapleton?" she asked. "She is such a favourite with all the young people in the neighbourhood. Or have you and she quarrelled?"
 
The boy's face crimsoned as he answered, "Of course I know Miss Stapleton. Everybody does at Hollingsby. We haven't quarrelled, only I don't think we are friends."
 
"How is that, Ralph? She has surely not been unkind to you. If so, I must take her to task."
 
"Please don't say a word, Miss Mountford!" pleaded Ralph, earnestly. "Miss Stapleton always tries to be kind to me. She has wanted to give me things, and has asked me to ride with her, and—" Ralph paused, though he could have given Kathleen a long list of offered kindnesses which he had curtly rejected.
 
"And you would not accept the things, or join in the rides, eh, Ralph? What can Hetty have done to offend you?"
 
"Nothing to me, only I know father doesn't like her, and she doesn't like him now, though I think they were friends once. I heard Sarah say so. You see, Miss Mountford, I couldn't take presents or go riding with a lady if father was not friends with her, could I? You'll be sure not to tell Miss Stapleton or anybody why I refused, because Sarah was saying that to the cook one day, and she didn't know that I heard her."
 
Kathleen promised to respect Ralph's confidence, then said, "But you go out with me."
 
"That is different. I know father likes me to be with you. He said one day, that there was no lady in the world he admired so much as he did you, and there had only been one so good before, and that was my mother."
 
Seldom had Kathleen been so glad of an interruption as she was at that moment. Her attention was called from Ralph by Hetty Stapleton herself, and so no response was needed. But the boy's words—the echo of his father's—were not forgotten.
 
It seemed that Captain Torrance was in no hurry to return to Monk's How. He came there occasionally, but made no long stay, and took no advantage of the relations between Miss Mountford and Ralph. His visits to Hollingsby were purely business ones, and that he might see the boy and make arrangements for his comfort and the supply of his wants. He sent Kathleen a few lines expressive of his gratitude for her goodness to Ralph, and said that she had poured brightness into his young life and influenced him for good, a work worthy of one so pure and noble as herself. He prayed her to continue her kindness to the lad, as he, of necessity, must be much absent from home, and told her that whilst he could never repay her, he well knew that such a nature as hers would find its reward in the fact that she was helping others, above all, a motherless boy.
 
Always Captain Torrance harped on this string, and always too he awoke a responsive chord in Kathleen's breast. She sent him a few lines in reply, told of her affection for the bright boy, and promised to do all in her power for his happiness and benefit.
 
"Ralph has brightened our quiet life here," she wrote, "and we should all miss him, were he long absent." That was all; but it satisfied Captain Torrance. He did not even call at the Hall, and only on a single occasion did Kathleen exchange a few words with him out-of-doors. This was when winter festivities, such as are usual in country houses, had come to an end. The young leaves were showing on the trees and the song of birds was heard in the land, telling everywhere of new life—the glorious awakening of the world after the deadness of winter.
 
The country roads were dry, and riding was most enjoyable in the bright sunshine and with lengthening days; for April had proved agreeably false to her character, and was more inclined for smiles than tears.
 
Kathleen and Ralph were out riding together on Polly and the Kelpie. Miss Mountford was otherwise unattended. After a brisk canter they were riding quietly homeward, when Captain Torrance came in sight. He had arrived at Monk's How quite unexpectedly during Ralph's absence. Naturally, the boy was wild with delight on seeing his father, and equally naturally, the latter exchanged a cordial greeting with Kathleen, and made use of the opportunity to repeat the thanks he had previously written. But the tone and looks of the speaker were far more eloquent than written words could be, however well considered, and Kathleen listened with undisguised pleasure.
 
"You have given me far more credit than I deserve," she said. "Ours is not a one-sided affection, is it, Ralph? You are my friend as I am yours. My cavalier too, and very much we enjoy our rides together. The Kelpie and Polly are well used to be companions now."
 
Of course Ralph was proud of his post, of his steed, and above all, of being called Kathleen's friend; and though he could not put his feelings into words, he said enough to make her laugh and blush at his childish compliments. Just at this moment, when Captain Torrance was standing listening to his boy, looking towards Miss Mountford and patting Polly's neck in a caressing fashion, Hetty Stapleton came in sight.
 
It seemed to Kathleen that the wrong persons always had appeared on the scene, if by the merest chance she was exchanging a few unimportant words with Captain Torrance. She had long since guessed that Hetty had no good will towards him, and Ralph's innocent confidences had convinced her that the feeling was mutual. She thought highly of Hetty, but was hardly likely to part abruptly with Ralph's father, with whom she had not exchanged a word for months. So she made no attempt to ride on until Hetty had passed by; but she could not fail to see that Captain Jack's elaborate bow received the slightest possible recognition, and that the girl's face wore an expression of grave regret as she returned her own greeting. Captain Jack gave a half-comical, half-rueful look at Kathleen, as he said—
 
"We were friends once, and now Miss Stapleton seems doubtful whether she has seen me before or not."
 
Ever loyal to those whom she professed to like, Kathleen replied, "I have always thought Hetty's friendship well worth winning and keeping. I value it greatly."
 
"And so it is. Friendship that deserves the name always is. But in Miss Stapleton's case and mine, it happened it was difficult to—"
 
The speaker hesitated, laughed, uttered an irrelevant word, and then said, "Something happened which I cannot speak about. If it were my own affair, I should be only too happy if you would listen whilst I told you what estranged us."
 
A meaning look conveyed an impression to Kathleen's mind, and from that moment she believed that Hetty's friendship had ripened into a stronger attachment for John Torrance, and that it had not been reciprocated, hence the friendship had come to an untimely end.
 
She could never have told how she was led to this conclusion; a mistaken one, for in Hetty's case friendship was far too strong a term to use as regarded her acquaintance with this man.
 
He had sought her society for the sake of her fortune, as we already know, and though the world was no wiser as to what had occurred through Hetty's telling, John Torrance could never pardon her for having rejected him, and she knew this.
 
"You will like to go home with your father, Ralph," said Kathleen after this. "I am sure he will want you, especially as he is leaving you again so soon."
 
"I must take you home first, Miss Mountford," replied Ralph. "I ought to, you know. A gentleman always sees the lady home. Father won't mind."
 
"I should mind very much if you forgot yourself so far as to allow Miss Mountford to ride home alone," said his father, with becoming gravity.
 
"I knew you'd say so, father. I'll be at home as soon as you are."
 
Away went the riders, and homeward walked John Torrance, well satisfied with the success of his plans. He had purposely absented himself, to allow Ralph to obtain a firm foothold under Miss Mountford's roof, and he had no intention of staying at Monk's How for long together, until the time drew near when Kathleen's fortune would be in her own hands. Ralph would be his best advocate, and he regularly told the boy many things which he wished her to know, but warned him not to repeat them to Sarah or to any of the people about.
 
"I trust you, dear boy," he would say. "I have only you."
 
"I may tell Miss Mountford things, mayn't I?" asked Ralph. "She's so kind, you know, and I'm certain she's sorry for you, and for me being all by myself."
 
"Tell Miss Mountford what you like, Ralph. No fear of her telling your secrets or mine. It is hard on you, my boy, for the house is very quiet now."
 
"I don't mind if it's best for you. I missed the horses at first, but you see Miss Mountford lets me go and see hers, and I have the Kelpie."
 
Then Ralph told his father of his talk with Miss Mountford about his pet, and her promise that if the pony were sold, she would buy him.
 
It was a long time since John Torrance had been moved as he was at this story. He had parted with all his horses, except his favourite hunter and the Kelpie, and had reduced his establishment at Monk's How as far as possible. Absence gave him a good excuse for this. But it would have cost the man a great pang to deprive Ralph of his pony, and Kathleen's promise to the boy touched his heart. Spendthrift, bankrupt, schemer as he was, ashamed of his past, and hopeless as to his future unless he could win this girl and her fortune, he was almost ready to give up his pursuit of them.
 
"She is far too good to be linked for life with such a man as I am," he thought. "I am half inclined to go to her, to tell her all, and to ask her to take my boy and make of him a better man than his father. Matheson would help her, and I would pledge myself to go away and never again to reclaim Ralph, or intrude on her presence. Ralph would feel the loss of me for a time, but he would get over it under her roof and guardianship."
 
It was too late to carry out such a resolution that night. Captain Torrance slept upon it, and with the coming of morning saw matters in a different light.
 
"When I do honestly love Kathleen, and would marry her without a penny, if I had money of my own, I cannot be counted a mere mercenary suitor."
 
"As to going away, where can I go with the hope of helping myself without money? I dare say Matheson would lend me some, as he has done before, or give it, for that matter. Well he might, for it would leave the coast clear for him; but would Miss Mountford herself thank me for doing this?"
 
Captain Jack decided that she would not, felt sure that Kathleen cared more for himself than for Matheson, and that Ralph would break his heart if deprived of the sight of his father.
 
So, a couple of days later, Monk's How was again left to Ralph and the servants, but the boy went to Miss Mountford to be comforted.
 
"It's horridly lonely, worse than ever, when I've had father for a little while," he said, as he walked in the grounds hanging on Kathleen's arm. "But I don't mind so much as I did; father is doing it for the best. He told me so. And I know now why he didn't stay at home at Christmas. Father used to ask a lot of men to come that he had known for a long while. Some of them were not very nice. They drank a great deal of wine and stuff, and were noisy, and said—"
 
"Hush, Ralph! you must not tell me these things," said Kathleen; "your father would not like it."
 
"Yes, he would. He told me I might say anything to you, for I must have somebody to talk to, and the servants gossip, you know. Well, you may guess what the men did when there was no lady in the house. It was just for want of mother. The nice people go where there are mothers, father says. Well, this last Christmas he stayed away from home, so that the men who had been used to be here could not come, and he says he will never have such about him any more. He wants to be a real good man, for my sake, and somebody else's. He didn't say who else. Do you know, Miss Mountford?"
 
"How can I tell, Ralph? Your father never spoke to me about such things."
 
"Of course not. I wonder if it is for your sake, so as he may be more like you, because you know what he said about you being the best—"
 
Kathleen put her hand on the boy's lips, exclaiming, "I must really stop you by force, your tongue runs so fast, Ralph, and you are such a flatterer. You will do me harm. I shall think too much of myself."
 
"I'm sorry if I've vexed you," said Ralph, penitently.
 
"I am not angry, dear," said Kathleen; and she kissed the boy's upturned face in token of this.
 
The sound of the luncheon bell summoned them to the house, and put an end to the conversation and to further revelations on Ralph's part, for the time.
 
Many similar talks followed, and Kathleen ceased to check the boy when he began them. He always brought his father's letters, and read the greater part of them to her. Often there were messages of grateful thanks to Kathleen herself, which Ralph was particularly proud to repeat to her.
 
Through this innocent medium, John Torrance contrived to keep in constant touch with Miss Mountford. His carefully-worded letters might have been addressed to her for by means of them she was brought to sympathize with him in his new and noble aspirations after a higher and better life.
 
Thus far, however, John Torrance had not gone beyond aspirations. The life itself was in the future. His present one was modelled on the old lines. He was only going to change when, as Kathleen's husband, he should settle down afresh to domesticity in the country, with plenty of money to make it endurable.
 
It was true that he had kept away from Monk's How at Christmas to avoid inviting a number of guests, but this was only half the truth. The other half was, that he wished to stand better with his neighbours, especially Kathleen, and that he was unable to entertain his old associates with the reckless extravagance to which they had been accustomed—not that their company would have been distasteful to him.
 
At present, John Torrance was whiling away the time as best he could, accepting invitations when they offered, moving about from place to place, and solacing himself for temporary discomfort by looking forward to extra indulgences in the future.
 
Aylmer Matheson was conscious of approaching danger to Kathleen, but what could he do? He could not banish Ralph, and Captain Torrance had chosen to banish himself. He shrewdly suspected that his ward was kept acquainted with the movements of the latter through the boy's confidences; but he was sure that, had Kathleen received any direct communication, she would have been prompt to tell him, for she was incapable of deceit. She spoke openly enough of Ralph's confidences without betraying them, and said, "I let the boy talk to me as he chooses. Poor child! He said he must have somebody, and his father had told him that servants gossiped so. I thought it was kinder to listen and be silent, than to let the boy chatter to any and every one."
 
So Ralph's confidences continued, and his frequent presence at the Hall produced an excellent effect on his conduct. He was easily influenced by his surroundings, and not only Kathleen, but Geraldine and Aylmer, strove to wean the boy from the use of expressions which he had learned from grooms and some of the still less reputable associates of Captain Torrance.
 
The three were, however, influenced by different motives: Kathleen by affection for the boy, and a wish to please the father by caring for him; Geraldine and Aylmer, as professed disciples of Christ, could not help doing their utmost to benefit one of the lambs for whom the Shepherd died.
CHAPTER XVI A HAPPY HOLIDAY

 
 
MR. MOUNTFORD had expressed a wish that Kathleen should lead a quiet, and for the most part a country life, until she was of age.
 
"I do not want my girl to be the prey of some fortune-hunter, or to be drawn into an engagement at an age when she cannot know what will make her true happiness," he had said to his sister and the Mathesons. Hence Kathleen, as yet, had small acquaintance with so-called "Society." In summer there had been tours abroad, visits to attractive seaside resorts, and the two last seasons had been partly spent in town, where the Ellicotts and Aylmer had many friends. These, as may well be imagined, were of a class to whom a girl like Kathleen might be introduced with benefit and pleasure to herself. After each stay she had, however, seemed only the more charmed with her home surroundings, and delighted that town friends should, as guests, share them with her at Hollingsby. This year Mrs. Ellicott had been ailing, and needed a change of a different kind, but could not leave Hollingsby until the season was more advanced. She wanted to arrange for Kathleen and Ger to spend some weeks in town with her sister-in-law, but neither would consent to leave her.
 
"Let us go to St. Leonards in June," said Kathleen. "We can spend a month there pleasantly enough."
 
Ralph was present when this proposal was made, and Aylmer noticed that his face turned pitifully white and tears gathered in his eyes.
 
Before any one else spoke he replied, "That will be delightful. I will go too, if I may, and I will take Ralph, if we can get leave for him to go with us."
 
"Oh, Mr. Matheson, you are good!" cried Ralph. "I was thinking how dreadful it would be to stay here without Miss Mountford and everybody," he added, looking from one to the other.
 
"I shall like to take Polly," said Kathleen, "but I am sure she would be quite lost without the Kelpie."
 
"Then I must invite the Kelpie too," said Aylmer, solemnly. "Polly must on no account be distressed by a parting that can be avoided. I will go to St. Leonards and arrange everything for the party, four-footed visitors included."
 
Ralph's delight was indescribable, and Kathleen warmly appreciated Aylmer's unselfishness.
 
Since that night when she had refused him, she had been very gentle to him, and watchful over herself. She had pained him sorely, and she felt what it must be to him to meet her constantly, care for her in all things, and so hide the pain that only she knew of its existence.
 
Often Kathleen would wish that she could have given him a different answer, but seeing this to be impossible, she said to herself, "At least I will give him no needless trouble by my wilfulness. He shall have from me all that a sister can give." To Aylmer her very sweetness and manifest self-conquest made an added trial, whilst from his heart he thanked God for both.
 
"Every day makes it harder for me to bear the loss of Kathleen," he thought, "for every day shows her in a more endearing light."
 
When after the St. Leonards plan had been adopted, Kathleen said to him, "You are the dearest, kindest of friends, Aylmer, and to me the best of brothers," the man trembled at the sound of her voice, and for the moment could not answer.
 
"You have anticipated my wish about little Ralph, and made all so easy for aunty too."
 
"I hope it will not disappoint you to give up town this season, Kathleen," he replied.
 
"Indeed no. I would a thousand times rather have the time at the seaside and with those who are dear to me for companions, than share in all the gaiety a really gay season in town could give. Not that I have known such a one," she added. "We shall be very happy amid simpler and more health-giving enjoyments. How well you have fulfilled the promise you made me about Ralph! You have influenced him for good in a thousand ways. We will try to give the child a happy month at St. Leonards."
 
"We will indeed," said Aylmer. "There is little doubt that his father will consent to his going with you, Kathleen."
 
"With us, if you please, Aylmer. Remember you were the first to invite the boy, but I know you thought of me as well as of him!"
 
"If you had been out of the question, I think the memory of Ralph's pitiful face would have haunted me, had we left him behind."
 
"But I was not out of the question. You meant to please me too by your prompt invitation. I want you to realise how much I feel your thoughtful goodness, and to thank you for it."
 
Carried away for the moment, the girl caught Aylmer's hand, raised it to her lips, then left him abruptly, as if ashamed of her impulsive action.
 
Some men might have derived hope from this and the words which preceded it. Aylmer sighed, and said to himself, "If Kathleen were moved by any warmer affection than the sisterly one to which she confesses, she would not manifest it in such a way."
 
There is no need to tell anything about the arrangements, the journey, or even the stay at St. Leonards. To Mrs. Ellicott it proved health-giving, to her younger companions a season of unalloyed enjoyment.
 
Aylmer planned excursions, hunted up information about places of interest, and made himself essential to the happiness of each and all. They rode, drove, boated, or sometimes spent lazy days, contented to enjoy the beauty of sea and sky, to drink in the health-giving air, and to feel that life alone was bliss amidst such fair surroundings.
 
The months passed all too quickly, and the party returned much better for the change, and bringing home pleasant memories. Ralph had endless tales to tell Sarah, and she delighted to listen, and still more to repeat them with variations—mostly as to names of places, in which she was apt to get sadly mixed. She was intensely grateful for the kindness shown to Ralph, and commented on his improved behaviour.
 
"I do say that Master Ralph is no trouble to speak of now, to what he used to be. No bad words, or playing tricks, or tearing his things for mischief, so as I might have to mend 'em, if I'd vexed him about anything. I used to be frightened of him breaking out at the Hall, and making the ladies so as they wouldn't have him any more; and it's just wonderful he never did. They've made a little gentleman of him amongst them, and Mr. Matheson has had more than a finger in that."
 
"The master always stood out that his boy was a real little gentleman before, but that was when he had his company manners on. He wears them regular now, and it's to be hoped he'll forget most of what he learned from that set that used to come here, and the servants they brought with them. I'm fond of the master, and I'm sorry for him in a way, now he's fixed as he is. But I'm not sure but what it's worth while for him to be short of money now and again, if it keeps the old set out of Hollingsby or Monk's How, any way."
 
Sarah guessed how matters stood to a certain extent, but did not know all.
 
If John Torrance had not been grateful to Aylmer Matheson, as well as to Miss Mountford, he would have been heartless indeed. He could not help knowing, through Ralph's letters, of the part he had taken in caring for the boy; but he always came to the conclusion—"For Ralph's sake I must win Kathleen. She would be a model mother to the lad, for she loves him, and he almost worships her. And afterwards I hope that Matheson and Miss Ellicott will make a match of it; and we shall be the best of neighbours, and form a sort of happy family."
 
Little has been told about Geraldine Ellicott. Hers was no sensational life or character, but one of quiet good-doing. At home and abroad alike she was ever on the look-out for an opportunity of making some one the happier even for a temporary sojourn near them.
 
At St. Leonards Geraldine had conferred a permanent benefit on a poor but gifted girl, whom she first saw on a concert platform, and whose dress, in the worst possible taste, had drawn forth most unflattering comments from the audience.
 
We all know how shimmering satins, costly lace, and the glitter of diamonds, together with a self-confident manner, bespeak the favour of an audience, especially when accompanied by good looks, even though the latter would ill bear a close inspection, because owing more to art than nature.
 
The young singer had none of these. Her dress was of some cheap yellow material, ill-fitting, and manifestly home-made. The wearer was miserably conscious of the contrast between her own appearance and that of another singer, though, doubtless, she had been proud enough of the work of her hands before it was tested by comparison with the town-made dress.
 
The girl's colourless cheeks, Innocent of artificial application, looked the more pallid because her dark hair was drawn too far off her face, though its rich profusion tastefully arranged would have given it a certain beauty. But the expression of that face might have appealed to any tender heart, it was so wistful, and told of fear and anxiety as to the result of this first essay to win the favour of an audience.
 
"Where have they picked up this guy of a girl?" drawled a young dandy, as he surveyed her through his glass.
 
"From the gipsy camp, probably. There is one in the neighbourhood," replied a companion. "Anything for a new sensation, and we shall have one of a sort."
 
As Geraldine looked at the girl she was filled with a great womanly pity, but this changed in part to admiration when she sang, for the voice was wonderful.
 
Ill-trained she was, if the teaching she had had could be called training, but capable of much, and the singer was herself carried away by the music. She forgot herself, her dowdy garment, the rich silk and lace of that other singer, who had drawn her skirts aside as she passed, as if these would be contaminated by touching the paltry yellow stuff. Yet the wearer of the rich robe had sung out of tune and with a worn voice, and had been applauded for the glitter that surrounded her, although, even in her palmy days, she had never owned a voice like that which rang through the lips of that dowdy débutante in yellow.
 
The girl forgot all her self-consciousness, and even her audience. Her pale cheeks flushed, her dark eyes shone, and she compelled the applause of her hearers by the intuitive musical inspiration which accompanied her effort, and which was manifest despite its faults.
 
"Poor little beggar!" exclaimed the dandy who had called her a guy of a girl. "She's got a voice, and no mistake, but she wants everything else. I should think she'll hardly come on a second time. If she appears, I shall disappear."
 
Geraldine guessed the girl's story, and verified her convictions by after-inquiry. She found that she had been carefully brought up by a good mother, who had seen better days, but was widowed and poor. The girl herself was modest and retiring, but her speech and manners were refined, and her love of music and taste for it were undoubted. No fear that if a chance were given her she would fail to take advantage of it.
 
Having, however, passed the charmed circle, and found a certain amount of favour awaiting her, the girl was a little unwilling to withdraw from it.
 
Geraldine counted the cost, and decided to help this girl to become a mistress of the art she herself loved. It would entail somewhat severe self-denial, but it should be done. And it was.
 
The young singer was withdrawn from the platform, and arrangements made for the complete and careful training of her voice, and Geraldine carried home with her the happy knowledge that her protégé's lovely gift would be turned to the best advantage after due probation.
 
It is not as a part of the story that this little interlude is given. It is only an illustration of the beautiful and unselfish character of one whose great desire at all times was to show her love to God by making the life of her neighbour brighter and more useful. In after years her protégé's success and gratitude more than repaid Geraldine for the self-denial by which the former had been purchased.
 
It is not wonderful that Aylmer Matheson should have been moved by a similar desire to benefit the young singer, seeing that his life was ruled by the same law as that which actuated Geraldine. Being a man, and anxious that his motives should not be misunderstood, he went about his inquiries more slowly than Geraldine had done. When at length he was brought into communication with the young singer's mother, he found that he had been anticipated. Some benefactress, whose identity was not to be revealed, had undertaken all cost and responsibility, and the grateful thanks of those whom he would have benefited could only be given for good intentions.
 
"Could the benefactress be Kathleen?" he asked himself. "It would be like her impulsive generosity;" but he decided that she would hardly undertake such an expenditure until she was of age, without previous consultation with himself. He remembered, too, that she had been more inclined to ridicule the pretensions of the young vocalist, and to criticize her appearance than to sympathize.
 
"Could it be Geraldine who had anticipated him?"
 
It was likely enough; but if so, it would be useless for him to try to penetrate the secret, much as he would have liked to be her partner in such a work.
 
Aylmer was deeply sensible of the beauty of Geraldine's character, and perhaps at times his thoughts ran in a similar direction to Kathleen's. She wished that she could give Aylmer more than a sister's affection, or that he could feel more than a brother's regard for Geraldine.
 
"It is just the contrariness of human nature," he said to himself. "Geraldine and I have so much in common. If I could love her as I do Kathleen, I should have a wife who would enter into every plan and hope of mine, always supposing that she cared for me in like manner. We must be too much alike, for Kathleen's very wilfulness charms me more than all Geraldine's excellences put together."
CHAPTER XVII VOWS WRITTEN ON SAND

 
 
IN spite of Miss Mountford's affection for Ralph Torrance, the friendship which had grown up between these two who differed so much in age began to have an inconvenient side. Aylmer had always feared this, and that the boy would become, if not exacting, troublesome to deal with. Made free of the Hall, and by Kathleen's wish accustomed to go and come as he chose, it was natural that Ralph should count himself one of the family there.
 
Taking the boy to the seaside opened the door for another difficulty to arise when an autumn tour was in contemplation, and it would be equally unwise and impracticable to include Ralph in the party.
 
Ralph was in the grounds with Kathleen and Geraldine one afternoon in July. The boy was telling them that his holidays were about to begin.
 
"I can be all the time nearly with you, if you want me. Mr. Sinley is going to have a month of Sundays, that will be nearly five weeks, but lessons will not begin even when he comes back."
 
Kathleen hesitated, for she knew what was coming would distress her favourite. All the same it must be said.
 
"I would have you a great deal with me if I could, but we are all going away for a few weeks. We shall be travelling about a good deal, so we shall not even take Polly with us. Horses would only be a trouble, and no use."
 
"And boys would be a trouble too, wouldn't they?" replied Ralph, making a great effort to treat the question from an outsider's point of view.
 
"We have never had boys with us, dear. We had one boy friend at St. Leonards, and we did not find him a trouble. But there are times when even one boy would not be quite in the right place with a party of grown-up people. Fathers and mothers go without their boys and girls very often. You know that?"
 
Ralph pondered the matter, and could not deny this. The Stapleton children had been often left behind when their parents went away. And he—well, he owed the most delightful time he had ever enjoyed to those who were just friends—not even relatives. Ralph decided that he must be brave. So he managed to say that he hoped they would all be very happy whilst they were away.
 
"You must try to be happy too, Ralph," said both the girls. "When we come home we shall have so much to tell you. Besides, your father will be sure to make some plan for your holidays," added Kathleen.
 
"My birthday will be the day after to-morrow, and I shall be ten years old," said the boy, without attempting to answer Kathleen.
 
"And this is Wednesday. I am glad it will be before we leave. We will ask some young friends, and have plenty of strawberries and cream out-of-doors. What do you think of that, Ralph?"
 
Ralph soberly answered, "Thank you very much, Miss Mountford."
 
"Don't you want to have an outdoor party?" asked Kathleen.
 
"If I might, I would rather have just you and father," replied the boy, with a beseeching look. "He is coming home to-day."
 
"Then I think, Ralph, as I have had so much of you for a long time past, you ought to spend the day at home with your father, as he will have a great deal to say to you. You may just run round here in the morning for something I have to show you. I want to wish you 'Happy returns,' but I will not take you from your father."
 
There was such quiet decision in Kathleen's manner that the boy felt he had in some way made a mistake, and he said—
 
"I will do just what you tell me, Miss Mountford. I dare say father will want me."
 
Drawing Kathleen aside, he asked, "May I whisper something?"
 
"Certainly, Ralph."
 
"I hope you didn't think I was hinting for father to be asked here. He would be awfully angry if he knew I had said that about having just you and him."
 
"I am sure you were not hinting," said Kathleen, heartily. "And you shall have that party when we come back, so you will lose nothing by putting it off. Now what is it?"—seeing the old wistful look on the boy's face.
 
"Will father ever come here with me?"
 
"Indeed I cannot tell, Ralph," replied Kathleen. "Perhaps when I have a birthday party."
 
Kathleen had for a moment imagined that Ralph's wish to have only herself and his father had been suggested by the latter. The boy's whispered question convinced her to the contrary. But when she came to think of what she had said about a future birthday of her own, and the possibility of John Torrance's presence, she felt anything but happy. The remark, if repeated by Ralph to his father, might create an impression widely different from what was meant by her. Everybody knew that in a few months she would be of age, and Captain Torrance might imagine that the first use she meant to make of her full womanhood would be to open the doors of the Hall to a guest whom her guardians declined to receive there in the meanwhile.
 
Yet Kathleen had only thought of pleasing Ralph by speaking of both their birthdays.
 
Naturally the boy told his father what had passed, and Captain Torrance was more than contented to bide his time.
 
Though the party was put off, Ralph was made wildly happy by the gift of a beautiful watch, a gold hunter, strong and suitable for a boy's use, but goodly to look upon. There was his monogram on the back, and inside a little inscription to say that it was to "Ralph Torrance, from his friend, K. D. M."
 
On the whole he was happy, for his father had promised to remain some little time at Monk's How, and then, probably, to take him away.
 
At the fortnight's end, however, Ralph was left behind, but such neighbours as were at home were kind to the boy.
 
Kathleen and the others were expected home on the fifteenth of September. She had told Ralph when to look for her, and he in return wrote that she was to look up at a certain favourite tree which bordered the road, as she passed it. He would meet her at the Hall very soon after her arrival there.
 
Kathleen did not forget the request, and, on looking upwards, noticed a flag dangling from one of the highest boughs; but, instead of waving in the wind, the stick to which it was fastened was uppermost.
 
"Poor Ralph's signal is reversed," she said with a smile at its limp condition. "What a height he must have climbed to attach it to that bough!"
 
"A most dangerous height," said Mr. Matheson. "Ralph could not have reached it unassisted. I hope he is unconscious of the ungraceful condition of his signal."
 
"He will not care for that half an hour hence," said Geraldine. "The sight of Kitty will make the boy forget everything else."
 
There was no Ralph to greet them on their arrival, and soon Kathleen began to look anxiously for his coming. Mrs. Ellicott suggested that the boy had gone home to don his best suit after fixing the flag.
 
Aylmer did not answer, but asked the ladies to excuse his leaving them. Something in his face struck Kathleen with dread, and, throwing a soft shawl round her head, she followed him. Aylmer was going towards the tree from which the flag depended, and as he neared it he quickened his pace to a run. When beneath it he knelt, and bent over something which lay motionless on the ground.
 
A great fear took possession of Kathleen, but hurrying on, she saw that Aylmer was bending over what appeared to be the lifeless body of Ralph Torrance. A broken bough lay beside him, and the boy's arm was partly entangled in it.
 
"Oh, Ralph, my dear little friend, you have lost your life in trying to show your love for me!" cried Kathleen, almost beside herself with grief, as she saw the deathlike face of her favourite. "I might have known that nothing would keep you from me, if you had the power to come to me."
 
These words were followed by a paroxysm of grief, and the girl, without heeding what Aylmer said, threw herself on the grass and kissed the pale face again and again, whilst her tears fell like rain on it.
 
"He is not dead, Kathleen, believe me," said Aylmer. "His heart beats, though feebly."
 
"Are you sure, Aylmer?"
 
"Quite sure. Be calm, if you want to be of use."
 
Kathleen had always trusted Aylmer implicitly, and his quiet firmness had the effect of allaying her excitement, but she said with decision, "He must be carried to the Hall. No one must care for him but myself. For my sake he risked his life, dear, loving-hearted child!"
 
"Yes, no doubt he wanted to honour his friend's arrival. Sit beside him, Kathleen, but do not move him, or you may do harm."
 
Not another moment was lost. Aylmer obtained help and sent for the doctor, but he knew well how to convey the unconscious child to the house in the easiest way, and this was done.
 
Kathleen waited eagerly for the doctor's report, and asked him, "Is there any hope?"
 
"Certainly there is hope," he replied, "though it will be many a day before our young friend climbs a tree again."
 
To himself Dr. Burgon added, "if ever," for the boy's injuries were severe. His right shoulder was dislocated, through being entangled in the bough, one rib was broken, but, worst of all, there was concussion of the brain.
 
"He must have fallen on his head," said Aylmer.
 
"Not with full force," replied the doctor. "If he had, he must have been killed on the spot. The bough which did so much mischief in one direction just prevented that, by slightly breaking the directness of the fall."
 
As soon as all had been done that could be done for the present, Kathleen begged to be allowed to sit beside the boy, and announced her intention of watching him through the night.
 
This Dr. Burgon would not permit.
 
"If I were anxious to have a second patient on my hands, I would install you as nurse, but the long journey and excitement since have unfitted you for such service. The boy will be well looked after. Nurse Goddard has the experience you lack. She is equally capable handed and tender-hearted, which last quality is not always found in combination with the needful deftness and firmness. You, Miss Mountford, must exercise self-control, try to get a good night's rest, and to-morrow, if you have obeyed me, I will try to make use of you. I shall also look to Miss Ellicott and Matheson here to join the staff of honorary nurses."
 
The doctor spoke as cheerily as possible to hide his own great anxiety, for Ralph's condition was indeed a grave one.
 
"Will he get better?" asked Kathleen, eagerly. "I will do anything you bid me."
 
"That is right, though as to your question, it is impossible to speak with certainty yet. Has Captain Torrance been communicated with?"
 
The inquiry was addressed to Aylmer, who replied, "We are a little uncertain as to his address, but telegrams have been sent to every likely place."
 
"You will do all that can be done, and well," said the doctor, then left with the promise to return later at night. There could be no question now as to receiving Captain Torrance at the Hall.
 
It was Aylmer who met him at the station, and broke the sad news. Geraldine was watching beside Ralph when his father came, for Kathleen's more demonstrative sorrow rendered her unfit for the task for any length of time. She, however, met Captain Torrance as he entered, and extended her hand.
 
"I am so glad you are come," she said. "Aylmer will have told you everything. As for me, I feel as though I were the cause, though an innocent one, of this great trouble."
 
Tears streamed down her face. It had been difficult for her to say so much, and she could not utter another word.
 
Captain Torrance pressed her hand between both his own, as he answered, "To hear you blame yourself adds to my sorrow, for you have been so good to him."
 
Turning to Aylmer, Captain Torrance began to speak of personal kindnesses received from him, but Mr. Matheson succeeded in interrupting these acknowledgments.
 
Kathleen had long suspected that John Torrance was deeply indebted to her guardian, and this, together with the silence of the latter and his goodness to Ralph, had increased her admiration for his character. A less noble nature would have done nothing, or tried to make capital out of his services.
 
Perhaps, had poverty driven away the captain, and Ralph with him, Kathleen's future might have been different, and Aylmer have won the prize dear to him above all others. Now with both under his ward's roof, he lost hope; but still the noble unselfishness remained, and he prayed for Kathleen's true happiness in preference to his own. "If she should give her heart to John Torrance, may God make him worthy of her!" was the honest desire of his heart.
 
Days and nights of anxious watching and alternate hope and fear prevailed, but at length Ralph was pronounced out of danger.
 
Once on the way to recovery, he was never happy without Miss Mountford. Then he begged for his father's presence, and, though some one was always in the adjoining room, and the door open between the two, the intimacy increased rapidly.
 
Naturally John Torrance showed his best side, and, to do him justice, he was battling against self, stirred to this by a sense of the goodness of Miss Mountford and Aylmer. Never had he cared so much for her, and yet all there was left in him of his better nature told him that he ought not to strive for the hand of Kathleen.
 
Ralph had much to say about his friend.
 
"If you are sorry I have no mother, why don't you ask Miss Mountford to be my mother?" he asked, when his father and he were alone. "Nobody is so nice as she is."
 
The captain's face flushed as he answered. "You do not know what you are talking about, Ralph. Miss Mountford is far too good to be your mother."
 
"I thought mothers never could be too good," he replied, in an injured tone.
 
"It is not that, Ralph. I could never think even Miss Mountford too good to be your mother, but she would be too good for me."
 
"As if she would want to be your mother!" persisted Ralph. "Why, you are ever so much older than she is. But I know what you mean. She would be a lot too good to come and live at Monk's How, for it isn't a very nice place now. It's awfully dull."
 
"Monk's How is very different from what it once was. I am sorry for you, more than for myself."
 
"Well, in a way, it is better than it was a while ago, for we never have any of those horrid men that used to come, and we needn't have them again, I suppose. People can't come unless you ask them. Jem Capes is gone, and I'm glad of it, for he used to say bad words. I used to think it was fine to talk like him and those gentlemen, too, who used to stay with us. But I know better now."
 
It caused John Torrance a pang to hear his boy's innocent words. Except faithful Sarah, Ralph had been surrounded by evil influences. For good ones he must thank his friends at the Hall. Ralph watched his father intently, then asked, "Are you sorry that Jem Capes is gone, and those men stay away? We might have nice people now instead."
 
"You cannot understand everything, Ralph; but I am glad to be rid of those men, and Capes too, though I miss some things."
 
"The horses. I know. I cried when your hunter went. He was a beauty. Maybe Miss Mountford will buy him. She said she would buy my Kelpie back if—"
 
"Hush, Ralph!" said his father, in a tone which startled the boy, and warned him off forbidden ground.
 
Just then Sarah entered with Ralph's tea, and Captain Torrance left him in her charge.
 
The ladies were out, so there were no adieus, and the man had enough to think of as he strolled homeward.
 
"Will Ralph repeat his views to Kathleen?" he asked himself. "I wish he would. He might spare me the pain of a refusal, if—but I believe she would not refuse me. I will be honest. She shall know all of my past that one could tell to a girl. If there is a creature noble enough to devote life and fortune for the salvation of the man she loves, Kathleen is that girl, supposing she is not over-influenced. If I win her, I will be a good man for the future, and she shall not regret her choice."
 
John Torrance resolved, and built castles, and repeated, "I will be good and grateful for Kathleen's sake." But of gratitude to God, or the possibility of failure without His help, he neither thought nor cared.
 
CHAPTER XVIII WOOING BY PROXY

 
 
IN three more days Ralph was dressed and lying on a couch in Kathleen's boudoir. She and Geraldine had adorned it with flowers and autumn foliage, and were sitting by him.
 
"You will be running about directly," said Geraldine. "Shall you not be glad?"
 
"Yes, but it will be horrid to go to Monk's How. So lonely!"
 
Ralph pulled Ger's face down and kissed it, then called Kathleen, that he might kiss her also.
 
"Let us be happy to-day," said Ger. "We have so much to be glad about." A sound of wheels drew her to the window, and she added, "I must go. Mother is out, and here comes a carriage full of callers."
 
"You must do duty for me too, Ger," said Kathleen. "Sarah has gone over to Monk's How, nurse is lying down, and I must guard this youngster, lest he should take another climbing fit."
 
Ralph laughed, and seized Kathleen, exclaiming, "It is lovely to have you to myself. I want to talk to you about something."
 
Out came the story of his longings to have her for a mother. The boy would not be silenced. He clung to her excitedly as he pleaded.
 
"I do so love you, Miss Mountford, and I want you to be my mother. You are good to me, and I am so happy, and I want to be really good when I am with you. It's dreadful to think of leaving you. I shall get ill again and die, I know I shall, if you send me away. Say you won't, darling, say you won't!"
 
Ralph hid his face on Kathleen's arm, and sobbed. She was terrified, and would have summoned help, but his clinging grasp detained her, and she had to try to soothe him as best she might.
 
"Dear boy, you will injure yourself, and you are grieving me. I will do all I can for you. I will ask your father to let you stay here with me, and be my boy. You must not cry so. What shall I do?"
 
Her distressed tones had a calming effect on Ralph.
 
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll try to be quiet. But I don't seem to care whether I am ill again or not. I could not be your boy and leave father by himself, and he said that he is not good enough for you. I think he is good—"
 
A light rap at the door interrupted the sentence. Kathleen called, "Come in!" thankful for the prospect of relief, and John Torrance entered, having been guided to the room by a servant.
 
The sight of Ralph dressed and in the sitting-room was to have been a pleasant surprise for the father, but this was marred by the boy's excitement. Kathleen wished to explain, but blushed, hesitated, and remained silent. "I'll tell you, father," said Ralph, in a more subdued tone, but still clinging firmly to Kathleen, who, unable to extricate herself; was compelled to listen whilst the boy repeated all that he had just said.
 
A more painful position for a girl to be placed in could hardly be imagined, and it was intensified when Ralph added—
 
"Father is here now. He will tell you how glad he will be if you will be my mother. Say you will, darling."
 
The thin hands clung more tightly, tears again flowed down the boy's pale cheeks, whilst the upturned face had a pleading look upon it that matched the words Ralph had spoken.
 
On Kathleen's face an expression of combined indignation and distress appeared. At this moment all the gossip about Captain Torrance rushed to her mind, and she thought, "Ralph is his tool. How horrible, when we have been trying to make the child's life happier and better!"
 
Kathleen's eyes flashed with anger. She could not think of the boy, but with a sudden jerk released herself, feeling sorry that she had not done this before.
 
"It is impossible for me to remain here," she said. "I leave Ralph with you. I can never forgive a person who could put such words into a child's mouth."
 
"Surely, Miss Mountford, you do not believe in the existence of such a person. The scene has distressed me beyond measure. It is, however, the outcome of Ralph's intense love for you which your goodness has inspired," replied Captain Torrance. "Your home has been a haven of peace. Your indulgent love and the kindness of your relatives and guardian have made his lonely home and motherless condition more terrible. Is it wonderful that he loathes the thought of Monk's How? I pray you forgive him for loving you—not too much, but too selfishly. I cannot ask your pardon, for I am innocent, and would, if I could, blot this scene out of your memory and mine."
 
Never had John Torrance looked so dignified as at that moment. Kathleen felt ashamed of her indirect accusation. The angry look faded from her face, and she simply said—
 
"I believe you."
 
"That's right!" cried Ralph. "It wasn't father. Now he's angry with me."
 
"He will forgive you, and I must also, and try to be stern enough to put you a little out of love with me for the future."
 
"You will never do that. I must go on loving you if you cannot be—Oh dear! I nearly said something. I must go to sleep and forget."
 
Ralph looked weary, and closed his eyes, saying, "I will hold your hand; it helps me to sleep."
 
Soon his quiet breathing told of unconsciousness, and the watchers rejoiced that the excitement was past, though it had left him exhausted.
 
"Ralph was right," said the captain, in a low tone. "Having given the whole heart, one must go on loving, if return be hopeless."
 
"That is not Ralph's case. We all love the boy," said Kathleen.
 
"I know, and am grateful. The case is mine. I have given my whole heart to one who deserves that of the best and noblest of mankind. So I have no hope. I will not be wicked enough to ask for a return;" and he looked eloquently at the girl.
 
Kathleen understood. This man loved her, but was too honest to ask her to link her fate with his.
 
"Captain Torrance—" she began.
 
He interrupted. "I have no right to be called so. I forfeited the honour when, years ago, I was allowed to resign my commission instead of being deprived of it. Old acquaintances use it out of mistaken courtesy. From your lips it comes as a reproach; not that you would deem it such, but conscience reminds me that the time is long past when I could honestly claim the title as a servant of my Queen and country."
 
"I want you to listen for a few moments," he added; and before Kathleen could assent or otherwise, he was pouring into her ear the story of his past life—"so far as he could tell it to a girl."
 
Kathleen listened as if fascinated, alas! with more of sympathy than repulsion, and at length the speaker closed with these words—
 
"I have told you all. I have lost my ample fortune; lost the good name my father left me, deeming it my best heritage. I am a ruined man, and worse, for I have robbed my boy of all that ought to have descended to him. Monk's How is only mine on sufferance, and a very few months hence I must turn my back upon it for ever, and seek a refuge for Ralph and myself in some far-away land, where no one will be able to remind him of his father's follies and sins. Yet once my life and home were blessed by an angel's presence. I had the whole-hearted love of one of the sweetest women that ever lived, and she died believing in me."
 
"I am so sorry—so very sorry!" said Kathleen, as John Torrance's voice died into silence and he rose to leave her. "Is there nothing that can be done?"
 
"Ask yourself, Miss Mountford."
 
Kathleen could not reply, and he continued: "There is only one way of salvation for me. Were my Adela living, and as she was, when, with every advantage of family, fortune, and beauty, she became my wife, I, with my present experience, could look forward with confidence to a new and better life. But how could any other girl risk her future with that of a ruined spendthrift? If there were one so noble, so unselfish, as to stoop in order to raise John Torrance from the mire into which he has fallen, others would step in to save her from her too rash generosity. I would die a beggar by the roadside sooner than I would be guilty of the crime of asking her for such a sacrifice; even though I could say, as indeed I can, that I love her with all the strength of my being. My love for Adela was selfish, though sincere. I will not be selfish a second time."
 
The man's voice trembled as he ended. He bent over his sleeping boy and touched his forehead with his lips, then rose to leave the room.
 
Kathleen's beautiful eyes were moist, but her face was lighted by such a look as John Torrance had never before seen there. She placed her hand in his, he thought by way of farewell, but when he held it she made no effort to withdraw it from his clasp. He felt it tremble, and interpreting the expression on her face aright, he exclaimed—
 
"Miss Mountford—Kathleen, dearest, can it be possible that you care for one so unworthy as I, penniless, homeless, and ruined to boot? I did not think that even you, noble, high-souled, generous as you are, could make so great a sacrifice."
 
He drew her towards him, and she, hiding her face on his shoulder, whispered, "I am so weak myself in everything that is best; but we will help one another."
 
"My darling, your goodness is too great. I feel that I ought not to accept such a sacrifice, though it would be heaven on earth for Ralph and me to have you joined to us by the dearest ties."
 
"I will make Ralph happy soon," said Kathleen, as she again hid her glowing face. "I will tell him that, after all, I have promised to be his mother."
 
"Such a promise will be enough to restore him to health. Oh, Kathleen, you give me your sweet self, and you will give me back my boy! Was ever so generous a maiden? I trust my life-long devotion will prove alike my love and gratitude."
 
He held her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, feeling for the moment almost overwhelmed by what, mentally, he would have called "his astonishing luck."
 
"What will your guardians say?" he asked, after a short silence. "I shall be sorry for Matheson. He has done so much for me, unknown to all but ourselves."
 
"He is my true friend, and as such he will desire nothing so much as my happiness," replied Kathleen.
 
"I believe it. He is capable of any self-sacrifice. It will be hard for me to tell him, dearest, all the same."
 
"He will return to-morrow," said Kathleen. "In the meanwhile—"
 
She looked up as if for guidance.
 
"In the meanwhile we will keep our happy secret to ourselves. What say you?"
 
Kathleen assented, and with a lover's farewell John Torrance left her to muse over what had passed, and the change wrought in her life prospects.
 
She had time, for Ralph slept long. She pictured a life with one saved and elevated to more than his former best estate. She never doubted her power or John Torrance's gratitude. The opportunity would realize dreams, and make noble, unselfish plans into realities also. Two lives, those of Ralph and his father, would be blessed by the dedication of her own. This would be reward enough.
 
As to John Torrance, he walked homeward feeling little like the man lately so humble, and saying to himself, "Poor Ralph has done a splendid stroke of business for us both. It is really too absurd, but my beautiful Kathleen gave herself to me without being directly asked. I told a story, and she jumped straight to a conclusion."
 
Kathleen's musings were interrupted by her cousin. The visitors were gone at last, and Ger regretted Kathleen's long, lonely watch beside Ralph.
 
"Captain Torrance came, and Ralph got excited, and frightened us both before he fell asleep. I will call Sarah now, for I am tired," said Kathleen. "I was glad to escape the Westons, though. They are such arrant gossips."
 
"I was glad of your absence; too. They have little to do, and their one resource is the discussion of their neighbours."
 
"What was to-day's subject?"
 
"Ralph's accident. Regret for his presence here as an excuse for his father's visits, a long tirade against the latter, and a devout wish that no harm may happen to any of us through him. These were the main topics."
 
"Perhaps I may find them a more interesting one soon," said Kathleen; then, as Geraldine looked inquiringly, she added, "I shall be of age in three months."
 
"True, and they will speculate about the festivities."
 
"Anything else of interest?"
 
"Hetty Stapleton is come to make a long stay at Oakwood."
 
Geraldine expected that Kathleen would express her pleasure at this, but she was silently wondering how Hetty would receive the news of her engagement, when it became public.
 
"I suppose she will hate me for winning what she most desired," was her own first thought.
 
She was wrong, but not to blame for a false impression which John Torrance had managed to convey to her mind respecting his acquaintance with Hetty.
 
The latter was longing to see Kathleen, and full of fears on her account, and because of the captain's frequent visits.
 
"As to Aylmer," thought Hetty, "he is too unselfish. Had I been in his place, Captain Jack should never have crossed the threshold of Hollingsby Hall. Moreover, he should have found Monk's How too hot to hold him long ago. Aye, and I would have been Kathleen's affianced husband too, for had that man been out of the way he would have stood first. She trusts and esteems Aylmer, and love would have followed but for a bit of high-flown, romantic folly that has got into the girl's head. She thinks she can save John Torrance and Ralph. I am convinced she is full of plans to effect this. Cost what it may, I will try to open her eyes to her danger."
 
Full of this resolution, Hetty went early to the Hall on the following morning, and asked for Miss Mountford.
 
Kathleen received her pleasantly enough, but the old girlish heartiness was absent, and Hetty could not help feeling that they met again on different terms from those which existed when they last parted.
 
They talked of many things. Hetty's journeyings and new experiences, of Kathleen's own, of Ralph's illness and present condition, and of the family at Oakwood. Then, in a quiet fashion, Hetty stepped on forbidden ground, and began to speak of John Torrance. She hardly knew how she found courage, but she did begin a story with which few beside herself were acquainted, and which need not be, repeated here.
 
Kathleen at first listened quietly, but at length she exclaimed, "How dare you repeat such falsehoods? Shame on you to attack a fallen man behind his back! But I have learned that hopeless love will sometimes turn to hate, and that a girl will leave no stone unturned to revenge a slight! But I thought better things of you, Hetty Stapleton."
 
"What do you mean, Kathleen? Never did I entertain anything like affection for John Torrance, or even respect; but till now I should have thought him incapable of inventing an untruth to prejudice you. I have spoken in your interests, vainly, I can see. Some day you will know the falsehood lies not with me; and for myself, I would die sooner than share the lot of such a man as John Torrance, and with such a past!"
 
"He did not say you had—" Kathleen paused.
 
"Been in love with him," said Hetty. "Perhaps not in so many words, but there are ways of conveying impressions apart from speech. You are angry, and I am sharing the fate of those who, with a right motive, give unwelcome information. I have often dared to do it, and earned gratitude thereby. To-day I have lost my friend in the effort to save her from the effects of her too generous, trustful nature. Farewell, Kitty. May God preserve you from yourself! I cannot."
 
Hetty left the room and the house, without waiting for a reply, feeling unhappy, but no more so than did Kathleen. A shrug of the shoulders, an indirect sentence, a meaning look which, as used by John Torrance, might have applied to anybody. On this foundation Kathleen had insulted Hetty, accused her of a vile motive in speaking, and as good as told her that she had, in unmaidenly fashion, flung herself at John Torrance's feet, to be repulsed and scorned!
 
When the passion was over, Kathleen thought of what she really knew about Hetty. She saw in her a girl, true to her friends, helpful to the weak, wise to advise, cheer, comfort and strengthen others, and always incapable of falsehood or meanness.
 
What had John Torrance been by his own confession?
 
She shrank from the picture, but said to herself, "How different will the future be from the past, which I will help him to forget!"
 
Then about Hetty. "She is too generous to keep up a grudge. Some day I shall ask her to forgive my hasty words, and when she sees me happy, despite the past, she will forgive and rejoice with me."
 
It was a terrible surprise to Aylmer Matheson when, as soon as possible after his return, John Torrance sought an interview with him, and asked his consent to his engagement with Kathleen, and his influence with Mrs. Ellicott.
 
"I am not worthy of her, I know," he said, "but girls seldom choose the best man, even when choice is theirs, or I should not have been the husband of such a woman as was my boy's mother. But Kathleen loves me, and has promised to be my wife, and she is fully informed as to my hopeless pecuniary position. I will agree to anything in reason as to the settlement of the property, the estate absolutely, and part of the money. As to the past, it is irrevocable. I can only begin again."
 
"Yes," said Aylmer, "the present is yours, and there is help to be had." He felt that opposition would be hopeless.
 
"Shall I not make a fresh start with an angel of goodness by my side to help me? And you will be my friend, Matheson. I do not forget what I owe to you, and you shall not find me ungrateful," was the reply.
 
"I will do all I can for Kathleen's sake, and yours," he added. "But I cannot forget that you, as you acknowledge, had an angel of goodness by your side once before, when you made a new beginning. Believe me, Torrance, there is only One whose help will make you strong to withstand temptation. If I knew you sought such guidance, I should be more hopeful."
 
"You think I failed with Adela beside me. Do you think I shall rush into the old follies after past experience? If so, you must deem me weak indeed."
 
"I have seen enough to know that experience does not give strength," said Aylmer.
 
Carried away by his own faith, and his anxiety, too, for Kathleen, he pleaded with John Torrance as he had never thought to speak to a man of his stamp.
 
"You are the best fellow I ever met," said the other as he finished. "If you had gone into the Church, you would have carried all before you. I will think of your words, though I make no promise to follow your advice. I doubt whether my sweet Kathleen would like a saint as well as she does good-for-nothing Jack Torrance, whom she is going to take in hand and reform. So far, her preferences have been in favour of the sinner rather than the saint."
 
The speaker laughed, and Aylmer's cheek flushed, for he detected a sneer beneath the jesting words, and was pained by it.
 
Captain Torrance saw the look, and continued. "Do not misunderstand my jesting words. Feeling as you do, you cannot regard me as a desirable husband for Kathleen; but until you have spoken to her I will not ask your consent. Be sure, however, we should both be happier for having it, and Mrs. Ellicott's also."
 
Kathleen prevented the possibility of any difficulty when the subject was named to her.
 
"Glad as I should be to have your consent and aunty's, I will not seek it; and, though I have no fears respecting my future, you shall have no responsibility, whatever may happen. I will not marry until I am my own mistress."
 
Mrs. Ellicott was distressed, but helpless; for Kathleen deferred to her guardians in everything until the end of their trust. As for Aylmer, he would have forfeited his whole fortune, if by so doing he could have prevented the ill-omened marriage, though his prospect of winning Kathleen himself would have remained hopeless. He sometimes thought that Torrance would prefer wealth alone, rather than with a wife, however charming.
 
On the other hand, Aylmer noticed that Kathleen was exacting in requiring her lover's attendance, and that Torrance showed a scarcely veiled impatience to escape. "No wonder," thought Aylmer. "He has so long been unused to home-life that it soon palls upon him. What will the future bring, when such a life is expected to be lasting?"
 
He hinted these doubts to John Torrance in a half-jesting way, and the answer startled him.
 
"You think I shall not settle down easily after my recent vagabond life, but we shall not need to be quite humdrum in our habits. Kathleen must see something of life, and I shall delight in introducing her to it, in order to give her new interests, before we drop into the domestic rut. After a season in town we shall enjoy Hollingsby and rural felicity," replied the other, with a laugh.
 
Perhaps John Torrance read the fears that filled Aylmer's mind as he listened, and he continued: "You have no faith in me, but mind, I am not wholly selfish and mercenary, though you know how needy I am—none better. But let me tell you, that if you could and would hand over to me every yard of land and every penny she possesses, with your fortune to boot, on condition of giving up Kathleen, I would refuse all. She has honoured me by her choice. A world's wealth would not to give her up."
 
"Who could relinquish one like Kathleen?" asked Aylmer, with a sigh. "Be good and true to her, Torrance. Make her happy, and those who love her will be happy in knowing it, and bless you as the cause."
CHAPTER XIX CLOUDS OVERHEAD

 
THE news of Kathleen's engagement spread quickly, and calls and congratulatory letters were many. How could it be otherwise? The customs of society demanded this much. Well for the parties concerned that they did not hear all that was said on the subject. Kathleen's friends pitied both her and her guardians; the girl, because of the future before her, the latter for having allowed John Torrance to outwit them. Ralph was wild with joy. His heart had been sore after that afternoon when he displeased Kathleen so much, but now he was forgiven, and his happiness complete.
 
The head gardener at Hollingsby had grown grey in his present service; but he promptly remarked, "When Captain Torrance is master here, he'll want a fresh gardener." Mountain was on the point of saying the same thing as to his position, but, with his usual contradiction, he turned fiercely on his fellow-servant.
 
"I shall stick to my horses and my young mistress," said he. "It's a poor sort of a servant that would leave her because she means to please herself. I reckon Miss Mountford didn't engage you to pick her a husband, or me either."
 
"I was here before she was born," was the answer.
 
"Then more shame for you to talk of leaving at the first contrary wind. You've had smooth times and good pay."
 
"I've earned my wages," said Griffiths, in high dudgeon.
 
"Who said you hadn't? You've no call to take offence."
 
But Griffiths departed, whilst Mountain growled out that some folks' tempers were short, like themselves, the gardener being little of stature. Moreover, he would like to know what Griffiths made by "perkisites," for precious little out of what he grew could be used at the Hall.
 
"We shall lose Mrs. Ellicott and Miss Geraldine," moaned Mrs. Mountain. "They'll not stay when Captain Jack comes."
 
"How do you know? Hold your tongue, and let your betters manage their own business. Look after your own girl, if you want something to do."
 
Patty Mountain, probably infected by Miss Mountford's example, had consented to become the wife of William Burns as soon as her mistress's wedding had taken place. Their cottage was being made ready, and Mrs. Ellicott, Geraldine, Kathleen, and Aylmer were all helping by well-timed gifts to make it comfortable and pretty for the young couple.
 
Mountain liked his son-in-law-elect, but growled us usual, and declared that all girls were idiots who left a good service to marry, as they would never again be as well off. Mrs. Mountain was a much enduring woman, but she retorted for once.
 
"You've told the truth, George," she said. "I know a girl who left a good service thirty years ago, to marry a man who has grumbled at her more in a week than her mistresses did in all the years she served them."
 
Mountain was too much astonished to reply, so went off to the stables, leaving his wife triumphant.
 
Kathleen's twenty-first birthday soon came, and tenants were regaled and school-children feasted most liberally. She wished to have no gatherings at her own home, but at length agreed to a dinner-party for older friends, and an evening one for younger neighbours.
 
Hetty Stapleton was at neither. Her brother and his wife were guests, knowing nothing of what had passed between Kathleen and Hetty.
 
Kathleen had repented of her hasty words, and had learned to doubt the correctness of her conclusions regarding the acquaintance between Hetty and John Torrance. She told him nothing of the scene, but wrote to Hetty, and owned her fault in giving way to temper and using insulting words on the slenderest foundation. She begged her "to forget and forgive, and to be still the friend of her ever affectionate Kathleen Mountford."
 
Hetty wrote kindly in reply, and assured Kathleen of her forgiveness.
 
"As to forgetting," she added, "I cannot promise what I know to be impossible, and you must feel this also. I was very angry at first, and felt inclined to state the exact truth in your presence and that of John Torrance. For your sake I have been silent, and shall continue so. I cannot, however, accept your invitation, dear, for though I would gladly come at the call of Kathleen Mountford, I could never be a guest under the roof which owns John Torrance as its master, or consent to sit at the same table with him. Nevertheless, if you ever want any service that I can render, send for me, and you shall find a true friend in Hetty Stapleton."
 
To Aylmer alone had Hetty told the story of that stormy interview with Kathleen, and there was no fear of its becoming public property. Remembering, however, how Hetty had foretold the result of Ralph's influence on his father's behalf, Aylmer was still more inclined to join in her fears for Kathleen's future as the wife of John Torrance. After this confidence he was most anxious that his ward's property should be settled upon her. In those days there was no protection for a wife, if a husband squandered every penny of her property, and, without a settlement, Kathleen's large personal property would be wholly in the hands of John Torrance.
 
"Hollingsby Hall, the land, in fact, all real property and half the personalty, may be settled on Kitty, with my full consent," said the ex-captain. "It will be safer for both of us. The money is more than I expected. It was reported she would have fifty thousand, and I find it is over sixty. I do not wish to redeem Monk's How. My memories of the life there are not of the pleasantest—I mean since Adela died—and somehow I would rather live my second married life elsewhere. I should seem to see my first wife all over the place, and very likely call Kitty by the wrong name."
 
Aylmer agreed to the wisdom of Torrance's decision, and was moved in his favour by this really generous proposition. He had hardly expected so great a concession.
 
When the terms were repeated to Kathleen, she rejected them point-blank. Impetuous, ready to go to extremes in self-devotion, she flung prudence and common-sense to the winds. She would take no advice, listen to no warning.
 
"Not only do I refuse to have the freehold estate settled on myself," she said, "but I intend to give it to John by executing a direct conveyance. No one can prevent my doing this now, and no one shall interfere with my undoubted rights!"
 
Mrs. Ellicott's pleading and the remonstrances of Aylmer and the solicitor were equally useless. All three urged that, by carrying out her resolution, she would be untrue to the trust reposed in her by her father, but they spoke in vain.
 
"There is one thing Miss Mountford would not be likely to think of," said the solicitor, who was much distressed by his client's persistency. "Without the direct conveyance to Mr. Torrance, he would only have a life interest in the real estate, which would descend to a son by the second marriage at his death, should there be such issue. If Miss Mountford persists in her determination, the property will belong absolutely to Mr. Torrance and his son; Ralph would—if living, and in the absence of a contrary will, inherit the Hollingsby property."
 
"You, madam," he added, addressing Mrs. Ellicott, "would be the fittest person to speak to your niece on this subject."
 
"I will do so, and at once," replied Mrs. Ellicott. "You give me reason to hope that Kathleen will now yield to our persuasion, for surely she would never risk the alienation of Hollingsby from a child of her own."
 
To her aunt's bitter disappointment, Kathleen adhered to her resolution.
 
"As though John would do wrong to a second son, if he should have one!" she said indignantly. "Would a child of mine be less dear to him than Ralph is? John loves me truly and disinterestedly. Has he not proved it by wishing to have the settlement? We shall begin a new life together, and my perfect trust in him will be his greatest help and safeguard."
 
Even John Torrance's subsequent avowal that the proposed settlement would be right and proper, failed to move her.
 
"There shall be no half confidences," she said. "When I promised to be John's wife and Ralph's mother, I trusted John with the best I had to give. Do you think that I value money or lands as I do my own hope of happiness? If John is fit to take care of me and make me happy, he is fit for the lesser charge of managing and turning to good account, for our mutual benefit, whatever property I have the power to place in his hands."
 
Kathleen's face fairly shone with enthusiasm, and never had she looked more beautiful than when insisting upon what she regarded as an act of unselfish trustfulness, though others deemed it rashness and folly.
 
"Is there nothing that she is unable to alienate?" asked Mrs. Ellicott, in deep distress.
 
"Just one little property, which came to her from an aunt of her father. It is worth about three hundred and fifty a year, and is tied up to her as fast as the law can secure it," replied the disgusted solicitor. "I must congratulate you, madam, and Mr. Matheson too," he added, "that you no longer hold the place of guardians to such a wilful ward. You cannot protect her now against her own self-will. We can only hope she will have no cause to regret the having set at naught the counsel of all her friends, including that of her intended husband. What would her father have said? He who was so proud of the Mountfords' care of the old lands, so long held by them."
 
"My luck is beyond belief," thought John Torrance. "Poor Kathleen! I wish I were a better man for her sake, and, 'pon my word, I wish the property could be settled. It is an awful temptation; and, when one has seen the last shilling of two fortunes vanish, one would like to keep hold of the third. Very few men get so many chances as I have had."
 
On a sunny April day Kathleen was married at the village church, where she had worshipped all her life. There had been talk of a wedding at a fashionable church in London, but this she would not hear of.
 
"Miss Pritchard shall make my wedding-gown. If Mellingham mercers have not as large a stock, they can get patterns and pieces, lace and lingerie without limit. I shall have all my outfit as pretty as I can desire, and at half the cost of London and Paris productions. I have no wish to waste money because there is plenty," was Kathleen's wise decision.
 
She had settled, too, that Mrs. Ellicott should give her away. She could not stab the faithful heart that had been all her own, by asking Aylmer to do this.
 
"You will follow the example of our own royal lady, in bestowing me upon a husband," she said. "So, aunty, you must act the father, mother, and guardian all in one."
 
Mrs. Ellicott demurred at first, but Kathleen gaily declared that the choice lay between her and Mountain.
 
"I shall ask my faithful servitor if you refuse, aunty," she said, so Mrs. Ellicott was fain to consent.
 
Amid outward sunshine Kathleen was married to John Torrance, and departed on a wedding-tour which was to last over a couple of months. But there were clouds gathering overhead, and, whilst loving wishes and prayers for their happiness went with the newly-married pair, forebodings could not be wholly banished.
 
Much had to be done during the weeks that followed. John Torrance had given up Monk's How, and taken his last leave of the place as a home. It had not passed into strange hands, for Aylmer Matheson had purchased the house, grounds, and a portion of the land.
 
The house was undergoing much-needed repairs and decoration, and the grounds, which were of very moderate extent, were being restored to order and beauty, ready for Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine to occupy.
 
In the fulness of her heart, Kathleen had talked of keeping her aunt and Ger with her at the Hall, but neither they nor any one else concerned would have entertained the proposal for a moment.
 
Monk's How would suit Mrs. Ellicott's requirements. It was a pretty place, and would make a charming home for such tenants, and Kathleen was delighted to have them near her. John Torrance was gratified from a selfish point of view. "At first," thought he, "I must devote myself to Kitty. Later on she cannot expect me to be tied to her apron strings, and when I run away now and then, their being close by will prevent her being able to plead loneliness. I hope she will be as reasonable as Adela was. Kitty can blaze up into a passion, but her fits of self-will have all been to my advantage. Remembering this, I will give her a long tether, but in a question of mastery she will find me very unlike Matheson. He is almost too good for this world, and quite too yielding; but, thanks to Kathleen's wilfulness, he can never meddle again. I am glad he has bought Monk's How. He is fond of Ralph, too. Perhaps he will leave it to the boy. He is so steadfast, that I doubt if, having lost Kathleen, he will ever marry, though Miss Ellicott would be a model wife for him."
 
It was well Kathleen could not read what was passing in her bridegroom's mind as the train carried them away. But he whispered sweet words in her ears, wondered how she could have loved him so well, and then began telling of fair scenes they would visit, and picturing a happy homecoming when they began to long for rest. Kathleen, listening to such words, forgot everything save that she loved and was beloved by John Torrance. All she had given seemed as nothing to her generous nature. She wished she had more to give.
 
Ralph had caused some trouble. Indulgence had made him exacting, and fancying that he would not be parted from Kathleen again, he gave way to alternate fits of weeping and passion. It needed his father's firmness and Kathleen's persuasions to subdue the boy, and after their departure he refused to be comforted.
 
Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine were to take up their abode at Monk's How, just before the return of the newly-married pair. Ralph was to remain at the Hall with them, but Aylmer found it necessary to relieve them of their charge, and in his hands the boy was more manageable.
 
Kathleen and her husband returned to the Hall before the appointed date, but not to remain there.
 
Mr. Torrance—"the captain" had been sunk by request—suggested that the rest of the season should be spent in town. He wished his beautiful wife to have some enjoyment before settling down at Hollingsby.
 
"It is your due, Kitty," he said. "I owe you everything, and it would be a shame to bury you in the country, now you have a husband to act as guide and protector. We can take a furnished house, of which I heard to-day, for five weeks or so, and after that have a rest in the country. We have neither of us had much in the way of decent society for a long time past."
 
Kathleen would have preferred going home, but she was overruled, not by any assumption of mastery on her husband's part, but by flattering words and tender suggestions which, loving him devotedly as she did, she was unable to withstand.
 
So the house was taken, and Ralph was again left behind, but with the promise that he should spend part of the time in London with his parents.
 
Kathleen found that her wardrobe must be enlarged. She had not cared for a costly trousseau, preferring to purchase extra dresses as occasion required, and she was not anxious to spend a large sum on such as would be comparatively useless to her in the country.
 
"Besides, John, I hate extravagance, though I think you have always seen me fairly well dressed," she said.
 
"You are always charmingly dressed, Kitty, for the country, but one may be pardoned for wishing that one's wife should be seen to the best advantage during a few weeks in town, at the close of the honeymoon. If you were less beautiful, my darling, it would be different. We will only be extravagant for this once;" and he closed her lips with a kiss.
 
It was hardly likely that Kathleen could fail to get some enjoyment out of her visit to town, especially as she found herself an object of interest on account of the circumstances attending her marriage. Rumour had been busy with her name, and had surrounded her with a halo of romance. Her attachment to a penniless man, her determination to endow him absolutely with the whole of her fortune, in spite of her guardians' remonstrances—much that was true, and much that was partly or wholly untrue—had gone to give society plenty to talk about.
 
John Torrance's past history was freely discussed, but in whispers not likely to reach the ears of those most concerned, though it proved of interest to many of his old associates. Amongst such the question was, how they could benefit by Jack Torrance's wonderful luck.
 
The amount of Kathleen's fortune was greatly exaggerated.
 
Whilst in town, Kathleen won both regard and admiration by her beauty, charm of manner and dignity, combined with frankness. Her husband was proud of her success, and began to talk of their next season, saying, "We must have a longer time next year."
 
"I thought this was to be our one extravagance before we settled at home," said Kathleen. "We could not afford to spend so much in a general way."
 
"The wedding and after journeyings will not come again. As a bride, your surroundings only suited your position."
 
"I should have been contented with less, but you are pleased, and I can only be glad too."
 
Kathleen smiled at her husband, then said, "When is Ralph to come? We promised he should join us."
 
"Do you really want him? He will not enjoy himself with Sarah for a companion. You are so much engaged."
 
"But we promised to have the child, John."
 
"Have your own way, Kitty. But you need not be so particular. Children must be pacified by promises sometimes. Ralph may not be quite pleased in the long run, but in the meanwhile he is quieted by the expectation of good things to come. Anticipation is often better than reality, Kitty, as I have proved to my sorrow many a time."
 
Kathleen withdrew the caressing hand, and looked grave and troubled.
 
"Come now, sweetheart, you must not take such sober views of things. You cannot honestly say that it will be best for Ralph to come here," said her husband.
 
"That is not the question. With me it is whether it can possibly be best to break my word. Oh, John, I do want to be a good mother to the boy! He loves me, and I love him. What would he think of such a beginning, were his first experience of my motherhood to be a broken promise? Besides, as a child and a girl, I was accustomed to trust the word of my parents implicitly. I believe my father would have considered it a crime to break his word to one who had no power to enforce its fulfilment. My guardians were equally scrupulous. Let us be true in all things to Ralph."
 
"My darling, your appeal makes me feel quite criminal. I am afraid the memory of the absolutely perfect people you have had about you will make you rue the having exchanged such guardians for good-for-nothing John Torrance. However, do as you like. Send for Ralph. If he is lonely and miserable here, the fault will not be mine."
 
"It shall not be mine," replied Kathleen, resolutely. "If I have to give up some of my remaining engagements, the boy shall have a happy time."
 
Mr. Torrance did not reply, but after an irrelevant remark or two, left Kathleen with a "Good-bye till luncheon, Kitty." But he did not turn his head towards her with the usual farewell look, generally supplemented by a kiss, and she felt sore at heart in consequence.
 
Barely three months of married life were over, and Kathleen could not help feeling that she had cause for grave anxiety on her husband's account. During their stay abroad, he had persisted in taking her into the casino at Monte Carlo.
 
"It is one of the sights of the world, Kitty," he had said. "It can do you no harm, and I suppose you are hardly afraid of my being corrupted by it. You ought not to leave without seeing what the place is like."
 
Kathleen had been brought up to hate everything that savoured of gambling, but her husband insisted, and she accompanied him in fear and trembling. The feeling was increased as she noticed a sort of eager expression on his face, and heard him say, "Try your luck, Kitty, with one gold piece," offering her one as he spoke.
 
She shrank back as if she had been stung, and said, "Not for the world, John! Take me away."
 
He laughed at her fears, and placing the coin, together with four others on the table, held her fast by his side until the result was declared.
 
It was in his favour, and, sweeping up a handful of gold, he said, "I will present my winnings to you, dear. We will go now. I only wanted you to see for once how easily money is lost or won."
 
Kathleen did not speak, but her face was white to the lips, and as her husband tendered the gold she gave him an indignant look and passed out of the place. She felt ready to faint, yet when he again laughingly tendered the gold, she pushed his hand aside, and gasped out, "I would not touch it for the world!" then broke down and wept.
 
Mr. Torrance expressed his regret, and said he only meant to give her a novel experience, not to cause pain.
 
Kathleen was at length coaxed into outward composure, but the painful impression remained. She could not forget the fierce pleasure on her husband's face as he swept up the gold, and had since been haunted by a dread, which other circumstances had intensified during their stay in town.
 
"What if the old Mountford estates should be squandered through my unlimited trust in John!" she thought. "The 'slip of a girl,' as my father called me, was entrusted with all of which he was so proud. And I meant to hold them safely, yet have placed them in John's power, though he owned he could not trust himself. Alas! he spoke the truth."
 
Ralph came to London, expecting to be all in all with his new mother, and did not find sight-seeing, under the convoy of Sarah and a man-servant, altogether satisfactory. Kathleen did her best, and cheered him by saying—
 
"It will be different at Hollingsby."
 
She was glad the town-house must be vacated at the time first agreed on, as it was again let to new tenants.
 
Mr. Torrance was not sorry to turn his back on town. Old associates had found him out, and, though they never entered the home that held Kathleen, they managed to lighten his purse of some of the gold poured into it by her too generous hands.
 
Such was the beginning of a married life, entered on despite the wise warnings of earthly friends, and without seeking the guidance of the best Friend of all.
CHAPTER XX DISILLUSIONED

 
 
AT Hollingsby Kathleen recovered her spirits, and to the dear friends, the sight of whose faces was indescribably welcome to her, she seemed her old bright self.
 
"Here," she thought, "John will be out of the way of temptation, and we shall be really happy. I must forget the little things which frightened me. I had been brought up so quietly, I could hardly judge for a man thirteen years my senior, and who knows so much of the gay world. It is not likely we should see eye to eye on such matters. After all, the world's opinions differ from those instilled into me. It calls many things 'mere trifles,' yet my conscience condemns them. I have had enough of it already."
 
Kathleen longed to resume her old mode of life, only with its usefulness enlarged, and its responsibilities deepened by a sense of the new obligations on which she had entered. Her husband, however, resumed his old habits also. Kathleen might rusticate to her heart's content, whilst he often "ran up to town" alone. If she complained, his absences became more frequent, and her deep affection proved a weapon for her punishment, because she desired his presence, and had hoped so much from association in their aims and pursuits at home.
 
She was ready to concede much, but she could not forget that she had given him everything, as well as her love, asking only for affection in return. Without this, she would be poor indeed.
 
When the time came, she had to consent to a second season in town, though she dreaded the cost, owing to Mr. Torrance's extravagant estimate as to what must be expended.
 
Ralph was at school. He had proved exacting and unmanageable during his father's absences.
 
"I knew long ago that he was a self-willed young rascal," said Mr. Torrance, with a laugh. "You tamed him for a time, but, though he loves you better than any one, he wants a stronger hand than yours, and adviser head than mine to keep him in his place. I have asked Matheson to find a school for him. He knows more of such places than I do."
 
This Aylmer did, and bestowed much kindly oversight on Ralph, for which, in his careless fashion, the father was grateful. Indeed, John Torrance recognized the nobility and unselfishness of Aylmer's character, and the latter found himself in the position of adviser to both husband and wife.
 
Torrance listened, but rarely acted on his counsel. Kathleen learned, with a feeling of humiliation, how much better it was to appeal to her old guardian than to her husband, whose only reply to a question would be, "Ask Matheson. We are in luck, Kitty, to have such a mentor. He was a victim to your charms, I know, but I cannot be jealous of him. He acts the good brother now, and will be an ideal rich uncle."
 
A careless laugh and look of self-satisfaction accompanied the words, for John Torrance, whilst paying this compliment, felt a contempt for what he called "Matheson's weak side as Kitty's guardian."
 
Kathleen had been three years married when her first baby-boy was born. He was called Kenneth Mountford, after her father, and was a beautiful child, much like herself.
 
"He has your eyes, Kitty," said Mr. Torrance, kissing her. "I am glad. One son like me is quite enough."
 
"Ralph will be pleased with the little darling," said Kathleen.
 
"Do not count on that. He is horribly jealous, and may show his unpleasant side. Remember how exacting he used to be."
 
"That was different. He must love his little brother," and Kathleen pressed her treasure to her breast with a new sense of riches, and the thought, "What a new, sweet bond our baby will be between John and me! Home will have more attraction for him now."
 
The result was not quite equal to her hopes.
 
"I can't get wildly enthusiastic about a youngster in the early stages of his existence," said John. "When he can trot about and back a pony, he will be more in my line. He is a dear little thing, of course; how could your son be anything else, Kitty? But he is your first baby, not my first son, and my memories of the troubles incidental to teething, and the ailments to which infant flesh is heir, are none of the sweetest. I was almost jealous of Ralph for absorbing his mother's attention."
 
The careless words pained the young wife, and tears fell on her baby's cheeks as she said, "He is our first boy, John."
 
"Of course, darling, and quite the most charming infant ever seen," he replied gaily.
 
Then he kissed her again, and said she would be better without him for awhile, and that she must not excite herself the least bit, but get strong soon, for he could not do without her society.
 
Kathleen thought sadly that he managed to do without it very often, and appeared well contented to go his own way. But she resolved that even her new sweet cares should be made as subservient as possible to the claims of her husband. She would watch over her baby, but John should have no cause to complain of neglect.
 
Mr. Torrance's predictions about Ralph proved only too true. The boy regarded his baby brother as an intruder, and towards Kathleen he was by turns loving as of old, and angry when, as unavoidably happened, she was unable to give him all the attention he wished. It was a relief when the holidays were over and Ralph back at school.
 
To Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine the little one was a source of immense interest. All that the most loving mother and sister could have done they did, and their near neighbourhood was the greatest possible comfort to Kathleen.
 
"We shall be granny and maiden aunt to your boy, Kitty," said Geraldine. "What a pleasure it is that when real kindred are few and far-away, we can be adopted into new relationships!"
 
"I have always counted on having aunty as 'granny' to my boy, but I don't want you to be the maiden aunt, dear Ger," said Kathleen. "I always hope—"
 
"Hush, Kitty! There is room neither for hope nor fear. I have chosen my role, I shall never change it."
 
Kathleen durst say no more. Yet she had hoped and longed that her cousin might make up to Aylmer for the disappointment she had caused him. Each, however, seemed to find happiness in a life of unostentatious good-doing, and, in Geraldine's case, in filial duty also.
 
Kathleen knew no more than others did, that Aylmer had lately asked Geraldine to be his wife.
 
He had always been profoundly impressed by the beauty of her character, and since his great love for Kathleen had been all in vain, he had begun to ask himself, if esteem might not be a sufficiently firm foundation on which to build his hope of wedded happiness.
 
To Geraldine Aylmer's offer was at once a temptation and a trial. Her heart was his, and yet when he asked her to share his lot she refused his offer.
 
"I am too romantic, too much of a woman to marry on your terms, Aylmer," she replied to his honest confession, for he had told her all the truth.
 
"Still, dear Geraldine, with such a foundation, and the certainty that our hopes, aims, and labours would be in perfect accord, might we not reasonably expect more than the average amount of happiness?"
 
"Perhaps so, but not the highest and best of all. Not the kind that God's laws have ordained as the condition of a perfect union. I could not be satisfied for you to have anything less than the best that is possible, and you would not have this ideal union, as the husband of one whom you regard only as a dear friend. I know you feel respect and a kind of affection for me, but the inner sanctuary of your heart is barred against me and all the world beside."
 
"But if I can make you happy, and you can give me—" Aylmer began.
 
A crimson flush overspread Geraldine's face as she pleaded, "Please do not go on. Surely, in such a case, a man should not ask more than he can give, and a woman ought to refuse anything less than an equivalent for what she bestows."
 
Then, as if realizing the implied confession she had made, Geraldine covered her face with her hands to hide tears of mingled pain and humiliation.
 
"Forgive me that I have offered you less than the best, dear Ger," said Aylmer. "Be my friend still. In friendship we shall owe each other nothing."
 
"Friends now and always, Aylmer," replied Ger, looking bravely up and extending her hand.
 
He took it almost reverently, lifted it to his lips, and then left her. He felt that her decision was the only one possible to such a nature, and was never so near loving Geraldine as at the moment after she had refused to be his wife.
 
After the birth of Kathleen's boy, Aylmer could not help recalling to mind the fact that owing to the deed by which she had persisted in conveying the freehold to her husband, Ralph would inherit the Mountford estate as well as an equal share of personalty with the younger child, in case John Torrance died intestate.
 
"I will speak to Kathleen first, then to Torrance if necessary," said Aylmer. "If he has not made a will, he ought to be reminded of the need for so doing."
 
Aylmer again spoke of the position to Kathleen, and asked if Mr. Torrance had named the subject.
 
"John seldom speaks of business matters. Surely you do not mean that my little darling, my own boy, would not inherit this place—my home—and the lands that were my father's?" asked Kathleen. "I remember aunt spoke to me about this, but I never realized it until now. I ought to have been guided by wiser heads than my own."
 
"That depends on your husband, Kathleen. He ought to insure the inheritance to your child, whilst making some provision for Ralph. You would not object to this?"
 
"It is what I should wish," said Kathleen, "though Ralph would be safe in my hands. Aylmer, I ought to have listened to your advice. I was proud to trust John with everything. I never looked beyond myself, but thought I alone could suffer if he went wrong, and I should die of grief. Now I do not love John less, but there is my own baby-boy to think of. Besides, my father trusted me. I have indeed done wrong."
 
"You must make the best amends possible. Put everything before your husband. He must see what he ought to do."
 
Kathleen hesitated to ask Aylmer to undertake this task. She was staying, with her child, at Monk's How, Mr. Torrance having gone to town, "just to see a few fresh faces."
 
"Will you remind John of my boy's rights, and explain the position?" she said to Aylmer. "Having been my guardian, it would seem natural for you to do it. It would be dreadful for me to appear as if I were calculating on what would happen if he died. Ralph is so jealous of baby that he is not to be trusted now. This is a great trial."
 
"It is; but I believe Ralph will yet reward you," replied Aylmer. "For the rest, I will speak to Torrance."
 
Kathleen's mind was greatly relieved by this promise, and never doubted that good would come of Aylmer's intervention.
 
John Torrance returned two days later, not in the best of humours, though he said nothing to account for his gloomy manner.
 
"Have you not enjoyed the change, John?" asked Kathleen.
 
"Town is as dull as Hollingsby," was the ungracious reply.
 
Aylmer drew his own conclusions from Mr. Torrance's answer. He had cause to fear that old associates and habits had regained their influence over Kathleen's husband. With ruin confronting him, it had been easy to make good resolutions, and old associates could gain nothing by seeking him. Now that John Torrance's pockets had been refilled, he was again surrounded by them. Not that he would have insulted Kathleen by bringing these men to Hollingsby, or even naming them to her; so he met them in town, as the lesser evil.
 
Aylmer could estimate the importance of this choice, and talked, sadly enough, with Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine of the evil influence that would be exercised on the fortunes and happiness of Kathleen and her boy.
 
 
He felt the task of speaking to John Torrance a difficult one, and at the first mention of his making a will to secure the rights of his wife and her baby, the husband showed signs of temper that augured ill for his success.
 
"So," said Mr. Torrance, "Kitty is counting her chances as a well-dowered widow. I hardly expected such a message from her, with you as messenger."
 
The tone was aggressive, and a sneering expression was on the speaker's face; but Aylmer would bear much for Kathleen's sake.
 
"You wrong your wife, Torrance," he said. "She has proved her disinterestedness. I, as her late guardian, think it right to place her position and the child's before you. Remember, you wished to settle the estates and part of the personalty upon her, but she persisted in executing the conveyance, and thus leaving herself wholly in your hands."
 
"Ah, yes, poor Kitty! She was deeply in love, and as trustful, generous, and blind, perhaps you would say, as love makes people."
 
"I say nothing of the kind. Only, as you wished to make a settlement before marriage, how could I imagine you unwilling to do so now? There are double claims; those of the wife, so nobly trustful, and the child, who ought to succeed to the heritage which was his mother's."
 
"You were a good friend too, Matheson. I do not forget. What would you have me do?"
 
"To make a will, leave Kenneth the estates, and, in accordance with Kathleen's express wish, make a provision for Ralph out of the personalty," replied Aylmer.
 
"A will may be destroyed by the testator."
 
"But honour would forbid that, if he pledged himself to certain conditions. Besides, Ralph would be cared for."
 
"Better than he deserves, for he has behaved ill to Kitty. He is safe, in any case."
 
"Therein lies the injustice. Without a will, you being now absolute owner of the estate, Ralph would take all but part of the personalty and that which the law would give to Kathleen," replied Aylmer, with some warmth.
 
"I must think the matter over. No need to hurry. The personalty is not what it was. Naturally, after being kept down so long, I wanted a little fling after I was married. I was rather extravagant."
 
"You are a few thousands poorer than—well—than you ought to be, I suppose," said Aylmer.
 
Mr. Torrance nodded. "Besides," he added, "I have been unlucky in some ventures lately."
 
Aylmer judged that the ventures were of the kind by which, says a wise writer, "men try to make money without effort, at the cost of other men." Only in such would John Torrance engage.
 
A promise "to think about it" was all Aylmer could obtain, and he returned home feeling far from happy.
 
Mr. Torrance thought, and became very angry. He was vexed at his "ill luck," that is, at the loss of what ought not to have been risked—not at himself for risking it. Then he grew angry at Kathleen, on account of Aylmer's intervention. He entered the room where she was sitting, and she instantly rose, holding up her boy to be kissed.
 
"See, John. I am sure he knows you. He is holding out his arms," she said.
 
Torrance did not speak, but pushed the child back, gently enough, but still in a manner that pained Kathleen deeply.
 
As she began, "Oh, John, do not push the darling from you in that way. What have I done? for it cannot be his fault if something has displeased you."
 
"Don't be absurd, Kathleen," he replied in an impatient tone. "When a man is worried about important things, he cannot be in the mood for admiring an infant prodigy, even though it happens to be his own."
 
He threw himself into a chair, and as Kathleen gazed at him in wonder, she was shocked at the expression on his face. She turned away, and rang for the nurse to take the child, then sat down, silent and indignant, as well she might be. Ever since her marriage she had fought hard against her naturally impetuous temperament, and had not been easily provoked. But the old quick nature¹ was still there, and at this moment ready to break into a flame again.
 
¹Unchanged by Divine grace
 
At first Kathleen resolved not to speak until John addressed her. Love for her husband was, however, stronger than temper, and at length she said—
 
"You tell me you are worried, John. Is there anything I can do for you?"
 
"You can let me alone," was the cold reply.
 
"But, John, surely I should know what troubles you. Are we not one?"
 
It had cost Kathleen an effort to speak gently, and she was ill-prepared for her husband's response.
 
"I thought so once, but, after what I have heard, I can hardly congratulate myself on the fact. It seems that you have already begun to calculate the chance of your being my widow, and free from the worthless encumbrance you now call husband."
 
"What do you mean?" said Kathleen, with flashing eyes.
 
"Ask yourself what errand you entrusted to Matheson."
 
"Do you mean about securing my property to your son and mine?"
 
"No. It was the request that I would make a will, and secure my property to our son. You forget, Kathleen, that by your deliberate act and deed you gave all you had absolutely to me. In that, you only followed the example of Ralph's mother. She gave me her all, yet she never reproached me, or reminded me of the fact."
 
"Neither have I," said Kathleen, angrily. "Until now."
 
"No. Matheson is a convenient cat's-paw, and he can plead most eloquently on behalf of his late ward. Adela would have died before she would have speculated on the chances of my death."
 
"How dare you speak to me in such a manner?" said Kathleen. "So long as I stood alone, I neither suggested your making a will nor asked a friend to do so. Even now it was Aylmer who, in his kind thought for my baby-boy, hinted at the wisdom of doing it. I care nothing for myself, but I do say that if you do not secure what was mine to our child, you will be guilty of cruel injustice to us both."
 
"Adela would not have—"
 
"Don't talk to me of Adela. Did not she trust you with everything, and how did you merit the trust? Did you care for the child she bore you, or did you waste his mother's fortune and the inheritance which came to you from your forefathers, until all was gone and—"
 
"Spare me a second hearing. The story is too familiar, and not pleasant. I made full confession to you."
 
"You did, and you promised—"
 
"Not to make a will, but I wanted a marriage settlement made, which you refused."
 
"Yes. I never thought that, as Adela left Ralph, I might have to answer for neglecting a child's interests. I ought to have read her story, and profited by it."
 
"Then on your shoulders be the blame, not mine. Come down from your stilts, and be reasonable. You will not drive me, though when angry you look so handsome that I bear the penalty for the sake of the picture, Kitty dear."
 
The jesting words stung Kathleen, but for her child's sake she forbore to retort.
 
"You did tell me all when you asked me to be your wife. You so spoke that I believed you hated the past, and that we should begin a pure, happy life together."
 
If John Torrance had not been in a perverse mood, harassed by losses and angry at himself, he would probably have been touched by Kathleen's pathetic tone and words. She was right, he knew; but he who is displeased with himself must vent his anger on some one else.
 
John Torrance did this by saying in a bantering the way, "By the way, Kitty, you spoke just now of my asking you to be my wife. You have forgotten the real facts attending our engagement, and I must correct your mistake, dear. I never did ask you to be my wife."
CHAPTER XXI THE FIRST QUARREL
WHEN Mr. Torrance's taunting words, "I never did ask you to be my wife," fell on Kathleen's ears, she was too much astonished to reply at once. Then in an angry tone, she said, "How dare you say so, John? I have not forgotten what passed the day Ralph first left his bedroom. Surely I need not remind you."
 
"It is you who need to be reminded, so listen."
 
With cruel deliberation, Mr. Torrance repeated his boy's passionate appeal to Kathleen to be his mother, and her annoyance at the trick, as she deemed it.
 
"Remember, Kitty, I refused to second Ralph's request for you to accept what you have, I fear, found to be a thankless position. Whilst the boy lay asleep, worn out with excitement, I made a confession of my unworthiness, and said I would not ask you to share my lot. Shall I go on?"
 
Kathleen's face was set and hard, but she said nothing.
 
"To my surprise and delight, you bestowed your sweet self upon me unasked save by Ralph, when I had expected a long and perhaps useless wooing. Never mind, dear, I was grateful for trouble saved, and, if I have not quite realized your ideal, we have been fairly happy. Now we will forget this little episode. Let us kiss and be friends."
 
He seized her hand, but Kathleen, beside herself with anger, threw her head back, exclaiming, "Do not come near me! I cannot bear this! What shall I do?"
 
"To get rid of me? You will hardly do that. You must be good, and ask to be forgiven," he said, laughing at her anger, and holding her as easily as a child.
 
A little girl once said of her father's guest, "I do not like him, because he laughs when he is angry."
 
When John Torrance gave way to ill-temper, one of its manifestations was mocking laughter, accompanied by taunting words softly spoken.
 
"So you will not be friends? Never mind. Man and wife quarrel only to make up their differences ere long. By the way, let me ask you if you have an idea that I found favour in Hetty Stapleton's eyes?"
 
"You gave me that impression."
 
"Fie, Kitty! You have maligned Hetty. I only told you she and I were friends once, and you replied that her friendship was worth keeping. Then I said something had happened which I could not speak of."
 
"I will now tell you the exact truth about Hetty Stapleton and myself, then you will perhaps, in future, be less inclined to regard your impressions as infallible, and be more careful in judging the intentions of other people. It is not always safe to judge them by their acts and words. To read a person's intentions requires more than human prescience, Kitty."
 
"I paid Miss Stapleton attentions which lookers-on attributed to a desire to make her my wife. They were not mistaken as to my intentions. I was not in love with Hetty, and had you been of age or nearly so at the time, I should never have looked in her direction. She is not at all handsome, but she is a person of great decision of character, and would, I am sure, have made me an excellent wife from a business point of view. I was in difficulties, and as Hetty's fortune was considerable and in her own hands, I thought to find a good way out of them by marrying her."
 
"I threw myself in her way as much as possible, and dangled after her for some time, during which, I am bound to confess, she gave me no encouragement. Then, in a desperate mood, I formally proposed to her, and was refused. I was also made to listen to certain home-truths from the lips of Miss Stapleton, which I have neither forgotten nor forgiven. Understand, Kitty, I should never have looked at Hetty, had you been old enough to be available. You were and are very beautiful, and you have other qualities which are far superior to hers and more attractive in my eyes."
 
"More money," said Kathleen, in a cold, hard voice.
 
"That was one thing, of course. It goes without saying that, in my position, the money was very important. But you had many attractions independently of that, and you were so charmingly kind and confiding, you know."
 
If he had thought to touch Kathleen by this last sneer, he failed in his object. For any sign of emotion she showed, she might have been turned into stone.
 
"Thank you," she said. "I am glad you have told me the truth at last. It will enable me to right a wrong that I did whilst labouring under a false impression."
 
"Better not stir up old grievances, Kitty. Let the dead past bury its dead. Now will you not kiss and be friends?"
 
He drew her towards him and kissed her, but as he touched her lips with his she shivered and shrank visibly.
 
"You promised to release me when I had heard the tale about Hetty Stapleton. May I ask you to keep your word?" said Kathleen.
 
"Certainly, dear."
 
Mr. Torrance released the hand he held, walked to the door and opened it for her to pass out.
 
She did so without bestowing a glance upon him, and went up to her own room. Five minutes later she left the house, and went straight to Oakwood, where she knew Miss Stapleton was staying.
 
Hetty was in, and when she saw Kathleen she met her kindly, but with a gravity very unlike the old cordial welcome.
 
"Hetty," said Kathleen, "I am here to tell you that I know all the truth as to your old acquaintance with Mr. Torrance. I hate myself as I look back on that day when I insulted you cruelly and grossly! I had formed a certain impression, and I now know that it was wrong in every respect. I have only myself to blame, for I had not been told, in so many words, what I asserted. I wish I could make amends to you."
 
"No harm followed, except that I was grieved at being misjudged by you. I am sure you came to me as soon as you knew the truth," said Hetty.
 
"You forgive me? I see you do," cried Kathleen.
 
"I never greatly blamed you, for I could understand how the impression was produced, and was sure you would repeat the story to none but me. Now you must forgive yourself."
 
"That is hardest of all," replied Kathleen. "Besides, I am punished in knowing that I misjudged a true friend."
 
"Then let us forget all about it."
 
The two parted with words of affection and feelings of renewed friendship, and as Kathleen walked homeward, she felt that one portion of her trouble had been removed. Still, the brightness seemed to have gone from her life. In her indignation and distress at Mr. Torrance's taunting words she would have gone to her aunt and Geraldine at Monk's How, had there been no child at Hollingsby. But the little hands drew her homeward, and the first relief came to her burdened heart as she clasped her boy in her arms, and her tears fell on his unconscious head, as he slept peacefully on her breast.
 
As Kathleen sat rocking her baby to and fro, she was asking herself, "How shall I live the life that is before me? I dread the thought of looking my child's father in the face. My trust in him is gone. Yet I am as much to blame as he, in one sense, for I would not listen to those who were better able to judge of his character than I was."
 
How the past became present as she sat there! Her peaceful girlhood, with its luxurious surroundings and freedom from care. Her father's love for and trust in her, the tender, watchful care of her guardians, Aylmer's affection, and the self-devotion which placed her happiness before his own.
 
"I was wilful and selfish a little while ago; now it is my lot to have benefits repaid with ingratitude. I tried to make Ralph happy, and he causes me deep sorrow. I loved my husband, and gave him all I had, thinking that our marriage would be his salvation, and now! How foolish I was! How could one so weak, faulty, and headstrong bring to bear an influence which would change a strong nature like John's? Yet I was proud at the thought of giving my life for the elevation of his."
 
Kathleen laid her sleeping babe on his soft bed, after showering kisses on the innocent face; then, falling on her knees, she prayed long and earnestly for pardon and guidance; but even this resource did not bring calm at once.
 
The contrast between former expectations and present reality was too much for Kathleen. By turns she was distressed, despairing, and indignant. It was so horrible to recall those sneering words which reminded her that she had given her love and herself without being asked for either.
 
"And yet," she thought, "if ever a man seemed to plead for both with his whole being, John laid himself at my feet, as one who dared not ask for what he was unworthy to possess. Only three and a half years a wife, and it has come to this! Not yet twenty-five years old, and, it may be, I have a long life before me."
 
Kathleen remained beside her boy in the October twilight. She knew not whether her husband was in the house or not. She dreaded the thought of meeting him at dinner, and equally dreaded to absent herself, lest, in his present humour, he might say or do something to call the attention of the servants to their disagreement.
 
She was debating whether she should dress and go down to the meal, or make illness an excuse for absenting herself. She was feeling sufficiently indisposed to render such an excuse a true one, and her eyes were red with weeping.
 
Whilst she was debating with herself, the nurse entered softly.
 
"I am afraid you must have rung without my hearing you, ma'am," she said.
 
"I had not rung. Baby fell asleep, and I laid him down, and sat quietly by him. I am tired, and not feeling very well. Is Mr. Torrance in?"
 
The girl looked surprised. Then answered, "No, ma'am. A telegram came for him when you were out, and he had his bag packed, and went off by train. He left a message for you with Lucy, and he met me with baby on the stairs. He kissed him, and said I was to say he had left the kiss with the little man for you."
 
Lucy, the parlour-maid, could only tell her mistress that the master had been called away in a hurry, and would be absent a night, or maybe more. That was all. No intimation as to his destination, the message he had received, or the person or business that had summoned him away.
 
Kathleen's pride prevented her from asking more questions, or showing what she felt under this new slight. "He knew how terrible the suspense would be. He has put me on the rack on purpose," she said to herself. "It is only part of to-day's whole."
 
The cruelty of the thing added both to her anger and distress. There was no question of her going down and taking her place at a solitary dinner-table, so she put on a simple tea-gown, and gave orders that some light food should be brought to her dressing-room.
 
"There is a good fire in your boudoir, ma'am."
 
This was the little upstairs sitting-room which had been the scene of what Kathleen now regarded as her humiliating self-surrender. She shuddered at the thought of crossing its threshold.
 
"I prefer staying here," she replied. "It is equally comfortable, and, as I am not feeling very well, I shall probably lie down for awhile."
 
The food was brought, and Kathleen took a little, though without appetite.
 
"I must keep health and life if I can, for my baby's sake," she thought.
 
The parlour-maid who waited on Kathleen said, "I am sorry I forgot to tell you, ma'am, that Miss Ellicott called directly after you went out. As you were not in, she came again on her way home. That was just when master was starting for the station. He told Miss Ellicott that he was going off for the night, and said maybe she would spend an hour with you this evening, as you would be by yourself. She said she would come across after dinner."
 
Kathleen scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry at the prospect of seeing Ger. It would be difficult to look cheerful, or to hide the tell-tale traces of tears. She did not wish to repeat the story of her trouble, even in such sympathetic ears. How, indeed, could she repeat those cruel, taunting words, the very memory of which made her face glow with the flush of shame? Besides, it were better that none should come between her and John.
 
Husband and wife would best settle their differences without calling in a mediator, and Kathleen felt that hers was no case for mediation. It was one of cruel, scathing words, of taunt and sneer, and mock politeness on the one side; of bitter suffering and resentment on the other, which could never be changed, yet must be endured in silence, and with such courage and patience as she could command.
 
There was an interval during which Kathleen's thoughts went back to her mother's story, her fault, punishment, penalty and final peace.
 
"She paid by the wreck of her physical strength, but she was forgiven, and her days of suffering cheered by my father's tenderest love. I have wrecked my life in a worse manner, and I shall never have a like consolation."
 
Truly John Torrance had, for the first time, shown his worst side to Kathleen during the recent quarrel. He had not meant to go so far, but he was angry with himself, disturbed by serious losses, and further irritated by Aylmer's appeal on the subject of a will. Hence the resolution to give Kitty a lesson, and put her in her right place for once.
 
Still, he could not forget all he owed her, and as soon as she was out of sight he began to feel ashamed of himself.
 
"Poor Kitty! I have been a little rough on her, but she is so fiery, and needs a curb sometimes," he thought. "I have always been master, and I intend to be. Can she have told Hetty Stapleton that, if I would have given her the chance she would have gladly accepted me? It is likely enough."
 
At that moment Mr. Torrance saw his wife leave the house in walking attire, and exclaimed, "I have guessed rightly, and Kitty is off to put things straight with Hetty."
 
He laughed loudly, and, though admiring Kathleen's courage and rectitude, he decided that the walk would do her good.
 
"It will take the temper out of her, and she will come back in a reasonable frame of mind," he said to himself.
 
Immediately afterwards the telegram came. It was unimportant, but he decided to use it as an excuse for leaving home.
 
"Kathleen will be troubled and anxious, and, in wondering what has happened to call me away, she will forget our little tiff, and be only thankful to welcome me back again," he thought.
 
When he met the nurse he left the kiss and message, partly to atone to the child for his former unkindness, partly to mollify Kathleen when she heard of it.
 
The impetuosity of Kathleen's temper made a reaction inevitable, and her unselfish love could not be wholly destroyed by the shattering of its idol. So, as she thought of her husband, it was with sorrow as well as anger. After receiving his message, she bent over her child and touched with her lips the place he had kissed. It was something to know that he tried to make amends to her darling baby. John had asked Geraldine to come and cheer her, so he had given an anxious thought to her comfort. He had been very cruel, but his temper was hasty—so like her own.
 
In this somewhat softened mood, Geraldine found her. She read a tale of trouble on Kathleen's face, but was not the one to force confidences; so she talked about the baby's progress, of Ralph's good work at school, of some protégés in whom they were both interested.
 
Kathleen's manner was, however, absent and constrained.
 
"I was sorry Mr. Torrance had been called away," continued Ger, "but he said he should only be a night or two absent, and he seemed very anxious you should not be lonely."
 
Kathleen's tears began to fall, and she replied, "I may as well own that John and I had our first real quarrel to-day. I was angry, and I went out. On my return, he was gone. It is miserable to think of it all, and I feel quite broken down. The worst of it is, I can tell no one else."
 
"Except One," replied Geraldine. "Trust Him, and He will guide you and comfort you. I shall pray that this trouble may be overruled for good. A failure that shows us our weakness, often proves a blessing in the end. It makes us afraid of venturing on ground which we have found dangerous, and renders us more watchful over ourselves."
 
"I would not have a repetition of to-day's experience for the world," said Kathleen. "But oh, Ger, I do need both strength and comfort very badly!"
 
"I will not ask you to tell me anything, dear Kitty, and I need not remind you that, whatever your present want, God's love can and will supply it. I am only the maiden aunt, and have no experience in matrimonial differences, but I do know how important it is to prevent such from becoming habitual. At any cost of self-denial and self-restraint, for the sake of your child, your hope of happiness with your husband, above all, for Christ's sake, fight against every temptation to indulge in anything that could build up a wall of separation between you and John."
 
Geraldine spoke earnestly, for, with the memory of Kathleen's girlish temperament and fits of self-will, she thought it not unlikely that she had given way to passion, and thus the quarrel had been brought about.
 
Mr. Torrance had always treated his wife with such marked respect, and shown her so much consideration in the presence of others, that it was probable some hasty speech of Kathleen had caused the trouble.
 
Her cousin seemed to read Geraldine's thoughts.
 
"If you imagine that I did something to provoke John, you are mistaken, Ger," she said. "Knowing me as you do, you are not to blame for supposing that I deserve a full share of responsibility for what has happened. I would rather be misunderstood than clear myself by telling all that passed."
 
Kathleen shuddered involuntarily as she spoke, and Ger, seeing how deeply she was distressed, could only say tender, loving words, and express a hope that this first serious misunderstanding might be also the last.
 
"Shall I stay with you to-night?" she asked. "If you wish it, I will send a line to mother, and remain here."
 
Kathleen thanked her, but would not agree to this, feeling that even so kind a presence would be a restraint.
 
"I shall go early to bed," she said, "and I am going to have my boy beside me for company. I have told nurse to bring his cot into my room."
 
So Geraldine left her, having first promised Kathleen that she would repeat nothing that had passed, either to her mother or Mr. Matheson.
 
"Better so," thought Ger. "One may reasonably hope, that as some years have passed before a first quarrel, there will be no speedy repetition of it. Interference would do harm, and the meddler would share the usual fate of those who come between husband and wife."
 
There is nothing harder or more embarrassing than the first meeting after a quarrel and an angry parting between friends, lovers, or a married pair. With a longing for reconciliation, comes unwillingness to make the first advance, or doubt as to its being accepted. Cruel words and deeds may be regretted, but pride may prevent the fault being acknowledged. Each may determine that the other shall yield, so the breach widens until it becomes impassable.
 
Kathleen had been cruelly taunted, and her husband's words would never be forgotten. On the other hand, she remembered her own fits of passion; but she could say, "I have tried to conquer them, for my child's sake especially. And John is so much older. Besides, he is quite cool, and his taunts, softly uttered and with a smile, maddened me." Then love pleaded. "He is my husband, my baby's father. I have to live with him. He was sorry before he left home." Kathleen wept, thought, prayed, and at last forgot her trouble in sleep.
 
The following day passed without Mr. Torrance. Then came a telegram. He would be home the next afternoon, and a carriage was to meet him at the station.
 
Kathleen usually met her husband, but hesitated about doing so now. Yet, if the concession would bring about a better understanding, it might be well to make it, she thought.
 
After all, Mr. Torrance came by an earlier train. Hearing a footstep as she was sitting in the grounds, she turned and saw her husband, but could not utter a word.
 
His face wore its pleasantest expression. His trip had proved fortunate. A debt had been paid to him, and he had gained more money by another's loss, so he was in high good humour.
 
"I startled you, Kitty," he said; "you might have seen a ghost. Did you get my kiss, and did Geraldine come to you?"
 
Kathleen's white lips moved, but no sound came, and her husband was shocked at her looks.
 
"You are quite unnerved, Kitty; surely not by my jesting words? I never meant to grieve you by my nonsense. I was worried by a number of things at the time. Forget and forgive, like the dear girl you are."
 
He drew her close to him, and kissed her repeatedly, but Kathleen only gasped out from quivering lips, "I wish I could forget."
 
"My darling, you are too sensitive, or you would think nothing of such trifles. You said some pretty sharp things too, but I just put them out of mind, as the wisest way."
 
"You forget more easily than I can, John, but I will try."
 
"There's a sweet Kitty," he replied cheerfully. "Now let us have the boy down. What a splendid fellow he is growing!"
 
The child was brought, praised and caressed, and Mr. Torrance was so devotedly kind to Kathleen, that she began to feel as if the events of the last two days were only an idle dream, from which she had happily awakened. But she was soon to know that such dreams often recur.
CHAPTER XXII FRUITS MEET FOR REPENTANCE

 
 
THE four years which followed Kathleen's first quarrel with her husband were far from happy ones. When a mask has fallen off, the wearer seldom cares to replace it. In like manner, when a certain character has been assumed to gain a selfish end, if the counterfeit is discovered, the pretender ceases to act an unnatural part.
 
John Torrance became in time less anxious to hide from Kathleen that he differed widely, both from her ideal and what he had determined to become after marriage. He was more than ever from home, and she knew less and less of the places and persons amongst which and whom he spent his time apart from her.
 
Some young wives might have yielded, and gone to places which in girlish days they had been taught to shun.
 
"Come with me, Kitty," John would say. "I want some one to keep me out of mischief."
 
She knew this, but was well aware that she would be helpless. Such influence as she possessed in their early married days had long vanished. She strove to make home attractive, she studied her husband's wishes and obeyed him in all that was right. She possessed her soul in patience amidst many provocations. She knew nothing of money matters, but hitherto Mr. Torrance had kept her purse well supplied, and often complimented her on her modest expenditure, saying, "You are really economical, Kitty, but you are always well dressed."
 
She would smile with pleasure, rewarded by the words for the trouble she had given to externals. She often said to herself, "John shall not find me indifferent in little things."
 
Aylmer Matheson was only too well informed as to Mr. Torrance's position, and often asked himself, "How many years will pass before he is as much embarrassed as he was when poor Kathleen's splendid, but mistaken generosity saved him from ruin and made him rich?"
 
Aylmer had again tried to induce Mr. Torrance to make a will, but in vain, and he desisted from any further effort, at Kathleen's request.
 
She had been resolute in one respect. The income of the little property which could not be alienated had been invested year by year, to accumulate in trust for her child.
 
"Nothing shall induce me to touch a penny of this," said Kathleen. "This shall be secured to my boy. It may be his only heritage."
 
In seven years and a half, the annual three hundred and fifty pounds, with interest added, made no unimportant sum, and Kathleen rejoiced that it had not been disturbed.
 
One evening Mr. Torrance alluded to this "separate fortune," as he called it, and said—
 
"If I want to borrow a few hundreds, Kitty, you will let me have them."
 
"Surely you have no need to borrow, least of all from me," she said.
 
"Why, is it not natural that married people should mutually accommodate each other?"
 
Kathleen was silent, but thought was busy. If her husband was in want of money, what had become of the great sum placed in his hands together with the income from the estate? She had kept household expenses within proper bounds, and since their first two years of married life there had been nothing to account for any present scarcity of money.
 
"Do you mean that you will not lend me a few hundreds?" said Mr. Torrance.
 
"You cannot be in earnest in asking," replied Kathleen.
 
"You will soon find out that I am if you refuse!" was the angry response.
 
Mr. Torrance looked furious and menacing, and Kathleen was determined not to yield.
 
"The sum you allude to is equally out of my power and yours. When, after I had given you all else, you refused to secure to my boy his rightful heritage, I resolved the trifle left should never be alienated. I put it out of my own power, and placed it in trust for Kenneth."
 
"Do you dare to tell me this?" shouted Mr. Torrance.
 
"I do. I rejoice to think that this money cannot be touched even by you or me. Kenneth will not be penniless, though it is dreadful to think that what came from my dear father has been squandered in a few years by a—"
 
"You had better finish your sentence, madam."
 
The pause gave Kathleen time to overcome her first anger, and to substitute other words for those which might, without it, have been spoken.
 
"By a man whom experience has failed to teach or improve. A man who having twice trod the road to ruin, finds it more attractive than any other, whose promises were uttered only to be forgotten, on whose honour I relied, to find it but a broken reed."
 
Kathleen rose from the breakfast-table and left the room, feeling nearly broken-hearted. She had borne much, but the attempt to get possession of the last fragment of her fortune tried her beyond endurance.
 
As the door closed behind Kathleen, an evil smile came on her husband's face. He did not follow her, but he said aloud—
 
"Before you are many hours older you will be glad to change your tone, my fair Kathleen."
 
An hour later, Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine were startled by Kathleen's appearance at Monk's How. Her coming suggested some new trouble, and into their sympathetic ears she poured the story, not only of this last trial, but of many preceding ones hitherto unsuspected.
 
"I blame myself," said Kathleen, humbly, "because I sinned against conscience and knowledge by marrying one in whose life the fear and the love of God had no part. I indulged my self-will at the cost of pain to my best friends. I trusted fortune, my hope of happiness, the future of my child—all that marriage might bring—to one whose past life proved him unworthy of trust. Even John said it would be better for him if he were not so trusted, and oh! how truly he knew this! You know, dear aunty, how I used to chafe at little contradictions and crave after forbidden things, just because they were forbidden. Yet that night when you told me my mother's story, my longing after one prohibited amusement was quenched for ever. Things that I thought I should enjoy when I became my own mistress, lost their relish as soon as I tasted them, and I would have given the world to live with John the old peaceful life such as ours was, when we were together at the Hall before my marriage."
 
"It is an awful thing to pass the years with one to whom you are joined by the closest and most sacred ties, and yet to be as far as possible asunder in all that concerns the soul and eternity. I doubt if John and I ever joined in real prayer in our lives, for even when we went to church together, he always said it is 'only for the look of the thing and to please you, Kitty, that I go.' Even that poor concession soon ceased, as you know."
 
Tears stopped Kathleen's utterance for a while. She had begged her aunt and cousin just to let her tell her tale uninterrupted.
 
"For," she said, "if you begin to pity me and speak lovingly, it will never be told. I shall break down, and cannot begin again."
 
"You have had one great blessing out of the trouble, one light that has pierced the darkness, Kathleen," said Mrs. Ellicott. "You have been brought nearer to God, and realized, as you never did before, the love that never faileth."
 
"Oh yes. This is now my one great joy. Silent to others, even to you, how could I have lived without the comfort and strength He gave me, though I felt so unworthy even to ask for it? I was—I am so lonely, though I am a wife and a mother. Yet my very loneliness has drawn and driven me to God. I have needed much discipline, and it has taken a long time for me to learn the truth about myself. I started on my married life with the idea that I—weak, sinful, and to a great extent ignorant of my own need—should prove a source of strength to my husband, and be his helper and safeguard on the path we were to tread together until life ended for one of us. It is true that I soon began to regret the sorrow I had caused to dear earthly friends by my wilfulness; but I placed them first. Now, by the enlightening power of the Holy Spirit, I see my sinfulness and ingratitude towards my Heavenly Father. In all my wilful words and acts I rebelled against Him, and in paining the dear earthly friends whom He had graciously given to watch over me I showed the basest ingratitude for His goodness to me."
 
"When I first realized all this, and felt that nothing I could do would make amends for the past, all seemed dark and hopeless around me. But God had another message for me and it was one of love which I had often heard, though it never reached my heart before, and of forgiveness for the sake of Jesus, 'who loved us and gave Himself for us' when He died on Calvary. I can now say, 'He gave Himself for me,' for I believe it with all my heart, and I 'rejoice with joy unspeakable.'"
 
Despite her recent sorrow and present anxiety, there was a light in Kathleen's face which betokened the peace which passeth all understanding, a light which her aunt and cousin had never seen there before. Needless to say, she had their rejoicing sympathy.
 
There was a brief silence; then Kathleen said—
 
"If only John could feel as I do in these things, what a happy life might yet be before us! but I dare not hope for it, though I keep on praying always. I am now sorely in need of guidance, and after earnest prayer I have come to the conclusion that I should be wrong not to seek the help of my three best earthly friends. It would be neglecting the means placed within my reach. I must care for my boy. I will be firm in defending the little that is left for him, and I beg that you will tell Aylmer all I have told you, and ask him to join you in standing by me and strengthening my hands."
 
"I have other troubles which I must tell you before I go. One is about Ralph. He is greatly improved, for John has, in most things, allowed others to influence him for good—Aylmer especially—and not in vain. Of late he has taken an opposite course, to punish me for having wished him to make a will and secure the rights of my boy, without leaving Ralph's future unprovided for. You remember Ralph's foolish jealousy of his little brother, which really arose out of his great affection for me. John has been taking pains to revive this un-brotherly feeling, when Ralph has been at home for the holidays. I could not tell you how I suffered the last time."
 
"Poor Kitty, you have been wounded in your tenderest feelings!" said Ger.
 
"It is not on that account only I grieve. It is for Ralph himself I do so want him to grow up a good man. I have tried to make him look on the little brother as one to whom he should act as a defender and guardian. Often Ralph and I have been very happy. He is a fine youth, with many noble aims and longings. I have tried to strengthen these, and I have really opened my heart to him more than to older friends. I do not mean in a complaining way, but about the best things of all. We have read and prayed together many a time, and I am sure we have both been happier for this."
 
"I do not know how it came about, but some one told Ralph of his father's early career, and of the disgraceful ending to his military life. It was an awful trouble to the boy, and he came to tell me, and ask if it could be true."
 
"How sad for you and for the boy, dear Kitty!" said Ger.
 
"It was indeed, for what could I say? I had to own the truth; but I said that people were often sorry for the faults of their early days, and that it was possible for them to repent and, in God's strength, to live noble after-lives."
 
"'You knew before you married father, didn't you?' he asked; and I said, 'Yes, I did.'"
 
"Ralph was very thoughtful for a little while, and then with a burning flush on his face he said, 'I don't think father has led a noble life since, do you, mother?'"
 
"Perhaps I did the worst possible thing when I answered, 'Your father has always told me he was sorry for the past. He never brought any of the old visitors to the Hall, whom you used to dislike at Monk's How.' I wanted to make the best of my husband in the eyes of his son."
 
"Ralph asked another question. 'Did father promise that he really would keep away from those men?'"
 
"Fancy how hard it was to say 'Yes,' and then to hear Ralph reply, indignantly, 'My father has not kept his word to you. He has acted dishonourably, I know.'"
 
"I tried to speak hopefully, but Ralph was not to be easily cheered. He is close upon eighteen now, thoughtful and manly. I am very anxious about his future. He used to say he would be a soldier, as his father had been, but after that miserable tale came to his ears he gave up the idea. He thought that, no matter what his life might be, some one would identify him as the son of that Captain Torrance who had perforce to leave the service for dishonourable conduct. What to do for Ralph I know not. I have spoken earnestly to John more than once, and the last time—he was not quite himself, though that is a pitiful excuse to make for him—he laughed in my face, and said, 'You forget that Ralph will be master of the Hall.'"
 
The reminiscence was too much for Kathleen, and her tears could not be restrained. Her aunt and Geraldine were most indignant at this insult. They had not thought John Torrance could be so cowardly a tyrant. All that love could suggest they said to comfort Kathleen, yet felt that the task was an impossible one.
 
"I have one other trouble—a great one, I mean—the state of John's health," said Kathleen. "He is far from well, though he looks strong, and ridicules my anxiety. Some, perhaps, who bore such a burden as I do, might be indifferent, or think it would be no misfortune were he to die."
 
Kathleen shrank from uttering the last word, and it was followed by a burst of passionate weeping, during which she sobbed out—
 
"I have loved him truly—my husband, the father of my little child. I cannot bear to think of it, after all that I have had to endure at his hands. Besides and above all comes the thought, John is living without God and without hope in this world, and what is there beyond?"
 
Thus Kathleen ended her pitiful story, and left it with her aunt and cousin to repeat to Aylmer. "Remember," she added, "whatever John says, 'I will not give in with regard to the little sum saved for Kenneth. I must go back now; my child will want his mother.'"
 
Kathleen left immediately, and before the day was over Aylmer knew all that had passed, and shared the indignation inspired in Mrs. Ellicott and Ger by Kathleen's story. He owned that he was aware of Mr. Torrance's unsatisfactory state of health, and that it did not surprise him, and he replied gravely, "Kathleen has not yet seen his worst side, and I trust she never will, though he puts less and less restraint on himself. At first, I had some faint hope that the poor girl's unselfish trust and generosity would influence him permanently. Time has proved that I was wrong."
 
"Can Mr. Torrance have spent all Kitty's fortune?" asked Mrs. Ellicott.
 
"I fear so, since he is trying to wrest this little reserve sum from her. He is in debt, I know. He may have mortgaged the property, for he had full power. The income from the estate would about meet their present home expenditure, but if there is interest to be paid, and Torrance's outside extravagances to be met, he may easily be in difficulties."
 
"He cannot seize Kitty's little fund," said Ger.
 
"Not the property which yields the income. As to her savings, I dare say nothing. Torrance has stirred in her a spirit of resistance. He may next appeal to her pity with success. It waits to be seen whether love for her boy or his father will conquer in the end. If the worst come, it will neither find Kathleen homeless nor friendless whilst we three live," said Aylmer. On this thought alone could they all fall back for comfort.
 
When Kathleen reached home she asked for her boy.
 
"Master has taken him for a drive in the pony-trap, ma'am," was the nurse's answer.
 
The child had often gone with both parents, but his father had never before driven with the boy alone. Further inquiry showed that Mr. Torrance had got out at the station, and sent the trap back by a tenant's son. It seemed absurd to suppose that harm could happen to the child when in his father's care; but when Kathleen heard that the young man had seen the London train move off with Mr. Torrance and his boy in it, she turned sick with terror. "What could be John's motive for carrying off Kenneth unknown to his mother?" she asked herself.
 
Perplexed and troubled, she sent for Aylmer and Geraldine, who came immediately, and heard what had happened.
 
"You need not fear on your boy's account, Kathleen," said Aylmer, "though you may have to endure some suspense. No doubt John intends to extort your last available shilling. He has carried off the child that he may force you to ransom him at the cost of the sum you have saved as a provision for Kenneth. Do not yield. Trust to me, and be sure I will not rest until I find your boy."
 
"God will reward you for your unfailing goodness, my best of friends, my brother!" said Kathleen. "What should I do without you, my aunt, and dear, kind Ger?"
 
Kathleen's words were few, but her heart was full of thankfulness to the friends whom all her past wilfulness had failed to alienate.
 
Little has been said of late about Mountain, the faithful, self-opinionated, crusty coachman, who, despite his old dislike to Mr. Torrance, was still at the Hall. Kathleen had begged that she might retain him, and John Torrance, knowing the value of honesty and unimpeachable trustworthiness, had consented. The old man, however, always insisted that he served "Miss Kathleen as was," not Mr. Torrance. To him Aylmer would telegraph if needful, not to Kathleen, during his search for Kenneth.
 
Aylmer found that Mr. Torrance had booked for St. Pancras, and he was about to do the same, when a sudden inspiration stopped him.
 
Hollingsby was only two hours from London. Two trains left within a few minutes of each other, one express, the other slow. Mr. Torrance hated slow travelling, yet Aylmer easily ascertained that he had allowed the express to pass, though he might have had it stopped, and gone by slow train.
 
Aylmer at once decided that the London ticket was a mere blind, and that father and child would be set down at Earlsford Junction, ten miles away.
 
"I will make further inquiries," he thought. "Besides, there is no need to fear for Kenneth, and I must not risk a meeting with his father yet."
 
At seven that evening Mr. Torrance returned flushed and excited, but with an air of triumph. Kathleen schooled herself to meet him calmly, and asked in a natural tone, "Where is Kenneth, John? Have you given him to nurse? It is late for him to be out."
 
She trembled visibly, though she strove not to show her anxiety.
 
"You ask where our boy is. I will tell you after dinner, on certain conditions. In the meanwhile, let me say he is with those who will teach him to obey—a lesson he would hardly learn from you."
 
Without another word he passed her, and went to dress for dinner.
 
Kathleen easily divined what the conditions would be, and resolved not to yield to them. She only thought, "John is proud of our boy, and will not harm him. He only wants to coerce me through my fears for the child. I must bear in mind that if I have to endure threats and suspense during the child's absence, they will be for Kenneth's sake."
 
She went about preparing mechanically for the meal of which it would be impossible for her to partake. She even took special pains with her dress, and quietly told the nurse not to expect her charge before the morrow, as Mr. Torrance had left him to spend the night elsewhere.
 
Her manner deceived the servants, who were wondering what this new departure might mean. It also puzzled her husband, who expected passionate reproaches, tears and entreaties—anything but calmness. He could not imagine her capable of self-restraint where her child was concerned, and he saw it with surprise. Kathleen's trial came as soon as the servants left the room.
 
"You are not troubled at your darling's absence," said Mr. Torrance, in a mocking tone.
 
"How can I fear, when you are responsible for his safety?" replied Kathleen. "Still, it would have been kinder to tell me you were taking him away for the night."
 
"Or, if I had not taken him at all, I suppose."
 
"It is unusual to take one so young from home without warning the mother, that he might be fittingly clothed."
 
"It will do the boy good to rough it. He will have to do so, as a younger son. You have spoiled him."
 
Kathleen could not answer, and her silence irritated her husband, and disturbed his anticipation of an easy triumph, to be gained by the removal of the child.
 
"You are indifferent about the youngster, then; perhaps you are tired of both him and me. Why do you not speak?"
 
"You asked no question, and your remark called for no reply. You know that it was equally unjust and undeserved," replied Kathleen.
 
Her quiet dignity rendered Mr. Torrance uneasy, and he began to ask himself as to the source of her strength. There was something about Kathleen to-night which he could not fathom. Surely this hitherto yielding woman was not going to foil him when, as he would have expressed it, he had played his strongest card.
 
At this moment a servant entered and said, "Mountain would be glad to speak to you for a moment, ma'am."
 
"Excuse me for a moment, John," said Kathleen, "I will be back directly."
 
Mr. Torrance was always guarded before his servants, and he remarked, good-humouredly, "I suppose your favourite has been ailing. Mountain is a fidget about his horses."
 
When Mountain saw his mistress he made a remark or two about Polly, adding, "She is about well again now." Then in a low voice he said, "I've got the message, Miss Kathleen—ma'am, I mean. The child is safe at Monk's How."
 
An intelligent look from his mistress was enough for Mountain, and though she only remarked, "I am glad my favourite is better," he knew what his message had done for her.
 
Kathleen's heart beat wildly with the gladness Mountain's news had brought, but she went back to her husband with an unmoved face.
 
"Polly had been ailing, but Mountain says she is well again," she remarked.
 
"What do I care about the animal?" retorted Mr. Torrance. "You take Kenneth's absence coolly enough, and I am not likely to trouble about the mare. We have important business to talk about."
 
"I am ready to listen, John."
 
"You know what I mean well enough. You have only to recall to mind what I said this morning about the money you have been hoarding. I must and will have it, or a good portion of it, immediately."
 
"I do remember what you said. Surely you also remember my answer."
 
"You dare not repeat it, Kathleen."
 
"There is no need for me to do so; but oh, John! look back and think of the past, I pray you. If you do, you cannot persist in such a request. Remember this is all I have reserved for our child."
 
"I do not want the settled property. That is out of your power to give, but the money you have hoarded I will have, or you shall not see the boy again until he has forgotten that he ever knew his mother. I have him in my power, at any rate."
 
Even this threat failed to move Kathleen. In the same firm but quiet tone, she replied—
 
"I am sorry to deny you anything, John, but I must do what I feel to be right."
 
And as Mr. Torrance listened he was more than ever convinced that some secret influence was working against him, and that his final triumph was doubtful. He laughed uneasily, as he answered with a yawn—
 
"I am tired with my double journey, and need rest I will give you until to-morrow morning to come to your senses. By the way, I am glad the mare is all right again. She will sell for something, and every little helps."
 
The littleness displayed in this threat pained Kathleen more than the threat itself. Every day of late had shown her more plainly to what manner of man she had given herself. At this moment, however, the thought, "My child is safe, in loving hands, and with those whose faces and home are familiar to him," took the sting from the bitterest words that Mr. Torrance could say to her.
 
In spite of herself, Kathleen felt troubled about her husband. The complaint of weariness was no pretence. He walked unsteadily from the room, as if suffering from giddiness, and she noticed the almost livid colour on his face. He had of late frequently consulted a specialist relative to attacks of the kind, and had been advised to live very quietly and avoid excitement and stimulants. He would obey for then, feeling better, would laugh resume his old habits. Before Kathleen slept, she knew the story of her boy's recovery. It was told as briefly as possible in a note which Mountain placed in her hands later still.
CHAPTER XXIII LIGHT AT EVENTIDE
 
IT had been easy for Aylmer to find out that Mr. Torrance had left the train at Earlsford Junction, and Kenneth with him. The ex-captain was too well-known through the county for any mistake in identity to be possible. Besides, the carrying off of the child had been a sudden inspiration, not the result of a carefully laid plan, and Mr. Torrance had only counted that it would be needful to detain him for a night in some place unknown to his mother, to ensure her complete subjugation.
 
At Earlsford, he had hired a conveyance and driven away with the child, then returned alone, and taken train to another station thirty miles distant, whence he would return to Hollingsby.
 
Aylmer discovered the driver employed by Mr. Torrance without any trouble, and the man was willing to give any information, as Mr. Matheson was no stranger to him.
 
"It was a new thing for the captain to be in charge of the little man," he said. "But he was in rare spirits, as if he were up to some trick. Little master cried when his father left him, but Mrs. Munslow will take good care of him. She was nurse at Monk's How once, and afterwards she married a widower with two children, but comfortably off. She has one of her own now, so little master won't be short of a playfellow," said the man.
 
Aylmer knew that Ralph's nurse, Sarah Swain, was married, but neither remembered her present name nor her exact address—only that her home was a couple of miles from Earlsford Junction. The idea that Mr. Torrance would take the boy to Sarah had flashed across his mind, and sent him in the right direction instead of to town. He accordingly engaged the driver to convey him to her house. Under Sarah's charge he found little Kenneth, making himself very much at home in the society of the smallest Munslow.
 
Sarah beamed with delight at the sight of Mr. Matheson, and frankly owned that she thought her old master was up to some trick to plague his lady.
 
"I wouldn't have let him leave the child, sir," she said, "only I know Captain Torrance, and I thought he might be left in worse hands, if I refused. I knew I could make him comfortable, bless him! Isn't he like his beautiful mother? He has her eyes to a bit."
 
Mr. Matheson assented, and replied, "I am very glad you did take the poor child in. I can trust you to help me in restoring him to his mother."
 
He did not hesitate to trust Sarah in more than this, for he knew how grateful the woman had been to Kathleen, the Ellicotts, and himself, on Ralph's account.
 
"I always knew what would come of that marriage, sir," said Mrs. Munslow. "My old master might put on new ways for a bit, to get his own way; but he'll never change, and be a real, new man. If anybody could have altered him, Master Ralph's mother would have been the one, for Mr. Torrance cared more for her than for any human being but himself."
 
"Poor Miss Kathleen! She was good to my nursling, and to me. My master couldn't help being taken up with her beautiful face and pretty ways, but what he wanted was the money. He hasn't had sense to keep it, more's the pity. Eh dear! Miss Kathleen thought she could turn him round her little finger, he was so meek for a while and when he was in her sight, but out of it—"
 
Sarah shook her head to express what she did not put into words. In a regretful way she added, "The master was wonderfully fine-looking. No wonder a young lady thought such a handsome shell must cover a good kernel. But he is different now—so coarsened, as one may say."
 
Aylmer could only assent. The stamp of an evil life was only too visible, and Mr. Torrance's face to-day was in painful contrast to that of the handsome cavalier who had so captivated Kathleen's girlish fancy on the day of the meet a few years ago.
 
Mr. Matheson purposed taking the child back with him to Earlsford Station, but Sarah's womanly wit suggested a better plan.
 
"Pay off the man, sir, and say you will not go back to the station, but bid me good day before he starts, and set off walking to the station further on. When he is well out of sight, come back. We have a nice covered trap and a good horse here. Munslow can drive you to Hollingsby by a shorter road than the train takes, and you can send a message to Mountain from a post-office on the way. You will get nicely home when it is dusk."
 
This plan was adopted. Kenneth, weary with so much journeying, slept on the road, and was given into Geraldine's arms, too drowsy to be roused, so was put to bed at Monk's How.
 
Mr. Torrance had never doubted that Kathleen would be like wax in his hands, and said to himself, "I shall settle the business easily enough over the breakfast-table. My lady may think she will beat me, but when she has slept upon the matter she will listen to reason. When I have secured the cash, the boy shall come back, and she will be so delighted to have him that she will forget all else, as she has done many a time before, after our quarrels were over."
 
Mr. Torrance had reached his dressing-room when he came to this mental conclusion. He was feeling wretchedly ill, and unfit for anything but rest. He caught sight of his face in the glass, and was startled by its colour. He walked unsteadily across the floor, and was fain to sit down before undressing.
 
"This dizziness again. The old doctor's warning will come true, if I go on in the way I have done lately. I must turn over a fresh leaf, or—"
 
A servant passing the door heard a fall, and listened. There was no further movement, but a sound of heavy, unnatural breathing reached her, and she ran hastily downstairs to call for help. She met her mistress at the foot of the stairs, and told her that she was afraid Mr. Torrance must be ill.
 
Kathleen told the girl to follow her, hastened to the dressing-room, and found her husband lying senseless and motionless on the floor. The only sign of life was the stertorous breathing which had attracted the girl's attention, and caused her to give the alarm.
 
The doctor was soon on the spot, and confirmed the fear which had taken possession of Kathleen.
 
"Yes, it is apoplexy," he said. "Mr. Torrance's father died of it, but later in life. He was careful of himself, and lived by strict rules, which I could not induce your husband to do, though it was his only chance, and he knew it."
 
Kathleen's distress can be better imagined than described. Trouble is always intensified at such times by the knowledge that we have parted on other than kindly terms with the one who now lies stricken and helpless. If the sufferer ever held the dearest place in our hearts, our own wrongs seem to vanish, and through the mist of past years of trial we see him, not as the author of our sorrows, but as he was when he won our girlish love. So it was with Kathleen, and sad indeed were the few days which followed her husband's seizure. She was ever praying for, and longing to see a look of recognition, to hear him whisper her name, or give signs of possible restoration.
 
Only once came a gleam of consciousness, and the sufferer's eyes wandered, as if in search of something. Kathleen bent over him, and whispered, "Do you know me, John?—Kathleen." A slight murmur, and she caught one word, "Adela." It was a last effort. Mr. Torrance relapsed into unconsciousness, and a few hours later Kathleen was a widow. The only thought of which he had been capable was not given to her who had given him all, or to their child. It had gone back to his first love—the only real affection of his life, and that a sadly selfish one.
 
"He never truly loved me," thought Kathleen. "He married my fortune, and I married and almost worshipped an ideal being, the creature of my own imagination, until the scales fell from my eyes, and I knew. Yet how happy we might have been, with so many blessings to make life and home bright and free from the anxious cares which spoil so many wedded lives!"
 
Many particulars of her husband's past were mercifully hidden from Kathleen, but his embarrassments could not be concealed. All the ready money was gone, and ten thousand pounds obtained by mortgaging the estates had followed, and arrangements were in progress for a similar advance. The fact that some difficulty had occurred to retard their completion had moved Mr. Torrance to try and extort from Kathleen the sum saved for her boy. As her former guardian, Aylmer Matheson was the fittest person to act on her behalf, and as far as possible he saved her trouble and anxiety in business matters. Ralph also proved a comfort in the first period of her sorrow. He was full of loving thought, and all that was best in his character showed itself towards her and the brother, of whom he had formerly been unreasonably jealous.
 
Kathleen's goodness to the once lonely boy bore fruit after many days, and gave her a dutiful son in the manly youth, outwardly so like his father, but happily unlike him in other respects. Ralph was now nearly eighteen, and for several years past had improved greatly both in character and appearance. That he grieved deeply for the loss of his father goes without saying.
 
Mr. Torrance had left no valid will. One had been prepared by his instructions in an hour of compunction, or, perhaps, when the doctor's warnings, and the memory of Kathleen's unbounded trust, had moved him to do what conscience told him was only just. But it had never been signed. A superstitious feeling, a change of mood, or the determination to hold his power as a sort of weapon over his wife's head, had kept Mr. Torrance from completing his will, which, without his signature, was only so much waste paper.
 
Ralph did not at first realize his position.
 
"Shall you stay at the Hall, mother?" he asked. "It will seem large and lonely for you, and, from what Mr. Matheson says, the income will be too small to keep the same establishment. Still, it has always been your home."
 
"You forget, Ralph dear. It is not mine now, it is yours. The property was not settled on me. It became your father's absolutely, by my deed of conveyance, and you, his elder son, are his heir."
 
"You cannot be in earnest, mother. It would be horribly wicked in me to allow it. I shall give it straight back to you, and after you it ought to go to Kenneth, that is, if you wished him to have it, for the property is yours, first of all, to keep or to give. I am sorry, so sorry, mother dear, that it is sadly lessened, and you can only live very plainly here."
 
"I should not wish to live here in any case, Ralph. I could not if I would. And you, dear boy, have no power, however much you may wish it, to give my old home back to me. You are barely eighteen, and until you are of age you can do nothing. Three years hence—"
 
"I shall be of age, and I will do what is right by you and my brother," interposed Ralph, quickly.
 
He kissed her tenderly, and Kathleen smiled through glad tears, and returned the caress. She would not say anything to cast a doubt on his sincerity. Indeed, she fully believed in it; but who could tell whether he would feel the same when the power to make restitution was really in his hands?
 
"If I were to die in the meanwhile," said Ralph, after a pause, "I suppose the property would come to Kenneth, as my heir?"
 
"I have never thought of such a possibility, and with all my heart I pray that God will spare both my dear sons to be my comfort. I shall hope for more than one staff for my old age. In the meanwhile, I am thankful that matters have been so arranged that Mr. Matheson and I will be joint guardians of you two infants. Your father had appointed us in that unsigned will, and his wish has been carried out in this respect by consent of the court."
 
When Kathleen used the word "infants" she stretched herself on tiptoe, and smiled up in Ralph's face, for, though she was considerably above middle height, she was much below that of her tall stepson.
 
"One of your infants looks down on you in stature, mother," said Ralph; "but in all else he looks up to his guardian. How glad I am that you and Mr. Matheson should be joined in this trust! With neither mother nor father of my very own, I yet have both in you and him."
 
After Ralph's departure, Kathleen left the Hall with her little son. It cost her something to turn her back on the home of a lifetime, but so many sorrowful memories were now associated with it, that even had she been able to remain, she would not have done so. She had arranged to make her home with her aunt and Geraldine at Monk's How. Mrs. Ellicott was in failing health, the house was large enough, little Kenneth would help to brighten the place, and the elders would be mutually sources of comfort to each other.
 
Kathleen's income would suffice for the modest wants of herself and her boy. A tenant had offered to take the Hall furnished, on a three years' lease, and was willing to engage such of the servants as chose to stay, except the coachman.
 
"He needn't say, 'except the coachman,'" remarked Mountain. "I am too old to begin under another master. I serve Miss Kathleen as was, or I retire into private life, with a cottage and a cow or two. But, seeing that Mrs. Ellicott's man is leaving to go to a livelier place, she has offered me his, and I mean to take it. It's likely enough I shall drive my own young lady as long as I can hold the reins, for, though I shall be coachman to the old one, it's all in the family."
 
By some mysterious arrangement, the particulars of which no one seemed to know, Polly was transferred to Monk's How along with Mountain. Kathleen asked no curious questions, but as she patted the glossy coat of her old favourite, she was contented to owe this pleasure to the kind thought of a friend. She was not likely to mount the pretty creature, but, as every one said, "Polly was equally good to ride or drive, and looked just perfect always."
 
Kathleen was only twenty-nine when she took up her abode with the Ellicotts, but a silver thread might be seen here and there, amidst the soft masses of her abundant hair. She smiled as she called attention to them.
 
"I have been growing old fast of late, aunty," she said to Mrs. Ellicott. "Ger does not change a bit, unless it is to look younger and fairer. I feel so staid and middle-aged beside her."
 
The trembling lip and a suspicious moisture in her eyes told that Kathleen was looking back on the saddest period of her life.
 
"You will grow younger again here, Kitty," replied Ger. "In this quiet home you will begin a new life, and in time it will be a bright and happy one."
 
But the cloud did not soon pass away from Kathleen's spirit. She seldom spoke of her husband, and her friends felt it to be the truest kindness to allude to the past as little as possible. They knew that, far and beyond all other causes of sorrow, the thought of Mr. Torrance's condition when the last dread summons came was the most terrible of all.
 
In time, however, the widowed Mrs. Torrance became more like the Kathleen Mountford of old, but there was no trace of the girlish self-will that had led her astray. The lessons she had learned through suffering had produced blessed and enduring results, which each day made more manifest. Mrs. Ellicott only lived a year after Mr. Torrance, and her gentle presence was greatly missed by all who knew her, especially by her daughter and niece.
 
During the three years of Ralph's minority, the Hollingsby Hall estates were well managed, and though not free from encumbrance when he came of age, all debts and a portion of the mortgage had been paid off. There were no special festivities on Ralph's twenty-first birthday, as every one—none more than himself—felt that such would have been out of place. Kathleen, however, laid aside her widow's dress, and wore a rich black silk with soft white lace at the wrists and throat, in honour of the occasion.
 
"Mother, how beautiful you look!" said Ralph, as he held her at arm's length, and surveyed her from head to foot. "You have really grown young again. I am so glad you have changed your style of dress."
 
"I did so in compliment to the heir's birthday," she replied. Then clasping her arms round him she kissed him tenderly and said, "I pray that God may abundantly bless you, my dear boy, and make you a useful, happy man. A true soldier and follower of Christ."
 
"That is just what I want to be, mother dear," said Ralph, after returning the embrace, and whilst still holding her in his strong arms. "You know that I promised to tell you to-day what profession I meant to follow, for I should dread the thought of an idle life. I used to talk of being a soldier, and then I gave up the idea. I still wish to be one, but to fight under the greatest of all Captains, and not with weapons forged by the hands of men. Do you know what I mean?"
 
"I think I do, dear. You wish to be a true soldier of Christ, and you think you can best serve Him by dedicating your life to the ministry."
 
"Yes. I have talked everything over with Mr. Matheson, and he approves, and says he believes I have made a right choice. You, too, will ask God's blessing upon it, I know."
 
Kathleen was delighted. She knew that Aylmer would not approve unless fully convinced of Ralph's sincerity and fitness for such a vocation.
 
The two were interrupted at the moment by the entrance of little Kenneth, who rushed to his brother, exclaiming, "See, Ralph. This is my birthday present, and I wish you many happy returns."
 
It was a simple little gift, but it had cost the child some self-denial, and Ralph praised and valued it accordingly, to the great satisfaction of the donor.
 
"Now, Kenneth," he said, "you shall take a present that I have got here and give it to mother."
 
"It's not mother's birthday," said the boy, taking the offered packet. "It is tied up, so p'r'aps you want her to keep it till her birthday comes."
 
"No, my boy. Mother must have it just now, and from your small hands. After all, it is not a gift. It is something of mother's very own which some one has taken care of, ready to be given back to her."
 
Kathleen guessed what the packet contained. It was a deed by which she would be restored to full possession of the Hall and the estates that had been her own before her marriage.
 
"I will not refuse your gift, Ralph," she said, "for a gift it is, inasmuch as the law gave it absolutely to you. But I know your nature too well to think that you could ever be happy if you kept it. You know also that I can experience no greater pleasure than in using all I have for the benefit of both my boys."
 
There was a little dinner-party at Mr. Matheson's that evening, that the day might not pass quite unmarked by any social gathering, but the guests were few. Amongst them, however, were two who were specially welcome, namely, the new Dean of Woldcaster and his bride, formerly Hetty Stapleton.
 
Hetty, staunch, generous and helpful always, and particularly where the welfare of her own sex was involved, had spoken with equal plainness and good sense at the meeting of a society formed to improve the condition of working girls. The Very Rev. the Dean of Woldcaster had been present on that occasion. He was a bachelor of forty-five, and a friend of Aylmer Matheson. He had just decided that his handsome residence, in the Close at Woldcaster, needed a fitting mistress, and before long he came to the further conclusion that Miss Stapleton would be the very person to fill that position, if she would accept it.
 
There was another good reason for the proposal, which followed after a short interval. The dean was thoroughly in love, for the first time in his life. He confessed to Hetty that such was the case with a sort of apology, as if it were a thing to be ashamed of.
 
"The fact is," he exclaimed, "I have always lived such a busy life, and I have had younger brothers and sisters to look after and help on in the world, so that I have never had time until now."
 
Whereupon Hetty, with a laugh and a blush which became her exceedingly well, owned that she was very glad to hear it.
 
After this all was smooth sailing, and as the dean's bride Hetty was an important guest at Ralph's birthday dinner.
 
They made, all together, a very happy party, and every one rejoiced to see the joyous light in Kathleen's eyes, and to hear something of the old ring in her voice, which had been long missing.
 
The dean took a friend's privilege, and rallied his host on his bachelor establishment, vaunted his own happily changed condition, and advised Aylmer to follow his example. He was thinking how well that nice Miss Ellicott would suit Matheson in every way.
 
His wife was a little uneasy, for she knew of the old wound, and could gauge the faithfulness of the true heart that would never find room for a second love. Only Kathleen could fill the void.
 
The party broke up fairly early, for the dean and his wife had a long drive before them.
 
Aylmer walked back to Monk's How with Kathleen, for the night was lovely, and the distance not great. Ralph was in advance of them with Ger. Kathleen's hand rested on Aylmer's arm, and they walked some little way without speaking. Then she broke the silence by saying, "How well Ralph is turning out, and it is all through you. No words can tell what a blessed influence you have exerted over his life, and mine too. To think of the dear boy's choice, and his making over everything to me again as soon as possible."
 
"That was only just and honest. As a true man, Ralph could have done nothing else, and we can rejoice in the knowledge that he has a horror of everything that is not true and upright."
 
"I seem to be always accepting benefits. Every one has been so good to me, since—"
 
Kathleen paused. She could not bear to say what was in her mind, but Aylmer knew that she would be thinking of Mr. Torrance's death.
 
"Better not to look back, dear Kathleen," he said. "The prospect ahead is bright now, for you and yours, at any rate."
 
Kathleen noticed the sigh which followed.
 
"I must look back a long way, Aylmer, even to my childish days, and to the time when you took such a thankless office as that of guardian to so self-willed a girl as I was. On your part, I can see nothing but patience, kindness, unselfishness, generosity and affection, to which I was never worthy. You have always been giving, and I receiving, and I suppose it will be the same to the end. Even now, I am a petitioner, and must ask yet more at your hands. With the restoration of the property, new responsibilities rest upon me. I long to do right, but I mistrust my own judgment. I want my old guardian's help more than ever, for my boys as well as myself. I cannot stand alone."
 
"You know, dear Kathleen, there is nothing you can ask that I shall be unwilling to give or to do," replied Aylmer.
 
"I knew you would say so. You are always the same. How I wish I could do something for you, or give you, in ever so little a way, a proof that I am grateful for your goodness and—sorry for the past!"
 
"You can, dearest Kathleen, if you will. There is only one gift that would make me rich indeed, and you know what it is. I asked for it once before, but then—"
 
"I was blind and could not discern the difference. But I will not talk of the past, Aylmer. If you can really care for such a gift, it is yours, my good, faithful love. I only wish I were more worthy of you."
 
There was no mistaking Kathleen's sincerity, and as Aylmer drew her towards him, he knew that he at last possessed the whole heart of the only woman he had ever loved. She did not withdraw from his encircling arm, but lifted her face to his, that he might seal the compact with his lips.
 
It would be easy to draw a fair picture of after years, for these events happened long ago. The child Kenneth is growing up to stalwart manhood, and Ralph's name is known and honoured as that of a true servant of Christ.
 
Kathleen's hair has more than mere silver threads in it now, though many—her husband included—think her handsomer than ever. But the story shall end here, for it only professed to be that of A Wilful Ward, and the title no longer applies to Mrs. Matheson, wife of the senior Member for Woldshire.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE END