The London season had not yet reached its height, some years ago, before the arch admitting to Constitution Hill had been swept back to make room for the huge, ever-increasing stream of traffic, or the plebeian 'bus had been permitted to penetrate the precincts of Hamilton Place. It was the forenoon of a splendid day, one of the earliest of June, and at that hour the roadway between the entrance to Hyde Park and the gate then surmounted by the statue of the Duke of Wellington on his drooping steed was comparatively free, when two gentlemen coming from opposite directions recognized each other, and paused at the gate of Apsley House—the elder, a stout, florid man of military aspect, middle age, and average height, with large gray mustache and small, slightly bloodshot eyes; the younger, who was tall and bony, might have been thirty, or even forty, so grave and sedate was his bearing, although his erect carriage, elastic step, and clear keen dark eyes suggested earlier manhood.
Both had the indescribable well-groomed, freshly bathed look peculiar to Englishmen of the "upper ten."
"Ha! Errington! I didn't know you were in town. I thought you were cruising somewhere with Melford, or rusticating at Garston Hall. I think your father expected you about this time."
"I don't think so. I was summoned by telegraph from Paris. My father was seized with a paralysis last week. He had just come up to town, and for a few days was dangerously ill, but is now slowly recovering."
"Very sorry to hear of it. A man of his stamp would have been of immense value to the country. He had begun to take a very leading part in local matters. I trust he will come round."
"I fear he will never be the same again. I doubt if he will be able to direct his own affairs as he used."
"That's bad! You are not in the business, I believe?"
"No; I never took any part in it. I almost regret I did not. It would, I imagine, be a relief to my father, now that his mind is less clear, to know that I was at the helm. But we have a capital man as manager, quite devoted to the house. I shall get my father down to the country as soon as I can, and I trust he'll come round."
"No doubt he will. He was wonderfully hale and strong for his years."
"Ay! how d'ye do, Bertie?" interrupted the first speaker, holding out his hand to a young man who came up from Hyde Park and seemed about to pass with a smile and a nod. "Who would have thought of meeting you in these godless regions? I hear you are busy 'slumming' from morning till night."
"Well, Colonel," returned Bertie—a slight, fair, boyish-looking man—"I am so far false to my new vocation as to have lost some irrevocable moments looking at the horses and horsewomen in the Row."
"Aha! the old leaven, my dear boy! You are on the brink of perdition.—Don't you know Bertie Payne?" he continued, to his newly met friend. "He was one of my subs before he renounced the devil and all his works. He was with us at Barrackbore when you were in India."
"I do not think we have met," the other was beginning, when a young lady—toward whom the Colonel had already cast some sharp, admiring glances as she stood on the curbstone holding a hand of the smaller of two little boys in smart sailor suits—uttered a cry of dismay. The elder child had rushed into the road, as if to stop a passing omnibus, not seeing that a hansom was coming up at speed.
The young man called Bertie dashed forward, and barely succeeded in snatching the child from under the wheel. A scramble of horses' feet, an imprecation or two shouted by the irritated driver, a noisy declaration from the "fare" that he should lose his train, and the scuffle was over.
The little man, held firmly by the shoulder, was marched back to his young guardian.
"Thank you!—oh, thank you a thousand times! You have saved his life!" she exclaimed, fervently, in unsteady tones. Then to the child: "How could you break your promise to stay by me, Cecil? You would have been killed but for this gentleman!"
"I wanted to catch the 'omlibus' for you, auntie!" he cried, with an irrepressible sob, though he gallantly tried to hold back his tears.
"Hope the little fellow is none the worse of his fright," said the Colonel, advancing and raising his hat. "Can I be of any use?—can I call a cab?"
"No, thank you; I will take an omnibus and get home as soon as I can. Cecil will soon forget his fright, I fear—"
"Sooner than you will," remarked Bertie. "There is a Royal Oak omnibus. Will that do?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Come along, then, my young man; I will not let you go."
Bertie put the trio into the vehicle, and the lookers-on saw that he shook hands with "auntie" as the conductor jumped on his perch and they rolled on.
"Gad! there's a chance for you!" cried the Colonel as Bertie joined him. "An uncommon fine girl, by George! What a coloring! and a splendid pair of black eyes!"
"I suspect extreme fright did a good deal for both, poor girl. Her eyes are brown, not black."
"Brown! Nonsense! Didn't you think they were black?"
"I did not observe them," returned the grave personage he addressed, indifferently. "The boy had a narrow escape. I must say good morning," he added.
"Stop a bit," cried the Colonel. "I must see you again before you leave town. Dine with me to-morrow at the Junior. And, Bertie—"
"Thanks, no, I am engaged." He said good-by and walked on.
"Queer fellow that," said the Colonel, looking after him. "He got into some money troubles in India, left the army, and got converted. Now he is not exactly a Salvation soldier, but something of the kind. He'll be at you one of the days for a subscription to convert the crossing sweepers or some such undertaking. But you'll dine with me to-morrow. I'll tell you all the Clayshire gossip."
"Thank you, I shall be very happy."
"Then good-by for the present, I am engaged to lunch to meet one of the prettiest little widows you ever saw in your life, but she has no cash. Here, hansom," calling to the driver of a cab which was passing slowly. "I am a little late." He jumped in and drove off.
His friend, with a slight grave smile, continued his walk to the Alexandria Hotel, the portals of which received him.
Meantime the hero of the cab incident sat very demurely by his young aunt, as the omnibus rolled slowly up Park Lane, occasionally stealing inquisitive glances at her face.
"You have been a very naughty boy, Cecil!" she exclaimed as her eyes met his. "How could I have gone home to mamma if I had been obliged to leave you behind?"
"But you needn't, you know; you could have tied me up in a bundle and taken me back. Mamma would have known it wasn't your fault."
"I am not so sure of that, and you have made poor Charlie cry,"—drawing the younger boy to her side.
"Charlie is just a baby," contemptuously.
"He is a better boy than you are." Silence.
"Auntie, do you think the gentleman who pulled me back was the old gentleman's son?"
"No, I do not think he was."
"Why don't you, auntie?"
"I can hardly say why."
"I have seen that gentleman—the old gentleman—in Kensington Gardens," said little Charlie, nestling up to his aunt. "He spoke to mammy the day she took me to feed the ducks."
"I think that is only a fancy, dear."
"No; I am quite sure."
"Oh, you are always fancying things; you are a silly," cried Cecil, now quite recovered, and turning to kneel upon the seat that he might look out, thereby rubbing his feet on the very best "afternoon" dress of a severely respectable female, whose rubicund face expressed "drat the boy!" as strongly as a face could.
The rest of the journey was accomplished after the usual style of such travels when the aunt and nephews went out together. Cecil was constantly rebuked and made to sit down, and as constantly resumed his favorite position; so that he ultimately reached home with beautifully clean shoes, having wiped "the dust off his feet" effectually on the garments of his fellow-passengers, while his little brother nestled to his auntie's side and gazed observantly on his fellow-travellers, arriving at curious conclusions respecting them, to be afterward set forth to the amusement of his hearers.
Leaving the omnibus at the Royal Oak, the trio diverged to one of the streets between that well-known establishment and the Bayswater Road—a street which had still a few trees and small semi-detached villas, with front gardens left at one end, the relics of a past when Penrhyn Place was "quite the country"; while at the other, bricks, mortar, scaffolding, and a deeply rutted roadway indicated the commencement of mansions which would soon swallow up their humbler predecessors.
At one of these villas, the garden of which was tolerably neat, the little boys and their aunt stopped, and were admitted by a smart but not over-clean girl, who welcomed the children with a cheerful, "Well, Master Cecil, you are just in nice time for dinner! Come, get your things off; your gran'ma has a treat for you."
"Has she? Oh, what is it? Do tell, Lottie!"
"Don't mind, dear, if you are tired; your morning-gown will do very well, as we are alone."
"No, no; I must honor Cecil's birthday with my best dress. These trifles are important."
"I suppose so," returned her daughter, looking after her gravely, as she left the room.
Mrs. Liddell was tall, and the lines of her figure considerably enlarged. Yet she had not quite lost the grace for which she was once remarkable. Her light brown hair had a pale look from the increasing admixture of gray, and her blue eyes seemed faded by much use. It was a kind, thoughtful, worn face from which they looked, yet it could still smile brightly.
"She looks very, very tired," thought her daughter. "I must make her lie down if I can; it is so hard to make her rest!" She too looked uneasily at the mass of writing on the table, and then went away to remove her out-door attire.
The birthday dinner gave great satisfaction. It was crowned by a plum-pudding, terrible as such a compound must always be in June; but it was a favorite "goody" with the young hero of the day. Grandmamma made herself as agreeable as though she was one of a party of wits, and drank her grandson's health in a bottle of choice gooseberry, proposing it in a "neat and appropriate" speech, which gave rise to much uproarious mirth and delight. At last the feast was over; the children retired to amuse themselves with a horse and a wheelbarrow—some of the birthday gifts—in the back garden (a wilderness resigned to their ravages), and Mrs. Liddell and her daughter were left alone.
"Now, mother, do come and lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room. I see you are out of sorts. You hardly tasted food, and you are dreadfully tired; come and rest. I will read you to sleep."
"No, Kate; there can be no rest for me, my darling," returned her mother, rising, and beginning to put the plates and glasses together with a nervous movement. "I am out of sorts, for I have had a great disappointment. The Family Friend has refused my three-volume novel, and I really have not the heart to try it anywhere else after such repeated rejections. At the same time Skinner & Palm write to say they cannot use my short story, 'On the Rack,' for five or six months, as they have such a quantity of already accepted manuscripts."
"How provoking!" cried Katherine. "But come away; the drawing-room is cooler; let us go there and talk things over."
Mrs. Liddell accepted the suggestion, and sank into an arm-chair, while her daughter let down the blinds, and then placed herself on a low ottoman opposite her.
There was a short silence; then Mrs. Liddell sighed and began: "I counted so much on that short story for ready money! Skinner always pays directly he has published. Now I do not know what to do. If I take it back I may fail to dispose of it, yet I cannot wait. But the novel—that is the worst disappointment of all. I suppose it was foolish, but I felt sure about that."
"Of course you did," cried Katherine, eagerly. "It is an excellent story."
"It is not worse than many Santley brings out," resumed Mrs. Liddell; "but one is no judge of one's own work. It was with reluctance I offered it to The Family Friend, and you see—" her voice faltered, and she stopped abruptly.
Katherine knew the tears were in her eyes and swelling her heart. She restrained the impulse to throw her arms round her; she feared to agitate her mother; rather she would help her self-control.
"Well, dear, I am no great judge, but I am quite sure that such a story as yours must succeed sooner or later. So we will be patient."
"Ah! but, Katie, the landlord and the butcher will not wait, and, my child, I have only about five pounds. I made too sure of success for I did so well last year. Then Madame de Corset will soon be sending in her bill for that famous dress of Ada's, and she will want the money she lent me."
"Then Madame de Corset must wait," said Katherine, firmly. "Ada is really your debtor. Where could she live at so small a cost as with you? Where could she be so free to run about without a thought for the children? What has become of her? Couldn't she stay with Cecil on his birthday?"
"She is gone to luncheon with the Burnetts. It is as well to keep up with them; their influence might be useful to the boys hereafter; but I do wish I could pay her."
"I wish you could, for it would make you happier; but she really owes you ten pounds and more."
"What shall I do about that novel? If I could get two hundred—even one hundred—pounds for it, I should do well. I began to hope I might make both ends meet with my pen. Oh, Katie dear, I am ashamed of myself, but for the first time in my life I feel beaten. I feel as if I could not come up to time again. It has been such a long, weary battle!" She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"I wish I could give you rest, darling mother!" said Katherine, taking her hand and fondling it. "I fear I have been too useless—too thoughtless."
"You have done all you could, my child; one cannot expect much from nineteen. But I wish—I wish I could think of any means of deliverance from my present difficulty. A small sum would suffice. Where to find it is the question. I counted too much on those unlucky manuscripts, and now I do not know where to turn; I see a vista of debt." A sudden fit of coughing interrupted her.
"You have taken cold, mother," cried Katherine. "I heard you coughing this morning. I was sure you would suffer for sitting near the open window in the study last night."
"It was so hot!" murmured Mrs. Liddell, lying back exhausted.
"Yes, but it was also frightfully damp. Tell me, mother, is there anything we can sell?—anything—"
Mrs. Liddell interrupted her. "Nothing, dear. The few jewels I had preserved went when I was trying to furnish this house. I fancied we should do well in a house of our own, and I was so anxious to make a home for my poor boy's widow!"
"When do you expect any more money?"
"Not for nearly two months, and then another quarter's rent will be due."
"Mother," said Katherine, after a moment's silence, "would not my father's brother, of whom I heard you speak, help you? It is dreadful to ask, but he is so near a kinsman, and childless."
"It is useless to think of it. He and your father quarrelled about money, and he is implacable. His only child, a son, opposed him, and he drove him away. Poor fellow! he was killed in Australia."
"Why have hard-hearted wretches heaps of money, while kind, generous souls like you never have a farthing?"
"That is a mystery of long standing," said Mrs. Liddell, with a faint smile. "Katie, I cannot think or talk any more. I will go and lie down in my own room. There neither Ada nor the children can disturb me. Oh, my darling, how can I ever die in peace if I leave you to do battle with the bitter, bitter world unprovided for?" Her voice quivered, and the hand she laid on her daughter's trembled.
"Do not fear for me, mother. I am tougher and more selfish than you are. It is time I worked for you. How feverish you are! Come up to your own room. You will see things differently when you have had a little sleep. If the worst comes, I will tell Ada that we must give up the house and go back to lodgings. We never had difficulties before we came here."
"No, for we never had debts. Now I have, and I have this house for nearly three years longer. It is not so easy to shake off engagements as you would a cloak that had grown too heavy."
So saying, Mrs. Liddell rose and ascended to the room she shared with her daughter, whom she allowed to take off her dress and put on her wrapper, to arrange her pillows, to bathe her brow in eau-de-cologne and water, and soothe her with those loving touches, those tender cares, that the heart alone can prompt, till in spite of the cloud and thick darkness that hid her future, Mrs. Liddell was calmed by the delicious sense of her daughter's love and sympathy.
"I will make a list of editors," said Katherine—"I mean those whom you have not tried—and go round to them myself. Perhaps I may bring you luck."
"Yes; your young life is more likely to have fortune on its side: the fickle jade has forsaken me."
Katherine made no reply beyond a gentle kiss. She sat silently by her mother's side, till feeling the hand that held hers relax its hold, she slowly and softly withdrew her own, comforted to perceive that balmy sleep had stolen upon the weary woman.
Still she sat there thinking with all the force of her young brain, partly remembering, partly anticipating.
Of her father she had scarce any knowledge. She was but four years old when he died, and her only brother was nearly fourteen. The eldest and youngest of Mrs. Liddell's children were the survivors of several.
Katherine's memory of her childish days presented the dim picture of a quaint foreign town; of blue skies, bright sunshine, and abundant vegetation; of large rooms and a smiling black-eyed attendant in a peculiar head-dress; of some one lying back in a large chair, near whom she must never make a noise. Then came a change; mother always in black, with a white cap, and often weeping, and of colder winters, snow and skating—a happy time, for she was always with mother both in lesson and play time, whilst Fred used to go away early to school. Next, clear and distinct, was the recollection of her first visit to London, and from this time she was the companion and confidante of her mother. They were poor—at least every outlay had to be carefully considered—but Katie never knew the want of money. Then came the excitement and preparation attending Fred's departure for India, the mixture of sorrow and satisfaction with which her mother parted from him, of how bitterly she had cried herself; for though somewhat tyrannical, Fred had been always kind and generous.
How well she remembered the day he had left them never to return—how her mother had clasped her to her heart and exclaimed: "You must be all in all to me now, Katie. I have done but little for you yet, dear, Fred needed so much."
A spell of happy, busy life in Germany followed, enlivened by long letters from the young Indian officer, whose career seemed full of promise. But when Katherine was a little more than thirteen sorrow fell upon them. Fred's letters had become irregular; then came a confession of weakness and debt, crowned by the supreme folly of marriage, concluding with a prayer for help.
Mrs. Liddell was cruelly disappointed. She had hoped and expected much from her boy. She believed he was doing so well! She told all to Katie, who heartily agreed with her that Fred must be helped. Some of their slender capital was sold out and sent to him, while mother and daughter cheerfully accepted the loss of many trifling indulgences, drawing the narrow limits of their expenditure closer still, content and free from debt, though as time went on Katherine cast many a longing glance at the world of social enjoyment in which their poverty forbade her to triumph.
Mrs. Liddell had always loved literature, and her husband had been an accomplished though a reckless and self-indulgent man. She had wandered a good deal with him, and had seen a great variety of people and places. It occurred to her to try her pen as a means of adding to her income, and after some failures she succeeded with one or two of the smaller weekly periodicals. This induced her to return to London, hoping to do better in that great centre of work. Here the tidings of her son's death overwhelmed her. Next came an imploring letter from the young widow, who had no near relatives, praying to be allowed to live with her and Katherine—sharing expenses—as the pension to which an officer's widow and orphans were entitled insured her a small provision.
So Mrs. Liddell again roused herself, and managed to furnish very scantily the little home where Katherine sat thinking. But the addition to their income was but meagre compared to the expenses which followed in the train of Mrs Frederic Liddell and her two "little Indian boys."
All the efforts of the practical mother and daughter did not suffice to keep within the limits they dreaded to overpass. Mrs. Liddell's pen became more than ever essential to the maintenance of the household, while the younger widow considered herself a martyr to the most sordid, the most unnecessary stinginess.
A tapping at the door and suppressed childish laughter called Katherine from her thoughts. She rose and opened the door quickly and softly.
"Hush, Cecil! be quiet, Charlie! poor grannie is asleep. Come with me downstairs; I will read to you if you like."
"Oh yes, do," said Charlie.
"I don't care for reading," cried Cecil. "Can't you play bears?"
"It makes too much noise. I will play it to-morrow if grandmamma is better. Shall I tell you a story?"
"No," said Cecil; "I will tell you one."
"Very well. I shall be delighted to hear it."
"I would rather have you read, auntie," said the little one.
"Never mind, Charlie; I will read to you after."
"Shall we sit in the garden? We have made it quite clean and tidy."
"No, dear; grannie would hear us there. Come into the dining-room."
Established there, the boys one on each side of her, Katherine listened to the young story-teller, who began fluently: "There was once two little boys called Jimmie and Frank. Frank was the biggest; he was very strong and very courageous; and he learned his lessons very well when he liked, but he did not always like. The two little boys had an aunt; she was nice and pleasant sometimes, but more times she was cross and disagreeable, and she spoiled Jimmie a great deal. One day they went out to walk a long way, and saw lots of people riding, and Jimmmie grew tired, and so did Frank, but Frank would not complain, and their aunt was so unkind that she would not call a hansom; so when they came to a great street Frank thought he would catch an omnibus, and he ran out quick—quick. He would have caught it, but his aunt was so silly and such a coward that she sent a man after him, who nearly dragged him under the feet of a horse that was coming up, and they would both have been killed if Frank had not called out to the cabman to stop."
"Oh, Cecil, that is you and I. What a story! Auntie is not unkind, and you did not call out," cried Charlie.
Katherine could not help laughing at the little monkey's version of the incident.
"Cecil, Cecil, you must learn to tell the truth—" she was beginning, when the door was opened, and a small, slight lady in black silk, with a profusion of delicate gray ribbons, jet trimming, and foamy white tulle ruching, stood in the doorway. She was very fair, with light eyes, a soft pink color, and pale golden brown hair—altogether daintily pretty.
"Oh, mammy! mammy! where have you been all my birthday?" cried the elder boy, rushing to her.
"My own precious darling, do not put your dear dirty little paws on my dress!" she exclaimed, in alarm. "I was obliged to go, my boy; but I have brought you a bag of sweets; it is in the hall. Dear me! how stuffy this room is! Mrs. Burnett's house is so cool and fresh! It looks into a charming garden at the back; and oh, how delightful it must be to be rich!" She had advanced into the room as she spoke, and began to untie and smooth out her bonnet strings.
"It must indeed," returned Katherine, with a deep sigh.
"I will go and put on an old dress; this one is too pretty to spoil, and the house is so dusty. Do you think it becoming, Katherine?"
"Yes, very"—with an indulgent smile. "You ought always to wear half-mourning; it suits you admirably."
"I think it does; but I must put it off some day, you know. Cecil dear, go and ask cook to make me a cup of tea. I will have it up in my room. Charlie, don't cuddle up against your aunt in that way; it makes her too hot, and you will grow crooked." Charlie jumped down from his chair and held up his face.
"There, dear," giving a hasty kiss. "Don't worry."
"Mammy," said Cecil, with much solemnity, "I was nearly killed to-day."
"Nonsense, dear! This is one of your wonderful inventions. What does he mean, Katherine?"
"He might have been. He darted from me at Hyde Park Corner, intending to catch an omnibus, and would have been run over if a gentleman had not snatched him from under the horses' feet."
"My precious boy!" laying her hand on his head, but keeping him at a distance. "How wrong of you, Katherine, to let his hand go!"
"I did not let it go; I was not holding it," returned Katherine, dryly.
"At Hyde Park Corner?" pursued Mrs. Frederic Liddell, eagerly. "Was the gentleman soldierly and stout, with gray mustaches?"
"No. He was young and slight and clean-shaved."
"That is curious; for Colonel Ormonde was saying at luncheon to-day that he had saved, or helped to save, such a pretty little boy from being run over. I don't exactly remember what he said. I was listening to Mrs. De Vere Hopkins, and Mrs. Burnett's boy was making a noise. Colonel Ormonde said he was just like a little fellow he had seen nearly run over that morning. I am sure Tom Burnett is not half as handsome as my Cecil."
"I should not have been run over if auntie had left me alone."
"Go and get mother's tea, and you, Charlie, fetch her some nice bread and butter," said Katherine, who, though six or seven years her sister-in-law's junior, looked at first sight older. "There was an elderly gentleman such as you describe, talking with the young man who rescued Cecil, and he was very polite and interested in Cecil, who broke away from me, though he had promised to stay by my side."
"Promised," repeated Mrs. Frederic, lightly, and carefully dusting her bonnet with her handkerchief. "What can you expect from a child's promise? But poor Cecil rarely does right in your eyes."
"Nonsense, Ada!"
"Not at all. I am very observant. But tell me, did Colonel Ormonde take much notice of Cecil?"
"I do not know. I was too much frightened to see anything but the dear child himself."
Mrs. Frederic did not reply for a moment; she seemed to be thinking deeply. "Where did you get those flowers—those you bought on Saturday for sixpence?"
"Oh! at the little florist's on Queen's Road. It was late in the evening, you know, or they would not have been so cheap."
"I should like some to-morrow to make the drawing-room look pretty, if possible, for Colonel Ormonde said he would call. He wishes to see some of my Otocammed photographs. Heigho! it is a miserable place to receive any one in."
"Well, you see, it must do."
"Really, Katherine, you are very unsympathetic. If you have a fault, dear, it is selfishness. You don't mind my saying so?"
"Oh, not at all. I am thankful for the 'if.'"
"Where is your mother?"
"Lying down. She is tired, and has a horrid headache."
"I'm sure I don't wonder at it, toiling from morning till night for those wretched papers. I was telling Mrs. Burnett to-day that my mother-in-law was an authoress, but when I mentioned that she wrote for The Family Friend and The Cheerful Visitor, Lady Everton, who writes in The Court Journal and various grand things of that kind, said they were quite low publications, and never got higher than the servants' hall."
"You need not have gone into particulars, Ada. Whether my mother writes well or ill, the pressure on her is too great to allow of her picking or choosing; she must catch at the quickest market."
"I'm sure it is a great pity. That is the reason I stay on here, and let you teach Cis and Charlie, though Colonel Ormonde says the sooner boys are out of a woman's hands the better."
"If Colonel Ormonde is the old man I saw this morning, he looks more capable of judging a dinner than what is the best training for youth."
"Old!" screamed the pretty widow. "He is not old; he is only mature. He is very well off, too. He has a place in the country. And as to mentioning those papers, I know nothing of such things. The Nineteenth Century, or Bow Bells, or The Family Friend, they are all the same to me. Only I am sure such a nice lady-like woman as Mrs. Liddell should not write for the servants' hall. She must have been so handsome, too! Fred, poor fellow, was her image. You will never be so good-looking, Kate."
"No, I don't suppose I shall," returned Katherine, with much equanimity.
"Are there any letters for me?" asked Mrs. Frederic, looking round as she lifted her bonnet from the table.
"Here are two."
"Ah! this is from Harry Vigors. I suppose he is coming home. And oh! this is Madame de Corset's bill"—putting down her bonnet and opening it. "Eleven pounds seventeen and ninepence-half-penny. Why, this is abominable! She promised it should not be much more than ten pounds. There is five per cent off for ready money. Oh, I'll pay it immediately. How much will that be altogether, Kate? Eleven shillings? Well, that is worth saving. It will buy me two pairs of gloves. Now I'll go and rest. Tell me when Mrs. Liddell is awake."
Katherine took care that her sister-in-law should not have an opportunity of private conversation with Mrs. Liddell, that evening at least.
She rolled up and arranged the disordered manuscripts, putting the small study in order, and locking away the rejected tales. Then she proposed conducting the young widow to the florist's, as the evening grew cooler, and made herself agreeable by listening attentively to the little woman's description of the luncheon party, and her repetition of all the pretty things said to her by the various gentlemen present, especially by Colonel Ormonde.
"Of course I do not mind their nonsense, but however my heart may cling to dear Fred's memory, I must think of my precious boys," was her conclusion. To which Katherine answered, "Of course," as she would have answered any proposition, however wild, provided only she could save her mother from worry, at least for that evening.
Next day was showery and dull. True to her resolution, Katherine put her mother's lucubrations into their covers, and prepared to start on her projected round.
"I am not sure I ought to let you go, Katie dear," said Mrs. Liddell, as her daughter came into the study in her out-door dress. "It is rather a wild goose chase. Why should you succeed for me when I have failed for myself? Besides, personal interviews are of no avail. No editor will take work that does not suit him, however interesting the applicant."
"Nevertheless I will go. I shall bring a new element into the business, and I may be lucky! Why have you plunged into these horrid accounts?" pointing to a pile of small books, and a sheaf of backs of letters scribbled over with calculations. "This is not the way to cheer yourself."
"My love, it is a change of occupation, at least, to revert to the old yet ever new problem of life—how to extract thirty shillings from a sovereign. I am trying to see where we can possibly retrench. What is Ada doing?"
"She is decking the drawing-room and herself for the reception of Colonel Ormonde, who is coming to afternoon tea."
"What, already?"
"She is quite excited, I assure you. Is it not soon to think of——"
"Do not judge her harshly. She is a woman not made to live alone. In due time I shall be glad to see her happily married, for she will marry."
"Tell me, is that irreconcilable uncle of mine really still alive? How long is it since you heard anything of him?"
"Oh, more than six or seven years. But I am sure he is alive. I should have heard of his death. I suppose he is still living on in Camden Town."
"Not a very agreeable quarter," returned Katherine, carelessly. "Good-by, mother dear! Do not expect me to dinner. I can have something whenever I come in."
Katherine walked briskly toward town, intending to save some of her omnibus fare, for she had planned a long and daring expedition—an undertaking which taxed all her courage. In truth, though she had never known the ease or luxury of wealth, she had been most tenderly brought up. Her mother had constantly shielded her from all the roughness of life, and the deed she contemplated seemed to her mind an almost desperate effort of independent action.
Through one of the very few sleepless nights she had ever experienced she had thought out an idea which had flashed through her brain while Mrs. Liddell was explaining her difficulties, and which she had carefully kept to herself.
She saw clearly enough the hopelessness of their position; probably with the intensity of youth she exaggerated it, which was scarcely necessary, as a small rut is apt to widen into a bottomless pit if it crosses the path of those who are living up to the utmost verge of a narrow income. As she reviewed the endless instances of her mother's self-abnegation which memory supplied—her cheerful industry, her brave struggle to live like a gentlewoman on a pittance, her tender thought for the welfare and happiness of her children—she felt she could walk through a burning fiery furnace if by so doing she could earn ease and repose for her mother's weary spirit.
"She is looking ill and worn," thought Katherine, "and years older. She has never been the same since that attack of bronchitis last year. Ada and the boys are too much for her, though they are dear little fellows; but they are costly. If Ada would even give us twenty pounds a year more it would be a great help."
The project Katherine had evolved through the night-watches was to visit her uncle and ask him, face to face, for help! It is, she argued, harder to say "no" than to write it; even if she failed she should know her fate at once, and not have to endure the agony of waiting for a letter. Nor, were she refused, need her mother ever know now she had humiliated herself in the dust.
How her young heart sank within her at the thought of being harshly, contemptuously rejected! It was a positive painful physical sense of faintness that made her limbs tremble as she pressed on faster than she was aware. "But I will do it—I will! If I succeed no humiliation will be too great," she said to herself. "I will speak with all my soul! When I begin, this horrible feeling that my tongue is dry and speechless will go away. I must find out where this awful old man is; what is his street and number. I dared not ask mother. First I will try the publisher; as the 'servants' hall' publications have rejected it, I shall offer Darrell's Doom to a first-rate house. Why not try Channing & Wyndham? They cannot say worse than 'no,' and I shall no doubt see a Directory there." Thus communing with herself, she took an omnibus down Park Lane and walked thence to the well-known temple of the Muses in Piccadilly.
Arrived there, a civil clerk took her card—which was her mother's—and soon returning, asked if she had an appointment. "No, I have not, but pray ask Mr. Channing or Mr. Wyndham to see me; I will not stay more than a few minutes." The young man smiled slightly; he was accustomed to such assurances. Almost as Katherine spoke, a stout "country gentleman" looking person came into the warehouse, slightly raising his hat as he passed her. A sudden inspiration prompted her to say, "Pray excuse me, but are you Mr. Wyndham?"
"I am."
"Then do let me speak to you for five minutes."
"With pleasure," said the great publisher, graciously, and ushered her into a sort of literary loose box or small enclosure in the remote back-ground.
"I have ventured to bring you a manuscript," began Katherine, smiling with all her might, with an abject desire to propitiate the arbiter of her mother's fate.
"So I see," he returned, ruefully but politely.
"It is a beautiful story, and I thought it ought to be published by a great house like yours," pursued Katherine.
"Thank you," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "Pray is it your own?"
"Mine! Oh dear no! It is my mother's. She is not very strong, so I brought it."
There was a slight faltering in her voice that suggested a good deal to her hearer. "Then you are not Mrs. W. Liddell," glancing at the card, "but Mrs. Liddell's daughter. Pray put down that heavy parcel. Three volumes, I suppose?"
"Yes, three volumes, but they are not very long, and the story is most interesting."
"No doubt. I hope it is not historical?"
"Oh no! quite modern."
"So much the better. Well, Miss Liddell, I will look at the manuscript, or rather our reader shall, and let you know the result in due course; but I must warn you that we are rather overdone with three-volume novels, and there are already a large number of manuscripts awaiting perusal, so you must not expect our verdict for some little time."
"When you will, but oh! as soon as you can," she urged.
"I will keep your address, and you shall hear at the earliest date we can manage. Good-morning. Very damp, uncomfortable day."
Katherine felt herself dismissed, and almost forgot her ulterior intention. "Would you be so very good as to let me look at the Directory, if you have one?"
"Certainly," said Wyndham, who was slipping the card under the string of poor Katherine's parcel. "Here, Tompkins, let this young lady see the Directory. Excuse me—I am a good deal pressed for time;" and with a bow he went off, the manuscript under his arm.
"Well, it is really in his hands, at all events," thought Katherine, looking wistfully after it.
A boy with inky hands here placed that thick volume, the Post-Office Directory, before her, and she proceeded to search confusedly among the endless pages of names, a little strengthened and cheered by her brief interview with the publisher. It seemed that she was in a lucky vein: trouble is always conducive to superstition. When visible hope fails, poor human hearts turn to the invisible and the improbable.
At last she paused at "John Wilmot Liddell, 27 Legrave Crescent, Camden Town, N. W." That must be her uncle; they were all Wilmot Liddells. How to reach his abode was the question.
The inky boy soon gave her the requisite information. "You take a Waterloo 'bus at Piccadilly Circus; it runs through to Camden Town; that is, to the beginning of Camden Town," he said. Katherine thanked him, and again set forth.
It was a long, tedious drive. The omnibus was crammed with warm passengers and damp umbrellas, but Katherine was too racked with impatience and fear to heed small discomforts. Would her dreaded relative order her out of his sight at once? Was her interview with the publisher a good omen?
At last she reached the end of her journey, and addressing herself to the tutelary policeman solemnly pacing past the Tavern where the omnibus paused, she asked to be directed to Legrave Crescent.
It was an old-fashioned row of houses, before them a few sooty trees in a half-moon of grass, one side railed off from the street and dignified with gates at either end—gates which were always open.
The place had a still, deserted air, but about the middle stood a cab, on which a rheumatic driver, assisted by a small boy, was placing a cumbrous box. As Katherine approached she found that the house before which it stood bore the number she sought, and on reaching it she found the door held open by a little smutty girl, the very lowest type of slavey, with unkempt hair, and a rough holland apron of the grimiest aspect. On the top step stood a stout woman, fairly well dressed in a large shawl and a straw bonnet largely decorated with crushed artificial flowers; a very red, angry face appeared beneath it, with watery eyes and a coarse, half-open mouth. All this Katherine saw, but hardly observed, so strongly was her attention attracted to a figure that stood a few paces within the entrance—a tall, thin old man, bent and leaning on a stick. He was wrapped in a long dressing-gown of dull dark gray, evidently much worn; slippers were on his feet, and a black velvet skull-cap on his head, from under which some thin straggling locks of white hair escaped. His thin aquiline features and dark sunken eyes were alight with an expression of malignant fury; one long claw-like hand was outstretched with a gesture of dismissal, the other grasped the top of his stick. "Begone, you accursed drunken thief!" he was almost screaming in a shrill voice. "I would take you to the police, court if there was anything to be got out of you; but it would only be throwing good money away after bad. Get you gone to the ditch where you'll die! You guzzling, muzzling fool, to leave my house without a shilling after all your pilfering!"
While he uttered these words with frightful vehemence, the woman he addressed kept up a rapid undercurrent of reply.
"Living with a miserable screwy miser like you would make a saint drink! Do you think people will serve you for nothing, and not pay themselves somehow? The likes of you are born to be robbed—and may your last crust be stole from you, you old skinflint!" With this last defiance, she turned and threw herself hastily into the cab, which crawled away as if horse and driver were equally rheumatic.
"Shut the door," said the old man, hoarsely, as if exhausted.
"Please, sir, there's a lady here," said the little slavey. Katherine, who was as frightened as if she were face to face with a lunatic, had a terrible conviction that this appalling old man was her uncle. How should she ever address him? What an unfortunate time to have fallen upon!
"What do you want?" asked the old man, fiercely, frowning till his shaggy white eyebrows almost met over his angry black eyes.
"I want to see Mr. John Wilmot Liddell."
"Then you see him! Who are you?"
"Katherine Liddell, your niece."
"My niece!" with inexpressible contempt and disbelief, "Well, niece or not, you may serve a turn. Can you read?"
"Yes, of course."
"Come, then—come in." He turned and walked with some difficulty to the door of the front parlor. Half bewildered, Katherine followed mechanically, and the small servant shut the front door, putting up the chain with a good deal of noise.
The room to which Katherine was so unceremoniously introduced was of good size, covered with a carpet of which no pattern and very little color were left. The furniture was old-fashioned and solid; a dining-table covered with faded green baize was in the middle, and a writing-table with several drawers was placed near the fireplace, beside which stood a high-backed leather arm-chair, old, worn, dirty. A wretched fire was dying out in the grate, almost choked by the red ashes of the very cheapest coal.
An odor of dust long undisturbed pervaded the atmosphere, and the dull damp weather without added to the extreme gloom. Indeed the door of this apartment might well have borne Dante's inscription over the entrance to a warmer place.
Mr. Liddell went with feeble rapidity across to where a large newspaper lay upon the floor, and resting one hand on the writing-table, stooped painfully to raise it.
"There! read—read the price-list to me. I am blind and helpless, for that jade has hid my glasses. I know she has. I cannot find them anywhere, and I must know how Turkish bonds are going. Read to me. I'll hear what you have to say after." He thrust the paper into her hand, and sat down in the high-backed chair.
Poor Katherine felt almost dazed. She took a seat at the other side of the table, and began to look for the mysterious list. The geography of the mighty Times was unknown to her, and even in her mother's humbler penny paper the City article was a portion she never glanced at. While she turned the wide pages, painfully bewildered, the old man "glowered" at her.
"I don't think you know what you are looking for," he cried, impatiently.
"I do not indeed! If you will show it to me——"
He snatched it from her, and pointed out the part he wished to hear. "Read from the beginning," he said.
Katherine obeyed, her courage returning as she found herself thus strangely installed within the fortress she feared to attack. She stumbled occasionally, and was sharply set upon her feet, in the matter of figures, by her eager hearer. At last she came to Turkish six per cents.
"Eighty-seven to eighty-eight and a quarter."
"Ha!" muttered the old man, "that's an advance! good! nothing to be done there yet. Now read the railway stocks."
Katherine obeyed. When she came to "Florida and Teche debentures, sixty-two and a half to sixty-five and three-fourths," she was startled by a sort of shrill shout. "Ay! that's a rise! Some rigging design there! I must write—I must. Where, where has that——harridan hid my glasses? Why, it is almost twelve o'clock! the boy will be here for the paper immediately. And the post! the post! I must catch the post. Can you write?"
"Oh yes! Shall I write for you?"
"You shall! you shall! here's paper"—rising and opening an ancient blotting-book, its covers all scribbled over with tiny figures, the result of much calculating, he hastily set forth writing materials, his lean, claw-like, dirty hands trembling with eagerness. "Hear, hear, write fast."
Katherine, growing a little clearer, and amazed at her own increasing self-possession, drew off her gloves, and taking the rusty pen offered her, wrote at his dictation:
"To Messrs. Rogers & Stokes, Corbett Court, E. C.:
"Gentlemen,—Sell all my Florida shares if possible to-day, even if they decline a quarter.
"I am yours faithfully—"
"Now let me come there!" he exclaimed. "I'll let no one sign my name. I'll manage that. There? there! Direct an envelope. Oh Lord! I haven't a stamp—not one! and its ten minutes' walk to the post-office."
"I think—I believe I have a stamp," said Katherine, drawing her slender purse from her pocket and opening it.
"Have you?" eagerly. "Give it to me. Stick it on! Go! go! There is a pillar just outside the left-hand gate there; and mind you come back. I will give you a penny. Ah, yes, you shall have your penny?"
"I hope you will hear me when I return," she said, appealingly, as she left the room.
"Ay, ay; but go—go now."
When Katherine returned she found the old man, with the half-opened door in his hand, waiting for her.
"Were you in time?" he asked, eagerly.
"Oh yes, quite. I saw the postman coming across the road to empty the box as I was dropping the letter in."
"That's well. I will rest a bit now, and you can tell me what you please. First, what have you come here for?"
It was an appalling question, and nothing but the simple truth occurred to her as an answer. Indeed, some irresistible power seemed to compel the reply, spoken very low and distinct, "I came here to beg."
The old man burst into a singularly unpleasant laugh. "Well, I like candor. Pray what business have you to beg from me?"
"Because I know no one else to turn to—because, you are so near a kinsman. Let me tell you about my mother." Simply and shortly she gave the history of their life and struggles, of the coming of her brother's young widow and orphans, of the disappointment of her mother's literary expectations, of the present necessity. The quiver in her young voice, the pathetic earnestness with which she told her story, the deep love for her mother breathing through the recital, might well have moved a heart of ordinary coldness, but it seemed to small impression on her grim uncle.
"You come of a wasteful extravagant lot," he said, faintly, "if you are what you represent yourself to be—of which there is no proof whatever. How do I know you are the daughter of Frederic Liddell?"