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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: An Adventuress, an electronic edition
Author:  Meade, L.T., 1854-1914
Publisher: Chatto & Windus
Place published: London
Date: 1899
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An AdventuressAdvertisement page in L. T. Meade's An
Adventuress.AN ADVENTURESSBYL. T. Meade
AUTHOR OF
"THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER," "A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE," ETC.LONDONCHATTO & WINDUS1899Copyright information for L. T. Meade's An
Adventuress.AN ADVENTURESS
CHAPTER ITHE time of year was January. In a sheltered valley about two miles
outside the little seaport town of Mentone lovely summer weather
prevailed; the scent of violets was in the air, and a girl, who was
walking slowly along a dusty road, carrying a basket, full of the
largest and most lovely violets of the season, on her arm, paused for
a moment and turned to look around her. She was a tall girl, slightly
but well made. Her face was somewhat small, her skin fair. She had a
changing colour, and soft, well-opened brown eyes. Her brows were
black and arched, her forehead wide and rather low. She had a short,
straight nose, and her upper lip was also so short that her white
teeth showed whenever she spoke. All the outlines of her face were
soft, and betokened gentleness and amiability of character, with the
exception of the chin, which was long, somewhat heavily moulded, and
remarkable for firmness.The girl walked very slowly. She wore a large, shady hat, pushed
back off her forehead, and a white dress. Just before her she could
get a peep of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, and above her
head was a perpendicular rock crowned
with olives. The path narrowed, then it took a sudden turn, and she
found herself face to face with a small châlet built on the
side of the rock. The châlet stood in a sheltered
position. There was a garden in front one blaze of flowers, and a
narrow path up the middle, which led to a wide veranda. The house
itself was low, and was rendered cool and summer-like by its
green-painted shutters, most of which were now closed. When the girl
reached the foot of the gay parterre of garden she leant her hands for
a moment on the railing, and gazed back towards Mentone with a
passionate expression on her face."It is the most curious, awful temptation," she said to herself. "I
wonder if I have courage. It would set everything right; and I refuse
to look at the moral consequences. The physical consequences will be a
happy life, freedom from all money troubles, my mother relieved from
an overwhelming load of debt, and I myself surrounded by all the good
things of life. I wonder if I dare. It is a very bold stroke. I never
thought that I would succumb to temptation.""Kate, Kate," called a voice from the other end of the garden. A
tall girl immediately appeared, framed by the clustering leaves of a
great vine. She was standing in the verandah, and the vine seemed to
envelop her. Her little face peeped out and met the soft eyes of the
girl she was looking for."What a time you have been away, Kate!" she cried. "I have been so
weary and ill--very ill. I think I must telegraph to-day. I don't
believe I can endure this awful feeling much longer.""Oh yes, you can," replied Kate. "You will be better now that I have come back. See here, Kitty, I
have brought these violets.""Oh, I am sick of them," said the girl. "Don't leave them there;
take them out of my sight. I hate all this luxury and profusion of
nature. What good does it do me? I am dying. Kate Mildmay, I want you
to promise me one thing.""What is it? What is the matter ? Do lie back in your chair; don't
excite yourself, Kitty.""I must. Promise me one thing, Kate; when I die you won't have
violets put over me? I seem to smell them everywhere, and I quite hate
them. You won't have any flowers put over me, will you, Kate? Promise
me; do, do, do.""Yes, Kitty, anything that satisfies you; but we surely need not
talk of these dismal things now. I met Dr. Fenton at Mentone, and he
is coming to see you this afternoon. I told him about your symptoms,
and he was not at all alarmed; so now do cheer up, for I have lots of
things to talk about."The girl sat back in her seat, shaded her eyes with her little
hand, and gazed full at Kate Mildmay."How awfully like me you look!" she said. "It is extraordinary. And
that dress of mine which I gave you yesterday fits like a glove. And
that is my hat, too; oh, and those are my gloves--and that parasol! I
really thought when I saw you coming up the road that I was looking at
myself. But why did you walk so slowly, and why did you turn your back
for a moment, and what were you thinking of at the gate? You had a
frown between your brows; you did not look very like me then. What was
it, Kate? I am all curiosity.""I was thinking," said Kate in a slow voice, "of the ironies of
life. You, Kitty, are so rich, with such a splendid future before you,
and yet you have no health; and, unless we are very careful, you--oh,
poor dear, of course we will be careful--but if we are not careful you
may not live long. And then think of me; I have not a penny to bless
myself with, no advantages, no future, nothing whatever to look
forward to but trudge, trudge, trudge, and toil, toil, toil; and even
then I cannot get rid of the debts which worry my mother. When I go
home it is all misery. And yet, Kate, I have got what you have not
got--the most superb, perfect health. We are just the same age, and we
look very like each other; but each has got what the other wants, and
each lacks what the other would give her life to buy. Oh, the irony of
life!""I wish you would not talk in that sort of strain," said Kate
Bouverie. " You are a very strange girl, Kate; but I am glad I have
you as my companion. It is so queer to be stranded here; but when
Uncle Robert comes out things will be better. I felt so dreadfully ill
while you were away this morning that I thought I must telegraph to
him. But he would rather not come for a month, I know, as he is very
busy just now. He is such a clever lawyer, and has a great deal to
do. If he comes I suppose Ralph Henley will come with him.""The man you are engaged to?" said Kate Mildmay."Yes; poor old Ralph!""When did you see him last?""Eight years ago. Isn't it extraordinary? I am nineteen now. I saw
Ralph last when I was eleven.I shall
never forget the time. I was a little girl and he was a big boy when
he wished me good-bye, and kissed me gravely, and said, 'When you come
back again, Kitty, you will be my little wife, won't you ?'"I promised him; I was quite madly in love with him. It was so
absurd. I a little girl of eleven and he a lad of seventeen--the
handsomest, dearest fellow. Oh, we did have such times. Nothing cheers
me up more than to talk of those old days. Ralph and I were always
together; morning, noon, and night we were by each other's sides. And
I was such a tomboy. You wouldn't believe it to see me now, Kate; but
I was then. I used to climb trees, and I used to fish, and I used
always to bait his hooks for him. I didn't mind what I did for Ralph;
he was my master, and I his slave. Oh, it was a glorious time. And the
strange thing is," continued Kitty, panting a little as she spoke,
"that dear, dear old Ralph has never forgotten me. All the many years
when I was away, first in Australia, and then in India, with my own
dear father, I have had letters from Ralph. And now our friends have
consented to the engagement, and we are to be married this summer. It
will be splendid. You shall come to my English home, Kate; you shall
stay with me at Castellis. You know Castellis is Ralph's place; and
our home, The Pines, adjoins Castellis. When I am married to Ralph we
shall he the richest landowners in all that side of the country. Is it
not splendid? Have I not much to live for?""Yes; and in order to live and enjoy it you must rest now," said
Miss Mildmay. "There, I will put the violets away as you dislike
them. You musttell me more about your
Ralph when you have had some jelly. You know it tires you to talk
long.""It does. It is so queer how this strange, terrible illness has
come on; six weeks ago I was positively well and strong. I have not
told Ralph a word about my illness--not a word. I would not frighten
the dear old fellow. It is only sometimes that I get terribly
depressed, Kate--only sometimes, and when you are away from me. You
extraordinary girl, I always feel cheerful and happy, and sure that
things will come all right when you are by my side.""That's as it should be."" I wish you could arrange to sleep here, Kate. I hate you to go
back to Mentone evening after evening. I have miserable nights. I
wish--I do wish you would stay with me always.""I will with pleasure. I will arrange it with mother. I will go and
see her this afternoon.""Thank you; that is very kind. And now I think I shall lie still
for a little."The girl lay back with closed eyes. Kate Mildmay stood and looked
down at her. After a moment her gentle breathing and the look of peace
which flitted across her face showed that she slept. Kate Mildmay
moved back a step or two, clasping her hands lightly before her."Feature for feature, just like my own," she said softly under her
breath. "The same brows, the same little nose, the same mouth, the
same firm chin. Hair the same colour, figure the same height, name the
same--Kate. Yes, two Kates, two bodies and two souls; two Kates with
two fortunes--one, a Kate going to stay in the world; another, a Kate
going away. Oh, my God! the irony--the terrible, bitter irony of life! Oh! I wish this temptation would not
rise up and almost smother me! I feel as if I must yield. It would be
all so fatally easy; and it would save mother, and no one in all the
world need be the worse. Poor little Kitty! Poor little dying Kitty;
she does not know that she is dying. But I know. You will never see
that gallant lover of yours, Kitty; the Ralph of your childhood will
never be your husband. Death will be your bridegroom instead and the
grave will hold you, poor little Kitty, poor--poor little Kitty!"Kate Mildmay softly left the room. She went out and stood on the
veranda. The house was a small one, one of those Swiss châlets
which are to be found at intervals all over the Riviera. It was a
summer more than a winter resort; but Kate Bouverie had taken a fancy
to it, had offered a small sum to its owner, and had taken possession
of the little remote retreat two months ago. The châlet was
simply and yet comfortably furnished. It contained a very large and
luxurious sitting-room, two bedrooms beyond, and the kitchen
premises. A wide veranda ran all round the house, and in the veranda
the girls would sit on those hot January days, with the smell of the
oranges in the air and the perfume of the violets coming up from the
surrounding valley.There were only two servants in the house, a French cook, and a
girl who acted as maid to Kate Bouverie."If I do it these two must go," thought Kate Mildmay to herself. "I
wonder if I have courage. Mother would come here and help me. It is a
dreadfully daring thing to do, but anything, anything is better than
the future which lies before me!"CHAPTER IISOON after déjeûner Dr. Fenton
drove over from Mentone. He was the best English doctor in the place,
and had a very large practice. He left his trap at the gate and walked
up through the little flowering garden and entered the balcony where
the two girls were seated. The invalid was lying back in a deep wicker
chair, and the other girl was reading aloud to her. She was reading
some of Rudyard Kipling's poems; she had a fine spirited voice, and
she gave the true swing of the rhythm as her lips sounded the telling
words.The doctor paused for an instant before he disclosed himself, he
thought what a fine voice Kate Mildmay had; then he came forward.Kate Bouverie uttered an exclamation when she saw him. She was
painfully nervous about herself, and, although she liked the doctor to
visit her, she always had a fit of trembling when he appeared. He now
sat down by her and made a careful examination, sounding her lungs
with his stethoscope and listening to her heart. He asked her several
questions, and then he wrote a prescription, turning to Kate Mildmay
as he did so and desiring her to send a messenger to Mentone for the
necessary medicines. Soon afterwards he stood up and took his
leave. He shook hands with Kate Bouverie, but he only bowed to Kate
Mildmay. He walked down thelittle path
and mounted his trap, and turned back again towards Mentone. He had
just done so when Kate Mildmay, catching up his prescription, said to
Kate Bouverie--"I'll be back very soon, Kate. I am going to get the doctor to take
this into Mentone, and a note also to my mother which I have written
to her; she can bring up the medicines to-night, for I won't leave
you." Kate flew down the garden, reached the road, and called out to
the doctor, who pulled up his trap in some astonishment."I want to speak to you," she said eagerly. "I have something
important to say. Can you give me a moment or two?"The doctor looked at her, dismounted from his trap, gave the reins
to his groom, and went back a few steps until he found himself by her
side."I don't want any one to hear us," said Kate, retreating a little
as she spoke.He moved a few steps farther from the trap and then stood
still."We shall be quite solitary here," he said. "What is the
matter?""I want your true opinion with regard to Miss Bouverie."Dr. Fenton had clear, small, deep-set, and very penetrating
eyes. They were fixed now on the agitated, blooming face of the girl
who looked full up at him."Why do you ask?" he said."Because she is placed for the present in my care, and I don't like
her condition," said Kate Mildmay.Dr. Fenton uttered a short sigh."I meant to speak to you before I left home," he said. " I did not do so to-night because I am in a
hurry, but if you really insist--""I want to know," said Kate. "She is in my care, and I ought to
know the truth. Do you think well or ill of her?""Can you stand a shock, Miss--""Mildmay," said Kate, supplying the name."Can you stand a shock, Miss Mildmay?""As well as another," said Kate, pulling herself up somewhat
stiffly as she said the words."Then your young friend is dying. It is an absolutely hopeless
case; there is tuberculosis of both lungs. It is a question perhaps of
weeks, perhaps only of days; death will probably come with hemorrhage,
and will be sudden when it does come.""Thank you," said Kate, trembling a little. "How long did you say
she might live?""With care, and if this fine weather continues, and if she does not
exert herself in any way, she may hold out for a month; but the
slightest contretemps, the smallest chill,
would precipitate matters. As I said before, her days are numbered;
she may go at any moment, she may live for a month.""Thank you.""By the way," said the doctor, "I have seen Miss Bouverie two or
three times, and have never yet made any inquiries about her. Has she
relations anywhere?""She has an uncle in England--a Mr. Hume, a lawyer. She has not
seen him since she was a child.""How is it she has come here?""She is her own mistress. Her father died in India, and she was on
her way home. She wished to spend the winter at Mentone. She was quite
wellat the beginning of the
winter. Mr. Hume does not even know of her illness.""It is one of those cases which develop very quickly--inherited
doubtless," said the doctor under his breath. "Yes, poor girl, you
ought to write to Mr. Hume, Miss Mildmay; there is not a moment to
lose if he would see her alive.""I will do so," said Kate."And now there is one thing more. I am called suddenly to England,
and, now that you know the truth, shall in all probability not see my
patient again. I will put the case into Dr. Duncan's hands. Dr. Duncan
is the other English doctor here, and he will do all that is
necessary. I will ask him to call in a day or two; but really nothing
can be done. It is simply that she ought to have some one to see her
now and then; but we can only alleviate, we cannot save."The doctor took off his hat to Miss Mildmay, and a moment later was
bowling down the road towards Mentone.Kate thought for a moment after he had left her, then she walked
briskly back to the house."Well?" said the girl who was lying back in her chair on the
veranda; there was a hectic flush on each cheek, her eyes shone very
brightly. "Well, Kate, did you give him the prescription, and will
your mother bring it to-night?""I forgot all about it," said Kate, clasping her hands."Then what were you talking about ?""About you, dear.""Oh what, what? Does he really think I am very ill?""He does; you are ill, Kate.""Ah! I see that he thinks badly of me; I see it in your face. I am
not going to die, Kate. Kate! Kate! I am not dying.""Poor Kitty!" said Kate Mildmay. She fell on her knees, wrapped the
slender girl in her arms, and made the soft brown head rest against
her shoulder."And yet, Kitty," she said, "I believe at this moment I would
change places with you. It is not so bad to die young.""Then you really believe I am dying?"Kate Mildmay was silent."Speak, Kate.""Will you stand it if I really tell you the truth, Kitty?""Oh, I will stand it; I will try to, but oh, it is not the
worst--not quite the worst?""The doctor thinks you very ill; I must not conceal it from
you.""Then I must die?"Kate Mildmay nodded her head very faintly. Kate Bouverie's face
fell away from its position on her shoulder; it turned white to the
lips. After a time she said faintly--"Give me some of that restorative."Kate Mildmay poured it out and held it to her lips. The sick girl
drank it off."There," she said with a sigh, "I am better; I don't believe for a
moment I am going to die.""I tell you what it is, Kitty," said Kate Mildmay, "half the
doctors are old croaks. Dr. Fenton thinks your case serious, but he
may be mistaken. Half the doctors diagnose cases wrongly. I know it;
my father was a doctor, and a clever one too, and he made mistakes
several times. You must keep up heart. And I mean you to be well
nursed. My mother isthe best nurse in
the world; and she shall come and look after you. And we won't call in
another doctor--not yet, because doctors are so often wrong.""We ought to write to my uncle," said Kate Bouverie, "and to Ralph
Henley. I should like to see Ralph once again. I should like to tell
him myself that I am dying; I should like to kiss him. Oh, Kate, he
was so handsome long ago; and he must be beautiful now, for every one
says he is like a young god. And he loves me so much; he has never
loved any girl but me. Oh, Kate, Kate, I must see him again.""We will write, of course, dear; we will write to-night.""How good you are to me, Kate! and yet I didn't know you two months
ago.""I love you very much," said Kate Mildmay. "But now I must leave
you for a little. Fanchon shall come in and sit with you, and I will
take the trap and drive to Mentone. I shall be back as quickly as
possible, and will bring your medicine and my mother also. Cheer up,
Kate; perhaps we can save you after all. There is nothing like good
nursing. Doctors are not half as important to a sick person as a good
nurse, and my mother is about the best nurse in the wide world."Half-an-hour later Kate Mildmay was driving to Mentone. She went
first to the chemist's, desired the prescription to be made up, said
she would call for the medicine in half-an-hour, and then turned her
horse's head in the direction of a cheap pension where her mother
lived. It was a very cheap pension indeed, quite on the outskirts of
the West Bay. Mrs. Mildmay was housekeeper there, and, in
consideration for her services, had her board and a small bedroom
fornothing. It was the height of the
season, and, poor as the pension was, it was full. Kate left the pony
at the gate, called to a boy to hold it, and walked up the little path
which led to the front door. She entered, asked at once for
Mrs. Mildmay, was told that the good woman was busy, but, on
announcing that her errand was urgent, was admitted into her
presence.Mrs. Mildmay was seated in the housekeeper's room, busily making up
the weekly accounts. She was a good accountant, and a keen business
woman. She had a sharp face, and eyes something like her daughter's,
but without their innocent and vivacious expression; her mouth was
fretful, and her forehead broad."Mother, I want to speak to you on a most important matter," said
Kate. "Can you give me a quarter of an hour?""Oh, Kate, I am relieved to see you," said the widow. "It is of the
utmost importance that I also should speak to you at once. Can't you
get that rich girl, your companion, to lend you a couple of pounds,
or, better still, a five-pound note? I am harassed almost past
enduring; and these wretched people don't give me a halfpenny of
salary. I have a great mind to throw up the whole thing.""That is precisely what I want you to do, mother. I have a
wonderful, daring scheme in my head. I cannot explain it to you at
present. It is about the biggest speculation that a girl ever plunged
into; and it may--what is more, it must--succeed. But you must help
me. I cannot do it without you. What do you say to having a
boarding-house of your own--a good one, in this place? You would
manage it splendidly, and make money; you would not be a mere drudge
as you are at present.""What do you mean, Kate? How wildly you talk! What I want is a
five-pound note. Can you get it for me?""I have no doubt I can if you will do what I want. I can get you
about anything in the future if you will only do what I want now.""And what is that?""I want you to give notice to these people immediately. You need
not stay an hour, for they don't pay you. I want you to come straight
back with me to Beau Séjour.""What! to Miss Bouverie's châlet?""Yes; I want you to come now--immediately. She ought not to be
left. I want you to nurse her; she is very ill indeed. Mother, it is
worth while; but you must not keep me waiting. I must get back to her,
and you must come with me. Will you come?""But do you know what you are saying? I get my bread here, and I
have a place to live in, and you share my room every night. Is it wise
to throw it up? I may never get a better chance.""If necessary, mother, I will go down on my knees to you to assure
you that you will lose nothing--nothing at all by this. Will you come?
Will you be quick? I must get back to Kate Bouverie; she is very
ill--poor little Kitty--very ill indeed. You must nurse her. Come,
don't you see at once that you will get board and lodging, and good
money, too, as her nurse? Need you hesitate another moment?""I won't, Kate. There is something extraordinary in your
expression, child. You were always most daring. Yes; I will go with
you. I will give notice immediately."CHAPTER IIILATE, very late that same night Mrs. Mildmay and her daughter sat
out on the veranda of the villa Beau Séjour side by side. In
the large bedroom within the sick girl slept heavily. She had been
ordered a sleeping draught by Dr. Fenton, which ensured her some hours
of repose during the earlier part of the nightKate Mildmay's face was very white, and the moonlight which flooded
everything made it look still whiter. Mrs. Mildmay had backed away
from her daughter with an expression of horror."You cannot mean it, Kate," she said. "You were always daring--the
most daring, adventurous creature I ever came across; but you cannot
mean this. Why, if it fails--""It it fails it might mean penal servitude or worse," was the
reply. "But it won't fail, mother; it cannot fail. It has all the
elements of success in it. It but needs a brave spirit and a daring
wit to carry it through.""And you mean to pass as Miss Bouverie in the future?""I do. If Kitty must die I may as well take her place. It will do
her no harm. I love her; I would not hurt a hair of her head. But the
case is hopeless. It will do just as well to have my name over the
girl's grave.""Oh, Kate, it does sound such an awful, awful sin; and I don't
believe you will be able to manage it.""Yes, I will; I have thought the whole thing out. Nothing pleases
Kate so much as to talk about her past life. When she is well enough
to talk I encourage her. She has just written, to my dictation, a
letter to her uncle, Mr. Hume, and a letter to her lover, Ralph
Henley. Neither of these letters, as a matter of fact, will be
posted. I shall write to them in her name after her death. I shall
acquaint myself with every fact of her past life. She was the sort of
girl to keep a diary. I shall read that diary. All her letters are in
a trunk in her room. I shall study them night after night when she is
asleep and when you are nursing her. In less than a week I shall be
primed with regard to every particular of her past. And I am like her,
mother; you see yourself the likeness.""It is extraordinary," said Mrs. Mildmay. "When I saw her first I
positively started; for once when you had a had fever you looked as
she looks. I thought I was coming back into the room to you. I felt
inclined to run up to you and kiss you. And then I looked round, and
you were standing by my side in perfect health, and she, poor little
dear, was there on the sofa dying. But oh, Kate, I wish you would give
it up. I would rather keep the debts. I would rather keep the misery I
now go through--the life of a slave. I'd rather go on toiling; I am
frightened at this.""You won't be frightened long, mother. Kitty must die. Dr. Fenton
said so. When she dies it cannot do her any harm to bear my name on
hertombstone. The dead do not suffer;
the dead do not come back.""Oh, you cannot say; perhaps they do," said Mrs. Mildmay in a
frightened voice. "I know I shall never have a happy moment
again. And, then, what is to be done with me?""You stay here in Mentone as the mother of the dead girl, Kate
Mildmay.""Oh, Kate, you break my heart.""You stay here, the owner of a large fashionable pension; and I go
to England as the heiress, and I marry the handsome young man with a
face like a god, and I come in for all the riches and all the
wealth. It is a splendid scheme. You will be set on your feet  your
cares will be over. Mother, don't you see for yourself that I might do
worse?""I am terribly frightened about it," said Mrs. Mildmay; "I have not
got your courage. I could not be fearfully wicked like you. I often do
small things that I am ashamed of. But a big thing like this! And,
then, suppose it is ever found out?""It won't be, unless you give me away. All I want you to promise me
now is to aid and abet me.""I don't know that I can make the promise. That child has queer
eyes; I could not look her in the face. I could not nurse her if I
thought I was going to lend a hand to an awful deception of this
kind.""Then, mother, you had better not nurse her. You can do the
cooking, you know, and stay away from the room. All I want is to
dismiss Fanchon and Henriette. They must not be here. Those who knew
the sick girl as Kate Bouverie must go away. Henriette wants to go
back to her home at San Remo, andwill
never hear of poor little Kate any more; and Fanchon returns to
Switzerland in a week. She told me yesterday that she could not live
away from her mountains any longer; that they drew her. She has got
the mal du pays so badly. She will go to
Switzerland, and Henriette to San Remo. And you and I will nurse the
sick girl between us. We won't get in any strangers, and we need not
have a doctor, until just at the very end. Yes, mother, I can plan it
all. And she shall want for nothing. There, now you know. I am going
to lie down. I shall get up early in the morning to begin the reading
of the papers. Oh, no; I don't feel unhappy. And my conscience does
not prick me; perhaps I do not possess a conscience. You must help me,
little mother. Now, good-night."The girl glided away and the woman was left alone. She approached a
step or two nearer the closed window of the room where the sick girl
was sleeping, then she sank down on a low bench and clasped her hands,
and presently her head fell forward on her hands and she uttered a
bitter groan."I don't believe I'll be able to go through with it," she
sobbed. "Kate was always terribly masterful; but this--this is the
last straw. I never meant to be downright wicked; and my husband was a
good man. I can't think how I came by a girl like Kate; she never
seemed to have any sense of honour. She always was desperate; she was
determined to have her own way in everything. I have seen her tell a
distinct lie just for the sake of getting her own way. But this--this
is awful! If it were not for Henry Merriman I believe I should be
firm. I should tell her that I would have no part nor lot in the matter. An easy conscience is a
blessed possession. But, then, have I an easy conscience? And Merriman
knows--he knows that I stole that money from Madame Argaut, and he has
held it over me as a threat ever since. I have to pay him to keep him
quiet. Now, if Kate succeeds in her scheme she will have plenty of
money, and I can go boldly to Madame Argaut and pay her back twice
what I took. She will be pleased to be friends with me when I am rich,
and then I can snap my fingers at Henry Merriman. Ah, yes, I am in a
trap myself, and it seems a way out. All the same, I do not know how I
am to go through with it."There came a little moan from the sick-room. Mrs. Mildmay softly
opened the window and stepped inside. The girl on the bed was moving
restlessly from side to side."I am so hot," she cried. "Give me water, will you? No, I don't
want lemonade; I like pure, cold water best."Mrs. Mildmay supplied it, raising the girl's head, which was wet
with perspiration, on her arm as she did so."You must have another pillow, dear," she said. "Let me wipe away
all this perspiration.""Yes, and I should like a fresh night-dress, too," said the
girl. "How kind you are! What a clever nurse you must be!""I made nursing my profession at one time," was the quiet
reply. "Now lie very still. I have made you more comfortable, have I
not?""Much more comfortable.""If you lie just at that angle you are not likely to cough so
badly. Go to sleep, and I will sit by you.""But I wish you wouldn't; it seems so selfish. And I don't suppose
I am as bad as that.""We will try and get you better; we will do all we can." The
woman's voice was low and muffled. The pain at her heart was so fierce
that she could scarcely bear it. The girl's face on the pillow looked
very white, the dark eyes were closed, and the eyelashes lay heavy on
the cheeks.Presently, by the soft breathing, Mrs. Mildmay knew that she
slept. Half-an-hour later the room door was very softly opened, and
the other Kate came in. She stole on tiptoe up to the bed."Does she sleep?" she asked.The mother nodded. "Don't wake her," she said in the lowest of
tones."I don't mean to. Has she been perspiring much to-night?""A great deal.""It takes her strength out of her," said the other Kate. "She won't
last very long. Mother, I want you to help me to move that trunk out
of the room.""I dare not; it will awaken her.""But you must help me, and you must be quick. I must have all my
information at my fingers' ends, and the time is short."Mrs. Mildmay rose without a word. She helped her daughter to move
the trunk. They carried it into the sitting-room."It must be moved back again before she misses it in the morning,"
said Kate Mildmay. Now don't disturb me, mother. I have got her keys;
I took them when I was bidding her good-night. The keys and the trunk
must be back before daylight. I have got two or three hours. Go and
sit with her. All will succeed."CHAPTER IVA TALL young man with broad shoulders and a somewhat fair type of
face was standing kicking his heels impatiently in the outer room of a
lawyer's office. He had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant
expression. English country gentleman was written all over him, from
his bronzed cheek to his firm, well-knit hands and athletic
figure.A clerk came up and spoke." Mr. Hume will see you now, Mr. Henley; will you follow me this
way?"Henley stepped across the room, a door was flung open, and he
entered a large inner apartment. A man with iron-grey hair rose as he
approached, and held out his hand."How do you do, Ralph? Sit down," he said. " This is a somewhat
unpleasant business. You must go off at once to Mentone.""Why, what's up, sir? Why am I to go to Mentone?""Well, I can't. I would if I could ; but I can't--not for a day or
two. But you must go at once.""I wish you would tell me why," said the young man impatiently."You have wondered at Kate's silence?""Rather. Has this anything to do with her? Has she been discovered
at last?""Yes; the naughty puss has been hiding in Mentone all the winter. I received a telegram from her last
night, and a long letter this morning. She is rather lonely, and wants
us both to go. You may as well run off; you can put up at one of the
hotels and run down to see her. She is at a place in one of the
valleys, called Beau Séjour. Here is her letter; you can read
it for yourself."As the lawyer spoke he pointed to an open letter which lay on his
desk. The young man took it up eagerly and was soon buried in its
contents. It ran as follows:--"DEAR UNCLE ROBERT,You will wonder at my
not writing to you for the last month or two, but you know I always
had a somewhat procrastinating nature, and that must be my excuse. I
am in some trouble now, and would he so glad if you would come here
immediately. The fact is I left Colombo en
route from India about three months ago. When I arrived at
Marseilles I came straight on to Mentone, and took the little villa
the name of which you see on the top of this page. It is about two
miles out of Mentone, and is a dear little sequestered spot. I was
feeling rather seedy, and thought that I should like a short time
quite to myself. I met a very nice girl--a Miss Mildmay--and asked her
to be my companion. She and I had a good time in the hills, and all
would have gone well had the poor girl not contracted consumption. She
was very ill for a month, and I nursed her day and night, forgetting
all about you and every one else in my intense sorrow and the heavy
work which I had to go through. She died this morning; and now I feel
terribly lonely. If it were not for her mother, who is staying with
me, Ido not know what I should
do. Poor, poor girl; and I loved her so much. Her name was Kate, and
she had such a look of me. It is very strange; when I look now at her
little dead face, I feel as though I were looking at myself, and it
gives me the queerest sensation. Tell Ralph all about it, won't you;
and come, dear Uncle Robert, as soon as you can to your loving
niece,KATE BOUVERIE."P.S.--If you start at once you will be in
time for poor little Kate Mildmay's funeral, and I should so like you
to he present. Don't delay; please come
immediately."Ralph Henley let the letter flutter to the ground."I could not make out why she was silent," he said; "but, of
course, this accounts for it. So you think I ought to go to Mentone
myself, sir?""I do, Ralph. It would be a great convenience to me. I cannot get
off until the end of the week. I don't like the thought of that child
being all alone; she always was a little bit eccentric, and my poor
brother spoiled her so dreadfully. I have been looking through some
important papers this morning with regard to the administration of the
estate. Kitty has been left heiress of everything. Here is her
photograph; poor Christopher sent it to me with the last letter he
ever wrote."As the lawyer spoke he lifted the lid of his desk and took out a
photograph enclosed in soft tissue paper. He handed it to Ralph
Henley, who gazed at it attentively."She is not much changed," he said. "She has not sent me one of
these. I have not had a newportrait of
her for a couple of years; but she is exactly what she always was. I
should like to keep this if you don't mind, sir--at least, for the
present. You shall have it back when I see you again.""Ah, my boy, is it possible that you are as much in love as
ever?""There never was any girl for me except Kitty," was the answer."I am right glad to hear it. Her father was most anxious that a
marriage between you both should come off. He has left her with a very
large fortune, and if she is as beautiful as she looks in that
picture, you will have won a very desirable wife, for the coffers of
Castellis are not too flourishing at present.""I would not marry her for her fortune for the world," said the
young man, his face darkening."Oh! come, come; you can put it in that way if you like. Provided
you love the girl, a bit of gold with her comes in very handy, I can
tell you. However, to come to immediate matters, can you start for
Mentone this evening?""Yes; I certainly can.""Then wire to Kate, and tell her so! Tell her that you will be with
her as soon as the swiftest train can bring you. I will write to her
by the same post. Poor girl! She was always an original. What
possessed her to hide herself in that place for the last three months
passes my belief; but it is just like Kitty.""Yes, just like Kitty," said the young man. "But I think, sir, I
love her all the better for her eccentricities.""Well, go out and see to the matter. I shall be busy until late this evening. I will manage to send a
letter off to-night; but that's about all I can do."Ralph Henley left Mr. Hume's chambers, and, going to the nearest
post office, sent off a telegram to Kate Bouverie, Beau Séjour,
Mentone.The little winged messenger reached Kate Mildmay within two
hours. She was standing in the veranda of the pretty villa, dressed in
Kate Bouverie's clothes. When the messenger brought up the telegram
she took it, read it coolly, told the boy there was no answer, and
retreated within the house."Now," she said to herself in a breathless sort of voice, "I am
primed in every respect. He will be here by the morning after next. I
shall go down the garden to meet him. Poor little Kate must be buried
that day, and he and I will go together to the funeral. I must
accustom myself to calling her Kate Mildmay; there must be no slip
now, no backward glance. I think I am quite ready; I don't believe it
is possible for me to fail. The only one who gives me the slightest
uneasiness is mother. Notwithstanding the enormous advantage to
herself, she is but half-hearted in the matter. Now that Ralph is
coming, I had better drive into Mentone and engage a couple of
servants. That is a good thought. I shall make Ralph stay here; there
is no earthly use in his going to any of the hotels. With mother as
chaperon it can easily be managed."She entered the large sitting-room. The sofa where the sick girl
had lain was empty. Mrs. Mildmay was lying back in a deep chair with
her hands folded."I am doing nothing, Kate," she said in a fretful voice. "I cannot
turn my attention to anything.You
won't ask me to cook a good dinner for you to-day, will you?""No, certainly not," said Kate; "I am not hungry. Now listen,
mother.""You are always saying 'Listen,'" answered the woman; "and you make
me so desperately nervous. What is it now?""I have had a telegram from Ralph Henley. Mr. Hume cannot come out
to Mentone for two or three days; but Ralph is coming.""Can you meet him, Kate? Dare you?""Of course I dare. Mother, I am going to shut the door; I want to
have one last talk.""You had better shut the window too; any one may come up to the
window and overhear us.""Oh, but no one will," said Kate in a defiant voice. "We have
guarded this secret pretty well. No one was here when she died except
our two selves; the doctor arrived half-an-hour too late; but he saw
her, of course, and signed the death certificate. It is all right, as
right as it can be. Now then, mother, are you ready to listen?""Yes, I wish you would be quick, Kate. You terrify me.""I intend to give you before the end of the week two thousand
pounds. I am mistress of my own fortune, and can manage it. Then I
wash my hands of you. From this hour I never call you mother
again. You address me from this moment as Miss Bouverie; I speak to
you as Mrs. Mildmay. Instead of you as my mother I take Mr. Hume as my
uncle. I call him Uncle Robert. I take all Kate Bouverie's relations
as mine; and Ralph Henley is betrothed to me. He saw me last when
Iwas a child, not more than eleven
years old. He thinks himself in love with me. He shall be desperately,
desperately in love with me, me myself--not because I have gold, not
because I have a good old name, not because I am a lady by birth, but
because of me myself--before the week is out. And we will marry; and
sometimes we will come to Mentone, and you shall see us. But beyond
that two thousand pounds which I am giving to you, I mean to wash my
hands of you. You can clear all your debts, and take a good house and
start on your own account. Now, are you satisfied; for, if not--""If not, what will happen?" said the woman."You had better not ask; but I am desperate. Do you accept? Are you
satisfied?""Yes, yes. I suppose I am.""That is right."Kate walked to the window, drew up the green jalousies, and stepped
out on to the veranda. She never heard, as she did so, the sound of
softly retreating footsteps, nor did she see a man's figure standing
behind the big eucalyptus-tree to the left of the little garden. The
man stole away chuckling to himself.Kate stood serene, with a smile on her face. Presently she returned
to where Mrs. Mildmay was still seated."I thought I would tell you," she said, "that I am going to take
the pony-trap to Mentone immediately after lunch. I mean to engage two
good servants. You must dress yourself in your best, and appear as my
friend and companion. Mr. Henley will sleep here. We will get the
little room to the left of the stairs ready for him.""And where will you sleep, Kate?" began the mother."Miss Bouverie, please," said Kate. "I shall sleep in that room. It
will be ready on the night of his arrival.""What! The room where she died?""Yes. Why not? You can sleep there with me.""I should dread it.""You will be all right with me.""Kate, Kate. I dare not be left alone with that dead girl.""Mother, don't be silly. What harm can she do you? Poor little
Kitty! There, I must never call you mother again. But kiss me; kiss me
for the last time."Kate Mildmay went up to her mother, flung her arms round her neck,
pressed her to her heart, and kissed her passionately on her lips."There," she said, "it had to be. It is good-bye for ever as mother
and child.""Oh, my child. I don't like it. I dread it; I fear it. Give it up
even now.""Never. Now then, Mrs. Mildmay; you will attend to all that is
necessary. When I return with the servants remember it will be
fatal--fatal to my scheme and yours if even once your tongue slips and
you call me Kate."Mrs. Mildmay hastily left the room."I wish I might wash my hands of it," she thought. "Kate is a
terrible girl. I could almost wish she had died when she was
young."Kate remained behind. She looked round her. Then taking the
telegram out of her pocket, she opened it swiftly, and looked at the
words:--"Leave England to-night. With you Thursday morning. Ralph
Henley.""Ah, Ralph," said the girl half aloud; I wonder what sort you
are. Yes; I am playing a big game. But I believe I shall succeed."She softly entered the bedroom. In her coffin lay the dead
girl. Kate bent down now and kissed the lips of the other Kate. Those
lips wore the evanescent and most touching smile of death."I don't believe you are angry, poor little Kitty," said the other
Kate. "And even now I believe I would change places with you, Kate
Mildmay. Yes, you are Kate Mildmay. I shall believe it in the
long-run. And I--I am Kate Bouverie. I will attend to your wishes,
little Kate, and put no flowers over you even though you are Kate
Mildmay. Forgive me, little Kitty--sweet, soft, pretty Kitty. And if
it is in the power of the dead to help, let your mantle descend upon
me in order that I may act your part worthily in the world."CHAPTER VA GIRL and a man were walking slowly up one of the steep mountain
passes near Mentone. The man's back was slightly bent; there were
furrows on his face and beads of perspiration on his brow. The girl
had a springing step, and did not show the least trace of fatigue."Need we go any farther, Katherine?" said the man."Not if you wish to rest, Uncle Robert. But see, there is a seat
placed for the accommodation of weary climbers just round that next
boulder. Let us make for it and sit down."The man said nothing further, but resumed his toiling march
upwards."For a girl who has passed most of her life in the East it is
wonderful how well you can ascend these hills," he said."Oh, I am accustomed to climbing," began Kate, and then she
stopped. She knew that Kate Bouverie had never climbed a mountain in
her life.The man turned and looked at her attentively."You are a remarkably healthy girl," he said; " and I am
pleased--very much pleased--with what I have seen of you.""Thank you, uncle; here is our resting-place. Isn't it good to toil
when it makes rest so sweet?"The man sat down with a sigh of relief. The girl stood fanning herself with her large straw hat which
she had removed from her head for the purpose."Now that we are here, Katherine, we may as well attend to
business.""Quite so, Uncle Robert; I am agreeable.""Then sit near me, my dear niece."Kate seated herself obediently. She turned her face so that
Mr. Hume got a full view of it."You have grown up very much as I expected you to grow up," he
said. "And yet there is a difference.""What do you mean?" Kate felt herself colouring very slightly."You look more spirited. The old Kate had spirit enough, but she
was not as healthy and lively as you are; she was of slighter make. At
one time we seriously feared consumption for her; it is in her
mother's family. Now you, my dear, look as hearty as girl could
look.""Oh, I have outgrown all my early delicacy," said Kate. "When I was
in India father was a little anxious. But, you know, he took me to the
hill stations--and it is splendid to live there--I got stronger year
by year. Didn't he tell you so when he wrote?""He did mention from time to time that you were in good health, my
dear. You must tell me some day of his last moments. Poor Christopher;
I was very fond of him."The girl sighed, and drew a little nearer to Mr. Hume. She laid her
small hand on his."I love you for loving father," she said. "You must tell me about
my dear mother, too, some day. I don't remember her in the least.""She was my only sister," said Mr. Hume; "and, as I told you, died of consumption. We have it in
our family--although it has never touched me. At one time I almost
thought that I ought to warn Ralph, but really there is no necessity
now. So you have fixed up the date of your wedding, Kitty?""Yes," answered Kate, with a smile, the colour filling her
cheeks. "This is April--the middle of April. We hope to be married
sometime in June. There is no special hurry though, is there?""My dear child, there is always hurry when marriages are
contemplated," was the somewhat testy answer. "I am much interested in
Ralph; he is a man in a thousand. Your father wished for this wedding,
and there is no earthly sense in putting it off. By the way, Kate, how
old are you?""I shall he twenty my next birthday.""To be sure. You will be married as a minor. But that does not
matter. Now to talk on another matter. I want to return to England on
Monday. This is Friday; can you be ready.""Is it necessary for me to go back so soon?""I should like to escort you home. It would be better than Ralph
doing so.""I will try and be ready," said the girl. " There are only one or
two things which I want to give directions about.""And what are they?""I am anxious to settle a small sum of money upon Mrs Mildmay.""The mother of that poor girl who died so suddenly?""Yes, Uncle Robert. She was a very nice girl, and I was much
attached to her. I am also very fond of her mother.""That is quite natural, Kate; and any little sum which you may wish
to give her I shall be quite willing to see about for you. Would fifty
pounds content you?"Kate opened her eyes wide."Certainly not," she answered promptly. "I promised Kate Mildmay
when she was dying that I would make her mother comfortable for
life. I want a much larger sum. I can surely do what I like with my
own money?""When you are of age, dear Kate. Only then you will be married, and
it will be tied up in settlements. But at present, my dear girl--"A look of alarm flitted across the eager face."The fact is this, Uncle Robert," said Kate, nestling up to him, "I
want you to be very good, indeed, to your Kitty; I want you to give me
for Mrs. Mildmay two thousand pounds."Mr. Robert Hume started away from Kate's side with considerable
amazement."You must be mad, Katherine," he said. "You seriously ask me to
advance you two thousand pounds out of your property to give to a
total stranger. It cannot be thought of for a single moment.""In that case I won't marry Ralph until I am over
one-and-twenty. When I am of age I shall have complete control of my
money, and I shall immediately give two thousand pounds to
Mrs. Mildmay.""My dear girl, you know nothing about what you are saying. Even
when you are of age your money will have to be guarded by
trustees. You have to think of your descendants."Kate shrugged her shoulders. "I must have that money for Mrs. Mildmay," she cried with
impatience." I promised poor Kitty that I would leave her mother
comfortable.""The mother of a girl who was only your companion for a short
time.""That does not matter. I am determined that Mrs. Mildmay shall have
the money. Now, you understand me, Uncle Robert. I can be firm when I
put down my foot. I have put my foot down here. If she has to wait for
it I shall be very sorry; but, in any case, she shall have it in the
long-run.""This is most disturbing and ridiculous," said Mr. Hume. "Of course
you are rich; but no money ought to be squandered. And to throw away
two thousand pounds on a comparative stranger! Katherine, you are
mad!""Shall we turn the conversation?" was Kate's dignified reply.Mr. Hume looked at her in astonishment. It is true he had not seen
Kate Bouverie for eight years; but in the old days he had always
considered her a yielding sort of girl, a very nice girl truly, very
sweet, very handsome, but the sort of girl who would submit to advice,
who would be guided in the way she ought to go. But this Kate,
although handsome and bright and even brilliant, was different. There
was a change in her which he could not quite account for. He believed
there could be occasions when she would be hard."I want to know another thing," continued Kate, flashing round upon
him. "I may as well ask it now, for after this talk we need not bother
ourselves about money matters. Until I am of age you will give me just
what I want?""You shall have plenty of money, my dear--plenty. You are a very
rich girl.""Ah, that is what I am coming to. Do you know how much my yearly
income is?""Your yearly income! Really, Katherine, at the present moment I
cannot quite tell.""Does it run into four figures?"Mr. Hume laughed."Four figures, my dear child. Good gracious! I should think
so. What would you say if I told you that it ran into five figures,
Kate?""Oh, then, that is delightful. Is it possible that I have ten
thousand pounds a year?""Nearer thirty thousand a year.""Then why should you grumble at my asking for two thousand pounds
for Mrs. Mildmay? Come, Uncle Robert, I am not going to stand this?
The money was left to me by my dear father, and Mrs. Mildmay must have
the small legacy which I promised Kitty to give to her. Now, then, you
will say 'Yes,' won't you?""I suppose I must; but it is most unreasonable. The fact is this,
Katherine, you need a good husband to keep you in order. I do trust
Ralph will be firm enough."Kate smiled, and a look of triumph came into her face."I believe we shall get on very well," she said at last slowly,
"But I had better tell you at once, Uncle Robert, that I am a woman
who cannot be driven; I must be led. I humoured my father, and he
always imagined that he turned me whichever way he liked. In reality,
I turned him. I turned him round my little finger as I mean to turn
you--as Imean to turn Ralph. But now,
do tell me what we shall do when we get to London?""You must come to my place, of course.""Your place--where?" Kate coloured, and her lips trembled as she
spoke."Are you silly?" was her uncle's reply. "You must know where I
live.""Of course, of course.""You spent many happy days at the Grange when you were a child,"
continued Mr. Hume."The Grange! How lucky that he has mentioned the name," thought
Kate to herself."And Ethel and Mary will be very pleased to welcome you again,"
continued the lawyer. "They are not at all jealous of you, although
you are the heiress and cut them out."Kitty's face turned a little pale."Ethel and Mary," she said slowly. "Yes," she added, fixing her
eyes now on Mr. Hume's face, "I used to be very fond of Ethel and
Mary. But Ethel was my favourite.""Yes, I remember that," said Mr. Hume. "Now, my dear girl, I love
you very much; and I mean to be a true and faithful guardian to you,
and to tie your money up securely. I am your guardian; and I shall see
that your marriage settlement secures your fortune to you and your
children. Ralph shall have the benefit of the interest, but he cannot
touch a penny of the capital. No, my dear Kate, you need not frown. I
am quite resolved."Kate suddenly sprang to her feet."It is turning chilly," she said, "and the sun is just going to
set. Let us hurry back to the Villa Beau Séjour."CHAPTER VIRALPH HENLEY found his playmate of the olden days altogether
delightful. She was more beautiful than his imagination had ever
painted, more animated, more brilliant than even his fondest fancies
had believed possible. It is true, she was also a little different
from what he had expected. There was a grave and thoughtful note in
the letters which Kate Bouverie had written which he missed somehow in
the real Kate. He was himself a grave man, thoughtful, reserved; he
took life seriously. He was a Liberal, and thought a great deal of the
vast responsibilities of the landlord. He was also a man of religious
tendencies, and believed that he owed a distinct duty to his
neighbours. Now the Kate Bouverie who had written to him from India
seemed to be heart and soul with him in all these things, and yet when
he met this same Kate she started aside with a queer restiveness from
the subjects which interested him most."You surprise me, Kate," he said on the evening of the day when
Kate had had her conversation with Mr. Hume on the side of the
mountain. "You surprise me with many of your views. When you wrote to
me last year you were as keen as I am for the improvement of the
masses.""And I still agree with you," replied Kate lightly. "But just at
present I am so excited. It is because I have met you again, darling,
after all the long yearsof parting;
and there is so much to do, and the future does look so glorious and
golden. And then I shall have such fun in London before my wedding,
and the getting of my trousseau will be such a joy. I do love gay
clothes. There, Ralph, make love to me. Tell me once more that you
love me beyond anything in all the world. Don't let us talk gravely
to-night. Let us be frivolous. I am in the mood for that; I am not in
the mood for reflection. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you love
me."And Ralph did look into the clear brown eyes, and his heart beat
fast, and he clasped Kate to his breast and kissed her again and
again."You are the dearest, most bewitching girl in the world," he
said. "Sit here by me, Kitty, and let us talk of old days."But in this particular also the present Kitty rather disappointed
her lover, for old days were just the subjects she did not wish to
talk about. She made a few remarks, it is true, alluding to this
little incident and to that, but when Ralph followed up the incident
with a fresh reminiscence, a puzzled look came into her eyes and
invariably she started aside from the subject, introducing another of
altogether less interest to her lover."It is so queer," he said, "that you cannot remember that time when
we climbed over the orchard wall, and I nearly broke my leg. Can't you
recall it a bit, Kate, not a bit?""Oh yes, I can now," replied Kate. "When you mentioned it yesterday
I had quite forgotten. I wore my little red frock, and it got such a
tear.""It was a blue frock, Kate. I never knew any one with a worse
memory.""Oh, blue or red, it doesn't matter," said Kate. "We need not talk
any more of our reminiscences, need we? Ralph, there is something else
I want to say.""Anything you like, my darling.""Well, it is this. I have been asking Uncle Robert to do something
for Mrs. Mildmay.""That poor, sad-looking woman. She does look dreadfully broken
down.""You would be sad, too, if you had lost your only daughter.""I should be terribly sad and heart-broken if I had lost you, Kate."
"Ah, that's right," she cried, nestling close to him as she spoke. But
a shudder ran through her frame; for had he not really lost his Kitty,
only he knew nothing about it?"All men are alike," she murmured to herself. "He thinks I am
Kitty, and therefore he loves me. It is all for the best. I have saved
him untold misery, and kept a fortune for him to boot.""If I had died, for instance," she said, looking full into his
face, "what would you have felt?""Don't talk of it, dearest. You have been the dream of my life all
these years. I could not live without you, Kate. But now, what about
Mrs. Mildmay?""I am very sorry for her. I was so fond of her poor little
girl--who had such a likeness to me, by the way, such a strange,
wonderful likeness--and when the poor little thing was dying I
promised her that her mother, who is dreadfully poor, should never
want. To-day I asked Uncle Robert if he would advance me two thousand
pounds out of my money, anddo you know
he quite grumbled. He said, wouldn't fifty do? the old screw. Now, I
want two thousand. Will you help me to get it ?""To give to Mrs. Mildmay? Of course.""But Uncle Robert means to make a fuss about it. He says that I am
not of age, and cannot handle my capital until I am.""I'll lend it to you," said Henley. "I can easily lay my hands on
it if you will wait until we return to England. It is but to sell out
some Consols, and the thing is done.""Thank you; you are a dear! Perhaps I may ask you to help me, for,
you know, all the money will be yours very soon. But I won't if I can
manage otherwise, for Uncle Robert ought to give it to me.""I'll have a talk with him on the subject. Of course he ought to
give it you. I love you so much, dear, for having such a kind
heart. Is there anything else you want to say, little woman?""I wonder why you keep calling me the little woman. I am quite a
tall girl.""Oh, height matters not at all. When you love a girl you always
call her little woman.""Have you loved a great many girls, Ralph?""No one, I swear, but your dear little bonny self.""You are a delightful sort of lover, Ralph. And I shall adore going
over your place and my place. You must describe them to me.""What do you mean?""You must describe your place, Castellis, and my place, The
Pines.""My dear girl, what a short memory you have!""Oh, I have a general hazy sort of idea about them both, but I want
you to describe them minutely.You must
tell me about each room. I shall love so to hear. It will bring back
my childish memories.""Well, darling, I am quite agreeable. Shall I begin right
away?""No; there is something else I want to say first. I am anxious to
have a head-stone put up to poor little Kitty who died here. I want to
write the inscription before I go away, and to give a proper order to
a stone-mason, who will put up the head-stone all in good time. Have
you any ideas on the subject, Ralph?""I? Certainly not, Kitty. I followed the poor little thing to the
grave, but as to knowing what to put upon her head-stone, that is not
at all in my line. Yes; of course, it would be nice to put up a
stone. But I cannot help you with the inscription. Have you any ideas
yourself?""I thought of something like this," replied Kate. She took a piece
of paper out of her pocket and scribbled a few lines on it in
pencil.Henley read aloud:
"To KATE,
Who went from the Villa Beau Séjour to a more
abiding Home on the 25th March 1897.
Aged 19 years.""Just your age," said the young man. "But, my dear Kitty, you have
never put her name--her surname, I mean. It ought to be 'Kate
Mildmay,' not 'Kate.' It is quite a pretty inscription, but let us add
the word 'Mildmay.'""It is more uncommon to leave it out," said Kitty, moving
restlessly. "I will show it to her mother and see what she says. The
mother ought to be consulted, ought she not?"At that moment Mrs. Mildmay was seen passing by the balcony, and
Kate called to her."Please come here for a moment, Mrs. Mildmay."The widow entered. Her face was white, and her eyes had a tired
appearance."Sit down, won't you," said Kate in a gentle voice.Mrs. Mildmay dropped into the nearest chair. She was undergoing
daily and hourly torture, and she shivered now as she glanced at
Kate. In her lap lay a black-edged handkerchief. She took it up and
began to pleat it restlessly round the hem. Kate's blooming face bent
nearer. Just for an instant her slim hand touched the widow's. In that
touch there was warning more than sympathy. Mrs. Mildmay made an
effort and recovered herself."I have been talking to Ralph," said the young girl. "He knows all
about you.""About me?" answered Mrs. Mildmay."Yes; I mean the ordinary things. He knows that you have lost your
daughter. He is very sorry for you.""I am broken-hearted," said poor Mrs. Mildmay. She covered her face
with her handkerchief and sobbed aloud.Henley got up."Perhaps, Kate," he said, looking at his betrothed, "it might be
kinder--""No; Mrs. Mildmay does not mind you in the least," said Kate,
glancing at him with that queer determination which he could never
remember the old Kate wearing round her pretty lips."Ralph and I have been talking about the money which you are to
receive," continued Kate; "and I
thought you would like to know that it is quite all right. You shall
have the greater part of it in a few days. But now there is another
matter. Dear little Kitty, who was my companion, who cheered my
loneliness, by whose death-bed I stood, must never be forgotten by
me. Ralph and I thought of erecting a head-stone to her memory. You
would like that, would you not?""Yes; but I cannot bear to talk of it," said Mrs. Mildmay."I am afraid I must ask you to try and listen. You see, I am going
back to England, and the matter must be arranged before I leave. I
thought this inscription would be nice." Here Kate thrust the paper,
on which she had written the words: "To Kate, who
went from the villa Beau Séjour," into the widow's
hands.Mrs. Mildmay hastily read it and gave it back again. "Very
nice--very suitable," she said."But surely," interrupted Henley, "you would like your daughter's
surname to be put on the head-stone; not only 'Kate.' That might apply
to any Kate.""Oh, I think it is very nice and suitable as it is," said the widow
again. "I am somewhat in a hurry. Perhaps you will excuse me,
Miss--Bouverie?""I told you she would like it best as it is," said Kate. "Next time
you will believe me, won't you?"The order for the head-stone was given to a stone-mason, and before
Mr. Hume and Kate left Mentone other arrangements were also made to
the satisfaction of Mrs. Mildmay. She received two hundred pounds on
account and a letter from Kate promising to send her the remainder of
the two thousand as soon as possible. She had already given notice to
her lateemployer and was looking out
for a house which she intended to open during the next season. During
these last days neither Kate nor she dared to have any private
consultations."We had better not," said Kate to her once in a smothered
whisper. "We began to act our parts the moment Uncle Robert and Ralph
appeared on the scene; we must go on acting them now to the bitter
end. When you want to think of me as I am, go and visit Kate who left
the Beau Séjour. Go and visit her in her quiet little
grave. Think what a happy girl she has made me and rejoice."The miserable mother promised.On the day before they left Mentone Henley started for a long walk
all alone. On his way back he was joined by a rough-looking man, an
Englishman by birth. The man was dressed in a coarse tweed suit, had a
large face, somewhat bloated in appearance, furtive, bloodshot eyes,
and a disagreeable expression round his mouth. His hair was much mixed
with grey, and he was bald round the temples. He had a swaggering walk
and a manner which the smallest provocation might render insolent. And
yet, notwithstanding all these defects, there was something about his
bearing which showed that at a very distant date, and before
dissipation had seized him for its prey, he had considered himself a
gentleman."Good afternoon," he said, slackening his pace to accommodate
Henley's steps. "You are doubtless on your way back to the Beau
Séjour.""I am," answered Henley shortly."I am interested in that place," continued the stranger. "I happen
to know a lady who resides there very well."Henley glanced at him when he said this. It was quite impossible
that Kate could know this creature. He hurried his steps."Yes," continued the stranger briskly, "I am well acquainted with
Mrs. Mildmay. The loss of her daughter was a terrible blow to her. She
is an active, enterprising, clever woman; I never met a cleverer. I
believe I have the honour of addressing Mr. Henley. You must have
noticed what I mean, have you not, sir?""I can't say I have," answered Henley. He earnestly desired to get
rid of this most obstrusive man, but had never in his life been
intentionally rude to any one. "Forgive me," he added; "I am in a
hurry, and must be going forward."The man laughed in a coarse manner."I can accommodate my steps to yours," he said. "Perhaps you are
thinking that we will never meet again. Would you like me to make a
bet on the subject?""I do not bet with strangers," replied Henley."All the same, I wish to make a statement. We shall meet again--and
yet again."Henley had long legs, and he now strode quickly forward."I should like to tell you my name, sir," said the stranger, whose
squat legs had some difficulty in keeping pace with Henley's long
strides. "Surely it is not necessary for you to walk quite so fast; I
am a little blown, and it is really important that I should say
something. By-and-by you will be able to recall the circumstances of
this apparently incidental meeting; you will be able to know that I
joined you in your last walk to the Villa Beau Séjour, and that
during the walk we talked together about Mrs. Mildmay. This memory of yours will be very useful to me, if
not to you. My name, sir, is Henry Merriman. My father was a lawyer in
the old country; but I--well, I am a cosmopolitan. I know a little of
all parts of the globe, and at present am settled at Mentone. I am
here because I have important business to transact. I am a hungry
beggar and a disappointed one. Sir, I have made a mess of my life. Ah!
you young fellows, who have all the world before you, don't know what
it is to be down on your luck--to have touched your bottom dollar,
sir; yes, to have touched your bottom dollar. I buried my pride with a
lot of other things many years ago. But in my day, Mr. Henley, I went
to a good public school--no less a school than Cheltenham College--and
afterwards I went to Cambridge. Well, the least said about that the
better. Sir, I have had a rough-and-tumble existence.""This is all very interesting, no doubt, to you, Mr. Merriman,"
retorted Henley; "but as two strangers--""Sir, we are not likely to be strangers long. I must again allude
to the possibility of our knowing more of each other in the future. It
is on account of that future that I have ventured to break in upon
your solitude, Mr. Henley. I understand that you are about to contract
an alliance with the wealthy heiress, Miss Bouverie? Ha! ha! Really
you must excuse me; I have a keen sense of humour, Mr. Henley." Here
Merriman burst into a loud rollicking laugh.The blood mounted to Henley's cheeks."Your future wife is a very wealthy heiress, is she not,
Mr. Henley?" he continued."I decline to discuss my future wife with you," retorted
Henley.The valley they were walking up now narrowed, and the way was
lonely. Henley was a slighter man than Merriman. Merriman looked
quickly around him. With a quick stride he came forward, and now stood
in Henley's path."I am a desperate man; and I want ten pounds," he said. "It is
worth your while to be civil to me; I can make things hot for you if
you are not. Will you give me ten pounds here, and now?""Certainly not.""I repeat it is worth your while to keep my tongue silent.""Worth my while! what do you mean? This sounds like blackmailing. I
never heard of you before. I refuse to walk another step with you. Go!
Our ways part here.""No, they do not part here," said the stranger. He rushed upon
Henley, caught him by the collar, and, by a deft and sudden movement,
hurled him to the ground."There," he said, placing his knee on the chest of his captive; "I
am up now, and you are down. It is a pleasant reversion of our
ordinary positions, and I am in no hurry to put an end to it. Give me
your purse; I won't leave you until you do.""You are a beggarly ruffian; and if you can take my purse you may,
but I don't intend to give it you," said Henley.The man looked steadily at him. He read the determination in his
eyes, rose abruptly, and stood a little way off."Get up, sir," he said. "You're a gentleman; I'm sorry I insulted you. From my soul, desperate as I
am, I wouldn't rob you; I mean I wouldn't rob you in that way. You can
go your way now, and I'll go mine; but once more let me repeat my name
to you: Henry Merriman, late of Cheltenham College and M.A. of
Cambridge. Ah, sir, a gentleman once, but one who now cumbers the
ground. I am deeply interested in your wedding--and in your
heiress. Miss Bouverie is a spirited and handsome young lady--very
spirited; and Mrs. Mildmay, whose daughter was buried a fortnight ago,
is, by Jove, the cleverest woman in the length and breadth of Europe!
I wish you good-day, sir. When you meet me next, perhaps you will
remember me."The man turned suddenly and disappeared round a sharp
corner. Henley stood and watched him until he was out of sight. What a
ruffian he was!What an unpleasant adventure altogether!Henley slowly threaded his way back to the Beau Séjour."I shall be right glad when I leave this place," he thought. Just
then Kate came out on the veranda to meet him. She was all in white
from head to foot, and the last rays of the setting sun caught her
red-brown hair, causing it to glitter in the evening light."Oh my beautiful darling!" said the young man. He quickened his
steps and folded her in his arms.CHAPTER VII"DOES it look all right, Mary?" said Ethel Hume."Does what look all right?" was the reply."Why the room--her room; does it look as it ought to look? I have
been taking such immense pains with it.""You fuss too much about things, Ethel. Why should the mere fact of
Kitty Bouverie coming here upset everything? You talk of no one but
Kitty, and now you make such a fuss about her room.""I wish you would look round it. I have brought you here on
purpose, and you have not said a single word.""It looks charming." Mary glanced round the spacious apartment as
she spoke. It was quite a modern room, and newly decorated. There was
a high dado round the walls; the dado was painted white. Above was a
rich flock-paper of china-blue. The room had several windows, right
down to the ground, which opened with French doors. Most of the
windows stood open now, and the bright spring sunshine and the
delightful spring breeze came in and filled the pretty room."What is the idea of this?" said Mary suddenly. She walked over to
the mantelpiece and looked at a crayon drawing of a little girl which
Ethel had placed there. "Where did you unearth that thing?" she
asked."I knew such a picture existed, and I made a tour up to the attics
this morning and discovered it," replied Ethel. "Isn't it good? Wasn't
she a dear little creature when that was done?""So she was. What a pretty dimple she had in her left cheek, and
what rosy cheeks they were, and pretty eyes; but that is a long time
ago. I suppose she will be immensely altered.""Father says she is. He said in some ways he would scarcely know
her; but Ralph is infatuated, and that's the main thing.""I trust she won't be disagreeable. However, it will be fun going
to town with her and helping her to get her trousseau; won't it,
Ethel?""I suppose so," replied Ethel. "You do seriously think the room all
right, Mary?""Seriously, my dear, good Ethel, it is a room fit for a
princess. Now do let us come downstairs and attend to other
matters. The Jervises are going to drive over to tea, and the
Macdonalds want us to get up a tennis tournament to-morrow. There are
a great many other people and things in the world beside Kate
Bouverie; try to remember that, Ethel.""I cannot just at present. I feel wonderfully excited. I am very
glad she is coming back; I used to be so fond of the little Kitty of
long ago.""I hear the sound of wheels," said Mary. "Let us go out on the
drive and be ready to welcome them."The two girls went and stood on the steps of the old house. The
Grange was a house with many modern additions; but the centre part was
a couple of centuries old. There were modern wings, however, both to
left and right, in which were numerous bright bed-rooms and pleasant
sitting-rooms; and thegrounds were
spacious and exquisitely kept. The entire place was an ideal English
home. With the westerly sun shining now in long slanting bars across
the glass and the trees bowing slightly to the breeze the place looked
its best.A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the front
entrance. The two girls ran down the steps and held out eager hands of
welcome. A girl stepped out and kissed Ethel on her cheek."You are Ethel?" she said."Yes, of course, I am Ethel. Dear me, Kate, how altered you are! I
always called you Kitty in my heart; but somehow you look more like
Kate now.""I feel more like Kate; do call me Kate in the future. Oh, what fun
it is to see you again! How is Aunt Susannah? Is she well?""Mother is never well, Kitty; you ought to remember that," said
Mary in a grave tone. "She suffers from her back, and is lying down;
but she will be very glad to see you and welcome you. Come this way,
please."Mary had a grave, reproving kind of tone, and Kate cast a laughing
glance at Ethel, who slipped her arm round her waist."Although you look different, you are in reality just the same,"
she cried. "It was only at first I thought you changed. You have still
got that delightful dimple in your cheek and that wayward sort of
caressing manner. Oh, I am delighted to welcome you back again. I have
loved you all these years, and you have been such a good girl to
correspond with me.""I wonder what I said," thought Kate to herself. "There was no
mention of my letters to Ethel Humein
Kitty's diary. What did I say? It would be awkward to be
catechised.""Take me to see Aunt Susannah," she said aloud.The girls crossed the hall quickly, opened a door, and entered a
room partly shaded. At the far end, on a sofa, a lady with a placid
face and grey, colourless complexion lay."So this is Kitty come home again," she said. She held out her two
thin hands and drew Kate down to kiss her, first on the brow and then
on her lips, and then pushed her a little away to gaze hard at
her."My dear child," she said, "you are altered. I feared you would
be.""I suppose I am, Aunt Susannah. I was only a little girl when you
saw me last. I am grown up now; but all the same, I am Kitty.""Of course you are; who ever thought you were anything else?" said
Mary. "But mother is right; you are changed. You used to be a soft
kind of little thing, but now--""Draw up that blind, dear," said Mrs. Hume, turning to her eldest
daughter; "I want the light to fall upon Kitty's face. My dear Kitty,
you were always like your mother--my dearest, dearest friend. Yes, you
are like her still; but let me see you close, love."Kate knelt down; she submitted to a rigid examination."The same eyes and brows," said Mrs. Hume. "But the mouth is
different, and in some ways the eyes are different too.""Oh, please do not stare at me any more; it makes me so nervous,"
pleaded Kate."You are well educated, dear, are you not? You realise the great
responsibilities which await you?""I am afraid I don't," said Kate, laughing.Mary looked shocked, but Ethel smiled."Don't you remember, mother," she said, "our dear little Kitty of
old, how she always would shirk anything disagreeable. She does not
want to talk about her great responsibilities the first minute she
comes home. Do you, Kitty?""That is just it," answered Kate. "I realise them, but at the
present moment I am too happy to think about them.""And yet, my love, you come back to us without your dear, dear
father.""Oh, of course, I sorrowed for father very much; but I am happy to
be back again in England. And then remember, Aunt Susannah, I am
engaged to Ralph, and I love him--oh, so deeply.""He is a splendid fellow, dear; and I am glad you are happy. It
would be selfish of us old people if our young friends grieved for us
too long. It is the way of the world, my dear--the way of the
world. Mary, you may drop that Venetian blind again; the light hurts
my eyes. Ah, yes, Kate, I am a sad invalid--but glad to see you, very
glad. Now go to your room and get ready for dinner.""Ralph says he will be down to-night, and I wonder if my boxes have
come?" said Kate, eagerly turning to her two cousins.The three left the room together. Mrs. Hume lay on the sofa and
thought."Pretty--but not exactly what I expected," she thought. "There used
to be a look about the face of the child Kate--a sort of spiritual
look which thegirl has lost. I suppose
years do change people; and the child and the girl are seldom the
same. But how I had hoped and longed for that look! Somehow I always
imagined Kitty would be above the ordinary. Now, this Kate won't be
above the ordinary; there is a great deal of the world in her face. I
cannot help being disappointed."She stirred restlessly on her sofa, and just at that moment
Mr. Hume came in."Well, Susan, glad to see me back--eh? Better, I hope, my
love?""Much the same, Robert; no worse, of course. Yes, I am very pleased
to have you back.""And you have seen our heiress?""I have just had an interview with her.""Do you find her more changed than you expected?""In feature, she is what she promised to be," replied Mrs. Hume
slowly."But you speak as if there were an alteration.""There would naturally be an alteration, Robert. When we saw her
last she was a little girl. In mind, she is not what I expected. She
has not fulfilled her early promise, that is all.""My dear Susannah, for goodness' sake don't get fanciful. The girl
is a fine girl--a capital girl. She has plenty of spirit. I am truly
thankful she has not grown up nervous and full of fads. She will make
Ralph a splendid wife; he just wants some one of that sort to pull him
together. Now, Susan, the wedding is to take place towards the end of
June. I should like you to take a foremost place on the occasion--to
be a mother to Kate.""I will do my best, love."The lawyer bent down and kissed his wife."You look quite faded, Susannah, in this dark room. Cannot you
manage to let in a little more sunlight?""The light hurts my eyes.""I wish you would not imagine that," he said impatiently. "The room
is terribly dark. Won't you join us at dinner to-night? Ralph will be
down immediately afterwards, and there is a great deal to talk
over.""I will try to, Robert."Mr. Hume bustled away, and Mrs. Hume lay still. Tears rose slowly
to her eyes; they rolled down her thin cheeks. She stretched out her
hand, touched an electric bell, and a maid appeared."Thompson," said the lady, "take my keys and open that drawer to
the left in my secretary."The girl did so."You will see a packet tied with a faded blue ribbon. Give it to
me.""This is it, is it not, ma'am?""Yes. You can leave me now, Thompson, for half-an-hour, but come
back then, as I wish to dress for dinner to-night, and you can help to
move me into the dining-room. Bring with you my Venetian point collar
and my gold bracelets. But I will not change this dress; I am too
tired.""Very well, ma'am.""And, in the meantime, go to the young ladies and see if you can
help in any way. Miss Bouverie will be tired after her journey, and
will probably like you to unpack her boxes.""I understood Miss Bouverie to say, ma'am, that she has brought her
own maid with her, and that she will follow by the next
train.""In any case, you may be able to give her a little help for the
present, Thompson. Go and do your best." The servant left the
room.When she found herself alone Mrs. Hume slowly unfolded the
tissue-paper in which several old photographs lay. There were two or
three of a brilliant, dark-eyed girl with a wonderfully pretty face
and eyes with a clear light shining through them. Mrs. Hume looked
long at this face. After a time she laid it down with a sigh."The girl who came here to-night is like that picture far more than
most children are like their mothers. And yet there is a
difference. She will never have that light in her eyes, and her mouth
will never have that tender expression. But all the same there is a
likeness. Yes, I ought to love her; and I will. The first
disappointment will soon be got over. I shall certainly do my best to
love her."Beside this photograph of the girl, who after all did not look any
older than Kate Bouverie herself, there were several pictures of a
child--a child of two years old, the same child again at five, the
same child at ten. Mrs. Hume glanced from one picture to the
other."Very like--very like," she muttered. "It is the same face, but
something has gone out of it. I am sorry that the something which I
prized so much has died away."Meanwhile the new Kate Bouverie was admiring her room and making
friends with her supposed cousins. She was playing her part well, and
was in high spirits. Suddenly Ethel, who had planted herself on her
cousin's bed and was looking with rapturous eyes at Kate,
spoke."We are dying to hear you sing," she said."To hear me sing?" answered Kate. She coloured and then turned
pale. She went over to the window and looked out."To hear me sing?" she repeated."Yes, Kate; Uncle Christopher was always writing home about your
wonderful voice. He was always telling us what your masters said. Oh,
it will be splendid to hear you. And, you know, Kate, you look like a
musician.""I am devoted to music," said Kate. She seated herself quietly on
the nearest chair."Your voice is a great deep contralto, is it not?""Yes, a deep contralto.""And your master praised it?""He said I had a good voice," replied Kate, in a modest tone. "But
I have not sung for some time," she added."What a dreadful pity! Voices go off so when they are not kept up
by daily practice," said Mary, in a practical tone. "Ralph is mad
about music. You used to sing like a bird when you were a little
thing, Kitty. It will be delightful to hear you and Ralph singing
duets together. You will both sing for us this evening, won't
you?""I am sorry, but I cannot.""Oh, Kitty; not even one little song? And we have been so looking
forward to it. You are not tired, and you have not got a cold.""There is something wrong with my throat," said Kate hastily. "It
has troubled me a good deal for some time. I must see a
specialist.""Indeed, you must, and without any delay. It would be most serious
if anything happened to injureyour
splendid voice. Well, if you won't sing you will play for us? Uncle
Christopher was almost as proud of your playing as of your
singing.""I cannot say," replied Kate, putting on a cross tone on
purpose. "I am very tired now. Won't your maid come and help to unpack
some of my things? Marryat will not be here until after dinner.""How stupid of us!" said Ethel, jumping up eagerly. "We will send
Thompson to you at once."She and her sister left the room. The moment they did so Kate
Bouverie clasped her hands tightly together, then a frown came between
her dark brows. "What am I to do?" she muttered. "I never knew until
this moment that she had a magnificent voice and played superbly. Now,
I have not a single note in my voice, and I play very
indifferently. This is awkward; but I am not the Kate Bouverie I
believe myself to be if I don't master it."Thompson came in, and Kate superintended the unpacking of her
trunks.At dinner she wore the softest white with black ribbons, and looked
lovely.Towards the end of dinner Mr. Hume bent towards Kate and spoke."By the way," he said, "I have not asked you yet where you put the
diamond which the Maharaja of Ruapore gave your father.""It is in my jewel-case," replied Kate quickly. She was completely
on her guard, and did not even change colour."You must show it to me to-morrow; it is a most valuable
stone.""We are all dying to see the Maharaja's diamond," said Ethel. "Kitty, won't you show it to us after
dinner?""My jewel-case is at the bottom of one of my trunks. I am afraid
you must control your impatience until to-morrow, Ethel," replied
Kate, with a bright smile."Oh, father, what do you think?" said Mary, bending forward at that
moment. "Kitty says that her voice is quite out of order; she cannot
sing a note at present. There is something wrong with her throat. She
must go immediately to a specialist."CHAPTER VIII"I HAVE to tread on thorns," thought the new Kate Bouverie. She was
lying wide-awake on her bed in her large luxurious bedroom at the
Grange. The first evening was over. Whether it was safely over or not
remained to be proved, but Kate felt that she had taken a long step
into that future which so puzzled, perplexed, excited, and alarmed
her. Her heart had beat too fast for comfort more than once during the
evening. She had made two unpleasant discoveries--the real Kate had
been possessed of a glorious voice; the false Kate had no singing
voice whatsoever. Then there was the Maharaja's mysterious diamond;
the present Kate had never heard of this diamond.Beyond these two disagreeable matters everything had gone
smoothly. Every one in the house had taken her for granted. She was
what she represented herself to be--Kate Bouverie, the child who had
been loved in that house long ago. She was the heiress--and the
betrothed of Ralph Henley. Already Ralph loved her, Kate was quite
certain, for herself. Whether he could stand the test of knowing what
she had really done remained to be proved; but that he loved her she
had little doubt. Her heart beat agreeably and her hopes were
high. All the same, try as she would, she could not sleep.The house was as quiet as such houses are in the depth of the country. Every one had gone to bed. Kate
lay still for the greater part of an hour, then she got up; she had
something to do. She knew well that many, many days, months--perhaps
years--must pass before she could feel absolutely safe. During all
that time it behoved her to he careful never to relax her vigilance,
never for a single instant to let herself go. Dangers might present
themselves at any moment; always and always there must be rocks
ahead--that awful past, which, notwithstanding Kate Bouverie's diary,
she knew so little about, must ever and ever stand up to confront
her. At any moment, with all her care, she might give herself
away. Not until she had been the happy wife of Ralph Henley for years
would her fears slumber. Well, be the dangers what they might, Kate
was determined that she would not fail; she would stick to her role,
she would be Kate Bouverie until she became Kate Henley. She would be
the heiress of all the wealth, the enjoyer of all the pleasure. The
nameless Kate in her grave at Mentone should bear her old
personality. And she would be true to the difficult post she had
elected to occupy.She rose and put on her dressing-gown. She lit some candles, and,
opening her largest trunk, took from it a jewel-case. She had managed
to evade the earnest requests of the Hume family that she should
exhibit the Maharaja's diamond that evening; but she knew that, sooner
or later, they must see it. In all probability Uncle Robert would the
very next day demand a sight of her jewels, and the diamond, which was
supposed to be worth three thousand pounds, would certainly be
expected to be forthcoming.Now Kate in her humble past had nothing whatever to do with jewels. There was not a girl in the
world who knew less about their true value. She had not an idea where
the real Kate had hidden the diamond. It might, or might not, be in
the jewel-case. Up to the present Kate had never examined the case;
she had been too busy and too excited about other things. The mere
fact that she was the possessor of valuable jewels had scarcely up to
the present weighed with her.When did the Maharaja present a great diamond to Mr. Bouverie? Kate
had never heard about it. Mr. Hume, on the other hand, knew the entire
story, knew well when that great occasion was, knew well when that
great honour had been paid to his brother-in-law. The Maharaja had
given him the diamond in payment for great services rendered. It had
been a mark of immense honour, and the public occasion on which it had
been presented had been largely commented upon by the newspapers. Kate
had gathered as much from the remarks of the Hume family, but she knew
nothing whatever of the circumstance herself. The real Kate Bouverie
had, after all, a very faulty diary, for this great event had never
been mentioned in it. How strange! how perplexing! how alarming!Having lit her candles, Kate opened the pretty old-fashioned
case. Where was the Maharaja's diamond? She searched here and there,
but could not see any stone which in the least resembled what she
imagined the Maharaja's great diamond to be like. There were a few
necklaces of pearls and a pretty diamond necklet and some bracelets
and rings of great value, but nowhere was there anything in the least
resembling the diamond.Kate felt her heart beating fast. She knew that her cheeks were
turning pale. A wild terror seized her. Suppose it had been stolen!
What in the world had become of it?Suddenly it flashed through her mind that in jewel-cases of the
old-fashioned make there were generally secret drawers. She uttered a
pleased exclamation. Of course, the great diamond was concealed in the
secret drawer. Now to search for it. It would look very bad if she did
not know the way of getting at her own secret drawer in her own
jewel-case; but search and fidget, and press and shake the little case
as she would, nowhere could she find the drawer. Finally she had to
get into bed without having the least idea where the diamond was.The next morning, while sitting before her glass as her maid
brushed her hair, it suddenly flashed through her mind that perhaps
Marryat could tell her the secret of the drawer. She turned suddenly
to the girl."I am anxious to have some jewels reset before my marriage," she
said. "Do you see that jewel-case on the dressing-table--it is very
old-fashioned, and not at all to my mind. I mean to have my jewels put
into a proper safe in my room when I am married, but the provoking
thing is that the spring to the secret drawer is broken. I have a very
valuable diamond in the drawer, and I cannot unfasten it.""Suppose you let me try, miss," said the girl. "I have often had
the care of jewel-cases for my mistresses, and I know many of the
tricks of the secret drawers.""I wish you would," said Kate. "But the spring is certainly
broken. I do not think you will be able to get the drawer open."Kate put the jewel-case into the girl's hand. Marryat opened the
case, looked with envy at some of the gems which were, she saw at a
glance, of very fine quality, but, try as she would, she could not
find the trick of the drawer."You are quite sure there is a secret drawer, miss?""Of course I am. I have a beautiful diamond in it. Dear, dear, how
very tiresome!""You must take the case to a jeweller, miss. He will soon open the
drawer for you.""Perhaps it is the best thing to do," replied Kate. "I have to go
to town this morning on various matters, and I will take you with me,
Marryat. I will order a carriage and go immediately after
breakfast.""Do the young ladies of the house accompany you, miss?""Not to-day, for I shall be particularly busy. By the way, Marryat,
do not say anything about my jewel-case when you go downstairs. I
cannot have a maid about me who tattles. You are very discreet in that
respect, are you not?""Certainly, miss. I have always had the character of being
discreet."At breakfast Kate announced her intention of going to town."I mean to drive," she said. "I can order a carriage at the nearest
livery stables, can I not, Uncle Robert?""Certainly, my dear. We will send a messenger to Bates; he can
supply you with a very decent landau.""I should love to accompany you," said Ethel, her pale face
dimpling with pleasure."So you shall, Ethel, another day. But I have a great deal to do to-day, and may just as well be
alone. I shall take Marryat, of course. By the way, I must go to the
throat specialist.""Oh yes; don't forget that, Kitty," said her uncle, looking up from
his paper at the moment. "Be sure you see Sir John Orme. He is the
best throat man far and away in London. But you had better make an
appointment with him. I will make it for you, if you like.""Oh no; I will call on the chance," said Kate, reddening a
little. "What did you say Sir John Orme's address was?""40 Queen Anne Street, near Harley Street.""Well, I shall be very busy, and would be glad if you would send
round for the carriage at once," continued Kate. "You won't be
disappointed, Ethel? You shall come with me another day.""I must try to bear up--but I am disappointed," replied Ethel.Kate gave her a smile, stretching out her hand under the table to
squeeze Ethel's.Ethel was considerably fascinated by Kate. But Kate now observed
that Mary looked at her with a watchful and perplexed glance.In about an hour the carriage arrived, and Kate and Marryat set
off. Kate held the jewel-case on her lap.As soon as they got to town she dismissed the maid."Here is a long list of commissions I want you to do for me," she
said. "Here is money to pay for them. I shall be at Charing Cross at
four this afternoon. Meet me then. Be sure you are punctual. Meet me
at the main entrance.""You will be in the carriage, miss?""Certainly. Now, see you attend to these commissions; and in
especial go to Madame Coblentz and arrange for an appointment. I want
to choose my Court dress. I am to be presented at the first
drawing-room after my marriage.""Certainly, miss."The maid got out and went her way, and Kate gave directions to the
coachman."Drive to Rider and Mansell in Bond Street," she said. The man
turned the horses' heads in that direction, and in a very few minutes
they drew up outside the great jeweller's shop. A man came out to
assist Kate to alight and to carry the jewel-case into the
shop. Before going, Kate told her coach-man that he was to meet her at
Charing Cross at four o'clock that afternoon. She then dismissed
him. As she entered the shop she gave a little skip of joy."Free and unobserved for three or four hours," she muttered under
her breath. "How nice! I begin to feel my silken chains somewhat
heavy."A smiling and subservient shopman bent across the counter to await
her pleasure. Kate opened the jewel-case and told him that she had
lost the knack of the secret drawer."Either the spring is broken, or I have forgotten the knack," she
said. "I have not been wearing my jewels for some time. I have some
valuable jewels in the drawer. I wish you would open it for me."The man lifted the case and examined it carefully."The secret drawer is here," he said. "I believe I can open it in a
moment or two. Do you object to my taking the case into my
workshop?""Certainly not. Find the drawer, get it open, and bring the case
back to me," was Kate's careless answer.The man retired with the case into an inner room. He brought it
back in a few moments with the drawer open."See," he said, "this was the trick. The spring was not broken at
all; it was hidden behind--""To be sure. How stupid I am!" said Kate, laughing. "I often used
to press that knot in my mother's time. Now, will you see me do it? I
press just here, is it not so? How stupid I was to have
forgotten!"The man did not say that he thought it very strange of Kate to have
forgotten. On the contrary, he began to examine some of the
jewels."You have a very valuable diamond in this drawer, if you will allow
me to say so, miss." As he spoke he took out an unset stone."When this diamond is cut it will be of magnificent brilliance," he
said. "It is, I can see at a glance, of the first water."Kate's eyes sparkled. Of course, here was the Maharaja's
diamond. Her spirits rose higher each moment."That stone ought to be valuable," she said. "It was given to my
late father in India. It was a present from the Maharaja of
Ruapore."The man looked at it with immense respect."It is a magnificent stone," he said. "We should be very pleased to
cut and set it for you.""I must speak to my uncle before I give it up to you," replied
Kate. "I will let you know in a day or two. In the meantime, please
have these pearls reset and also this diamond necklet."The man showed her different patterns. Kate made a hasty selection
with regard to the style, and was about to shut up the jewel-case when
the shop-man spoke again."You have three or four other unset diamonds here of great value,"
he said. "This, for instance--and this. This yellow diamond is of the
first water."Kate began to ask eager questions. It suddenly occurred to her that
it would be extremely useful to keep a few of these precious stones in
reserve, and on no account to mention their existence to
Mr. Hume. Thus, if necessary, she could sell them. Her mother had
already received a thousand pounds of that money which Kate had
promised her, but she would greatly like to send her another hundred
or two to assist in the furnishing of the new boarding-house; to have
a private fund which could be turned at any moment into money would be
extremely useful. Asking the man to give her a list of the jewels and
to have the case carefully packed, she left the shop."I will call for the jewel-case this afternoon," she said, as she
was going out. In the street she reflected on her next course. She had
not the slightest idea of going to see the great specialist, although
she meant to tell the Humes that she had done so. What was the use of
his examining a perfectly healthy throat. Then, for all she could
tell, the throats of great singers might have peculiar formations; if
so, he would discover at a glance that she had no vocal powers of any
sort.She entered Cappell's shop, however, in Bond Street, and asked for
the address of a good music-master. Obtaining this, she took a hansom
and drove straight to the man's address. He was in, and she made arrangements with him to have lessons on
the pianoforte two or three times a week, and also to have the use of
a private piano in order to practise whenever she wished to."So far, so good," she said to herself. "My voice is gone, and gone
for ever; but the old Kate was a wonderful pianist. I know a little
about music, but I have much to learn. I have made up my mind that I
also will be a wonderful pianist in a short time. Now the next step is
to find time to practise--to practise continually four or five hours a
day, and if necessary, far on into the night. This cannot be managed
at the Grange. I shall take a small flat in town, and live there with
Marryat. If Uncle Robert disapproves I cannot help it. Yes, I shall
take a flat and come up to-morrow. I wonder where I had best go."After a little thought Kate decided to drive to Chelsea, see a
house-agent, and get orders to view several flats. She was nothing if
she was not quick and determined. Before two o'clock that afternoon
she had settled on a flat which exactly suited her. It was a furnished
one and looked upon the river. She decided to take it off-hand, and
told the people that she would arrive the following day. She then
spent the rest of the afternoon in the British Museum, searching
through old files of newspapers in order to get particulars with
regard to the great occasion when Mr. Bouverie obtained that wonderful
uncut diamond from the Maharaja of Ruapore.CHAPTER IXTHAT evening Kate gave a lively account of her adventures. She made
the Hume party laugh heartily. She herself was in the highest
spirits."I hope, Kate," said Mr. Hume," that you went to see the aurist,
Sir John Orme; we are all so anxious about the recovery of your
voice. But perhaps Sir John could not see you without an
appointment?""Yes, I went to his house and saw him," answered Kate. " He
examined my throat, and says I must not attempt to use it for some
months. He has ordered a strengthening gargle and a tonic.""Did he say nothing about voice exercise?" asked Mrs. Hume. "Voice
exercises are so splendid for the throat. For instance, a few notes of
the scale every day.""He said that at present I must not sing at all," replied
Kate. "The vocal chords are strained, and the whole throat is in a
relaxed condition.""Most provoking!" cried Mr. Hume. "I did so look forward to hearing
you sing. Nothing rests me more in the evening than really good
singing, and, unfortunately, neither Ethel nor Mary have voices to
speak of. Then Ralph, too, is nearly music mad, and sings splendidly
himself. We must do all in our power, Kitty, to get that magnificent
voice back again."As he spoke he looked with some concealed anxiety at his niece. Was
it possible that Kate, splendidly well as she looked, was really
consumptive? There was such a dreadful taint in the family. She
certainly did not look like it, but that failure of her voice at such
an early age, might point to mischief in the lower part of the
larynx. He half thought of seeing Sir John Orme himself on the
subject, but resolved if he did so to say nothing to Kate.Towards the end of dinner, Miss Bouverie bent slightly forward,
laid her hand on her uncle's arm, and spoke--"I do hope you won't all be awfully offended," she said. "I love
you all, and it is delightful to be amongst my own dear relations
again--""Well, out with it, Kitty," said her uncle.Kate swallowed something in her throat. She was reluctant to tell
about the flat, but it was absolutely necessary that she should do
so."I have always observed," said Mary, in an impatient voice, "that
when people wish to say a truly unpleasant thing they preface it
somewhat in the way you have just done, Kate. If you like your
relations, why should you do anything to offend them?""I hope I shall not offend you; but the fact is I have not been
accustomed to living with a lot of people--""My dear--when you were with your father in his great palace at
Ruapore! My dear child, you must have forgotten.""No, I have certainly not forgotten," replied Kate impatiently--her
eyes were gleaming now, and there was a brilliant colour in her
cheeks--"but can you not understand that a number of Indian
servantsand a great deal of
entertaining are not like being with your own people? And, then, the
palace of Ruapore was so big, that when I liked to be in my rooms I
was quite alone. I am passionately fond of music, and I cannot
practise as I wish in this house.""Oh yes, that you can, Kate," exclaimed her aunt. "You shall have
the little turret room at the top of the spiral stairs all to
yourself. We can have a piano sent in to-morrow."Kate shook her head."It is just like you, Aunt Susannah. But I don't think it will
do. Sir John Orme has not forbidden me to use my fingers, and these
fingers must rattle over the keys for many hours a day. Well, here is
the dreadful secret. I want to live alone. Yes, I do, I do--I shall
come and see you all constantly--but I must live alone. And I have
taken the dearest, sweetest little furnished flat in Chelsea--the most
bijou place in the world--and I am going there
to-morrow. Now, Uncle Robert, you are not really angry with me?"As she spoke she rose from her seat, ran up to Mr. Hume, and threw
her arms round his neck."You are not angry," she repeated; and now she kissed him on his
forehead.There could scarcely anywhere be found softer lips than Kate's. And
Kate's eyes were of the most brilliant in the world. In spite of
himself, Mr. Hume was influenced by her beauty. It suddenly occurred
to him that the idea was not so bad after all. He could easily visit
Kate in her flat. It would be necessary for him to see so much of
her--and at all hours, too--for there were the settlements to be got
up, and there was the administration of all her large property. So although he shook his head and told her
that she was a very extravagant, discontented puss, he did not object
to her living alone as much as she feared."For my part I think it is rather a good idea," said Ethel--"more
particularly as I hope you mean me to live with you. You surely cannot
live in your flat alone?""You shall come and see me sometimes," replied Kate; "but I mean to
live alone. Yes, I am quite determined; it is one of my
idiosyncracies. And now, shall I run upstairs for my jewel-case? You
asked last night to see the Maharaja's diamond. I have unpacked the
case to-day and can show it to you.""Ah!" said Mr. Hume, "that's a good girl. We certainly shall be
interested to see that stone. Come, Susan, dear; we can easily wheel
your sofa into the drawing-room. You also would like to see the
priceless stone which poor Christopher wrote to us about."Mrs. Hume was wheeled into the drawing-room, and Kate ran upstairs
for her jewel-case. She knew all about its contents now. She could
tell her quondam relations all about the pearls she was having
re-strung and the diamond necklet which was being reset, and for which
she had ordered a diamond clasp. Then as to the Maharaja's diamond,
had she not read all about that splendid uncut stone in the Times at the British Museum? She felt that she
could scarcely give herself away now with regard to the Maharaja's
diamond.In her absence, Mr. Hume had placed a small card-table opposite one
of the windows, had drawn down the blinds, placed a lamp in such a
position that the table should be in the most brilliant light, and now motioned Kate to seat herself at
her aunt's right hand. The jewel-case was placed in the centre of the
table and solemnly opened.The girls exclaimed when they saw the different jewels, and began
fingering the rings and looking with eyes of longing at some soft
lustrous pearl ear-rings."Oh, what it is to be rich!" said Mary, with a sigh. She glanced at
Kate as she spoke, and for the first time in honest Mary's life a
feeling of envy possessed her. But for Kate's existence, would not she
and Ethel be the heiresses? For them would be the jewels, and the
money, and the beautiful country home. For one of them, too, there
might even be Ralph Henley. They both considered Ralph a prince
amongst men, and felt that a very little persuasion would have been
needed to give him their hearts. How different their lot in life would
have been but for Kate! Here Mary shook herself. What horrid thoughts
she was indulging in. For there was Kate--Kate in the flesh, strong,
wilful, and handsome. Kate, who had not the slightest idea of dying in
order to convenience them, and whom they both really loved. Oh yes; of
course they loved her devotedly, although somehow she kept
disappointing them all day long. Neither girl could understand why
Kate disappointed them, but they felt it all the same; and now Mary
dropped the pearls, and Ethel put the rings back into the case."But I have not yet seen the diamond," said Mr. Hume.Kate gave a little pout."Of course you haven't seen it," she answered; "it is in the secret
drawer.""Ah!" he cried. "You know the trick of the secret drawer, of
course, my love?""Well, is it likely I should not, Uncle Robert?" Here Kate pressed
a spring, the drawer flew open, and from the depths of the soft,
faintly-scented Oriental wool she produced the great diamond. Earlier
in the day several other diamonds of great value had reposed by its
side. But now it was alone. The other diamonds were lying upstairs,
wrapped in some ordinary cotton-wool, in a little ordinary English box
that Mrs. Mildmay had given to her daughter some years ago. The little
box, containing the diamonds worth hundreds of pounds, lay unprotected
in the lid of Kate's trunk. Never mind! Before many days had passed
she would convert them all into money."Here is the great diamond," she said, laying it solemnly in the
palm of her hand. Spots of excitement had stolen into each of her
cheeks and her eyes looked strangely bright."Oh," she said, glancing round at her uncle, aunt, and cousins,
"shall I ever forget the great day when my dear father received this
priceless gem? Of course, I was with him, and the Maharaja noticed me
personally. Do you know what he did? Oh, it was disappointing. He
tried to clasp a valuable gold belt all studded with jewels round my
waist. He had taken it away from his favourite wife. He meant to give
it to me if I could clasp it. But I couldn't, my waist was too
big. Oh, I never was so cross about anything. I almost cried."Mrs. Hume now nearly cried herself with laughter."Your dear father wrote such a funny letter about all that," she
said. "He called you a covetous, wicked little Kitty. It certainly was
a pity you didn'tget the belt,
Kate. Didn't the Maharaja give you something else in its place?""He gave me nothing. That's just like them. They offer you a thing
one moment, and if you can accept it well and good. But the belt was
his favourite wife's. And oh; how relieved she looked when she saw me
trying in vain to clasp it round my waist. Wasn't she pleased when it
wouldn't meet! Oh, how I longed to say, 'Give me something else
instead.' But, of course, I couldn't.""Let us look at the diamond now," said Mrs. Hume. "What a pity it
is not cut! it looks quite a dull, ordinary sort of stone. Who would
suppose it was of such immense value.""It is worth between two and three thousand pounds," said
Mr. Hume. "That is what your father said when he wrote to us about it,
Kate. We must have it set, and you shall wear it on your
wedding-day. Ah! and here comes Henley. How do you do, Ralph? You
would like to see the Maharaja's diamond?"Henley took a chair near Kate's side. She dropped the unset diamond
into his palm."Look," she said. "Look well. That priceless stone is yours and
mine.""Yours and mine?" he answered, glancing into her face."Yes, yours and mine.""But it is a queer, rough-looking thing, somewhat heavy. What does
it mean?"Kate burst into a ringing peal of laughter."Oh, you dear innocent boy!" she cried. "Ask Uncle Robert what he
thinks of the rough, heavy-looking stone.""It is a diamond, Ralph, and a very valuable one," said
Mr. Hume. "Tell him, Kate, how it got into your possession."Kate rose, laid her hand on her lover's arm, and motioned to him to
follow her to the other end of the room. They were standing by the
open window when Mr. Hume came up and spoke."I shall have that diamond set for your wedding, Kate. You must
wear it on your marriage-day.""No," said Ralph; "I like her best without diamonds. I only want
you, Kate, not your precious stones."Kate dropped the diamond into her uncle's palm, smiled up at Ralph,
and they both strolled into the garden.The moonlight shone all over her face. Ralph thought her the most
beautiful woman in the world."I wish you would make that nice speech again," she said in a low
voice."What speech, dearest?""That you want me--not my diamonds.""But, of course, Kitty, what else could you expect?""I don't know," she answered, flushing. "But it's nice to know
it. It is very nice." A rare note of true and deep feeling stole into
her voice."I wonder if--" she said, a trifle shyly, "you would say something
still nicer?""I will say anything you want me to say. But what do you mean?""Ralph, if I were a poor girl, if I didn't bring you a great deal
of money, would you still love me? Or, if I had lost all the money,
would you still want your Kitty?""My darling, need you ask ? Surely you do not suppose I am marrying you for the sake of your
money. The money is there and I cannot help it. But I want you, my
darling--you, and nothing else. If you had not a penny in the world,
you would still be the only woman I could love. Why? what is the
matter, Kate? You are trembling.""I am listening to your words. No wonder I tremble. They mean a
great deal. You do love me just for myself?""Just and only for yourself."Kate's face went very white."But what is the matter, dearest? Why should this upset you?""It doesn't really upset me; it gives me the most intense
pleasure. It is true, then, that you really, really love me. Do you
think, Ralph, you would love me even if I were--""Even if you were what?""Even if I were not quite the best girl in the world?""Why, my dearest, of course you're not the best girl in the
world. I don't want to marry an angel: I want my wife to be a sweet
little human girl. What are those lines of Wordsworth's?--
"'A creature not too bright and goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient pleasures, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.'"There, Kitty, that is the sort of wife I want. And you, you fulfil
my idea of the wife I require to perfection--to perfection.""Oh, Ralph, you are sweet. You must say those lines to me
again--not now, some other time. But listen--do listen just for a moment. If you were ever to
find out, dear Ralph, that I--""Find out what, my darling? What are you trying to say, my little
Kitty? Any one would suppose that you, who have led the most innocent,
the purest, the whitest of lives, had done something dreadful. I have
only to show you your own letters to prove to you what a little white
page your life's story has been.""Yes, yes," she answered restlessly. "But still, even letters do
not tell everything. Oh, I have often had bad thoughts, and all sorts
of things have happened. I won't talk of them now, but sometimes I
think I would rather you knew everything, Ralph.""You shall tell me what you like when we are married. My poor
little love, I suppose you think a fit of temper or a little bit of a
sulk the most serious offence in the world."Ralph looked down anxiously into Kate's face. Lightly as he
appeared to take them, her words troubled him. Of course, there was
nothing in them--only a girl's exaggerated way of looking at
things. And she was highly strung; there was no doubt whatever of
that."Oh, Ralph," she cried, suddenly changing her tone, "to think that
you would love me even if I hadn't thirty thousand a year.""My dear," he answered, "I have loved you since you were eleven
years old."Kate's face, which had been brilliant and full of strange emotions
at the beginning of this speech, lost some of its bright expression
towards its close. The fact that Ralph had loved the real Kate
Bouverie was little satisfaction to her."Let us talk about something else," she said restlessly. "I can
never do with sentiment very long. Do you know what I have done?""What?""I have taken a little flat in Chelsea.""You! What do you mean?""I have done it, Ralph. I don't want to be at the Grange all the
time between now and our marriage. I like best to live alone. Of
course, I shall like best of all to live with you, darling; but until
then I prefer being by myself, and just seeing my dear kind relations
when they choose to come to me or when I can find time to run down to
them. Whether you like it or not, Ralph--and I am afraid you do not
like it, from the expression on your face--the deed is done.""Have you told Mr. Hume?""Yes; and after a little persuasion he has made up his mind that he
quite approves.""But you cannot live there by yourself?""I shall live there with my maid, Marryat, and my other
servants.""Why cannot you get Ethel or Mary to stay with you? I wish you
would.""They shall come and see me sometimes, but I prefer to live
alone. I am going to Chelsea to-morrow. I have engaged servants;
everything is in train. Will you come and see me to-morrow
evening?"Just then Mary Hume came out and stood on the balcony."Mother wants you to sing something for her, Ralph. Will you? She
does so enjoy your songs." Ralph gave a pleased exclamation."Good! Mary," he said, "I was almost forgetting. Kitty will join me in a song, of course, won't you,
Kate?""I am sorry to disappoint you," answered Kate, "but the specialist
whom I saw to-day won't allow me to use my voice for some months.""Your voice? Impossible! I have been so looking forward to hearing
you sing. Surely there is nothing wrong with it?""My throat is in a relaxed condition, and the vocal chords are out
of order. Just at present I must not use it.""What specialist did you go to?""Sir John Orme, of Queen Anne Street. Uncle Robert recommended
him.""And rightly," replied Henley. "You could not be in safer hands. Do
you know, I have a queer piece of news to give you. Sir John and his
people are some of my oldest friends, and I am going there to lunch
to-morrow. I shall ask him all about you; it is most important that no
stone should be left unturned to restore your voice."Kate was silent.CHAPTER XONE or two days later, when Miss Bouverie was thoroughly
established in her pretty little flat, Henley walked in. She had been
practising for some hours, and jumped up now from the piano bright and
radiant."No, you are not to hear me yet," she said, with a smile. "I find I
lost much of my former skill by not touching the piano for some
months, but long before we are married I shall be able to play you
anything in the world you like, Ralph darling. Now, then, let us sit
by the open window. Oh, it is so good to see you, and to feel that we
shall not be interrupted.""By the way, Kate," said her lover, "I have something to tell
you. I wasn't able to go to the Ormes' yesterday, but I went
to-day.""Oh, don't mind about the stupid Ormes," interrupted Kate. "Talk
about yourself.""But it is strange, my love; just listen. Sir John was present, and
as he was leaving the room I followed him and spoke about you. He
prides himself on remembering all about his patients--their names, and
everything--but he could not recall anything whatever about you. When
he went to look in his case-book, he found that your name was not
entered. I must say, I was dissatisfied.""How funny of him to forget!" said Kate. "But I'm afraid I have no
solution of the mystery." Herface had
turned pale for a moment, but now her eyes looked bright and
resolved. "I called on him and got his prescription. What can he be
thinking about?""He says you had better come again.""So I will in a week or two, when I have given his gargles a
careful trial. But don't let us bother about it any more now, Ralph. I
am so happy here; it is so much nicer than staying at the Grange.""You don't seem to be very fond of the Humes, when all is said and
done," said Ralph. "And you used to be devoted to them--more
particularly to your Aunt Susannah.""I was a child then; you cannot expect girls to feel exactly as
they did when they were little children. But I do like them all very
much indeed.""Kate, I knew there was something else I wanted to say. Mr. Hume
met me this morning, and said that he had an offer for the Pines; a
very nice family want to take it on lease, and they offer quite a big
rent. I don't suppose for a single moment you will approve, but
Castellis is really a great castle of a place, and--your uncle would
have mentioned it himself but he asked me to do so, as Sir John
Fenton-Douglas wants to know as soon as possible. From all accounts,
the Fenton-Douglases will be pleasant neighbours; but still--""Tell Uncle Robert when you see him to let the Pines, by all
means," replied Kate."I am glad you take it in such a sensible spirit; but of course you
remember what a queer objection your father had to letting the old
house, and when I wrote to you last spring on the subject, you replied
that nothing would induce you to allow strangers to inhabit the
Pines.""That was quite natural during father's lifetime," replied
Kate. "But things are changed now, and I really cannot live at the
same time both at Castellis and the Pines, and it would be nice to
have neighbours. When you see Uncle Robert, tell him that I have no
objection to the Pines being let."Ralph gave a sigh, which he no sooner uttered than suppressed. Kate
was very sensible, but his memory of the old Kitty was that she had
less sense and more--was it possible--more heart? But just then Kitty,
the present Kitty, bent forward and touched his cheek with her red
lips, and then all feeling, except that he loved her with all his
heart and soul, left him. He kissed her rapturously, and they went out
and stood on the little balcony.An hour later Henley went away. The instant he was out of the house
Kate began to pace restlessly up and down."What a fool I have been!" she muttered. "I thought myself so
clever, I certainly ought to have gone to see Sir John Orme. There is
one lesson I must bear in mind, and that is, never, never, in a
position like mine, to tell one unnecessary lie. Now, I have told
several, and got myself into a scrape. What shall I do? I really have
subjected myself to a serious risk. I must think this out."She stood with her hand pressed to her cheek in anxious
thought. Presently she rang her bell.When the smartly dressed page answered the summons he found his
young mistress writing a note at her davenport."Send Marryat to me at once," she said.The boy withdrew, and in another moment the maid entered the
room."You want me, madam? What can I do for you?" she asked."I wish you, Marryat, to take this note immediately to Sir John
Orme's house in Queen Anne Street.""Yes, madam; you mean the great throat specialist?""You know about him," said Kate. "Come a little nearer, Marryat; I
want to say something."The woman approached."There are several things you can do for me if you continue to be
my maid. First, and above all other things, you can hold your
tongue. Do you quite understand?""Yes, of course, miss."Marryat narrowed her dark eyes and fixed them curiously upon Kate's
blooming face. This was by no means the first time the young lady had
puzzled her."People can be paid for holding their tongues," continued the
girl. "I am, as you know, Marryat, very rich. Now, you quite
understand. There is to be no tattling in servants' halls, no breach
of confidence. You, Marryat, would not object to having a little more
of this world's goods, would you?""Oh, certainly not, Miss Bouverie. Who would? And I have an invalid
mother at home.""Ah, I daresay. Here is a five-pound note. Have it changed into
postal orders and send it to your mother to-morrow.""Is this over and above my wages, miss?""It has nothing to do with your wages; it is a little present from
me for doing that great thing--holding your tongue. You quite
understand.""Yes, Miss Bouverie, I quite understand.""Then, that is all right. Now take a hansom and drive straight to Sir John Orme's house. If he is
in, wait for an answer to this note.""Yes, miss.""And while you are waiting, use your wits, Marryat.""What do you mean, miss? It may be best to confide in me to a
certain extent, miss.""I want you while you are waiting for Sir John Orme to find out
something about his establishment--I mean the medical part. Find out
if another doctor ever assists him, and if so, on what days. Find out
all you can--all about his practice, I mean--what times he is in and
what times he is away, and bring me back word as soon as
possible.""And I am to bring an answer to the letter, Miss Bouverie?""If he is in, you will wait for an answer. Now go, and be
quick. Remember what you are paid for.""I quite remember, miss."When the maid left the room a queer look came over her face."Now what does this mean?" she soliloquised. "Miss Bouverie bribes
me to keep silence; she pays me to hold my tongue. What does she want
to know about Sir John Orme's medical establishment? Well, I must do
her bidding; but I'm blessed if I know what it means."About an hour and a half later Marryat returned. Kate was now in
her bedroom. She was in a pretty dressing-gown of white, trimmed with
lace and pale blue ribbons. Her long hair streamed down her back."What a time you have been!" said the girl impatiently."The doctor was out, miss, when I arrived. I thought I had better wait, as the note seemed
important. Sir John was dining out, and didn't come in till past
eleven.""Has he given you an answer for me?""Yes, miss; here it is."Kate hastily tore open the envelope and read as follows:--"Sir John Orme presents his compliments to Miss Kate Bouverie, and
regrets that he cannot find her name in his case-book. He cannot,
therefore, supply the missing prescription. If Miss Bouverie will call
upon Sir John Orme to-morrow morning, he will be pleased to see
her.""That is all right," said Kate. "Have you anything to tell me,
Marryat?""The footman, miss, was very polite and confidential, so to
speak. Sir John has had a doctor helping him lately--a
Mr. Jacobs.""Mr. Jacobs saw some of Sir John's patients, did he?""So it seems, miss. But he has gone away now, owing to a case of
illness in his own family in the north of England. He won't be back,
the footman thinks, for some weeks."Kate uttered a sigh of relief."You have done admirably, Marryat," she said. "Please brush my hair
now; I am very tired, and will get into bed quickly."About eleven o'clock on the following morning Kate called upon the
great specialist. She was dressed most charmingly, and looked her very
best. The moment Sir John Orme came in she gave a start."Are you Sir John Orme?" she said impulsively.The doctor bowed."Then, of course, I have not seen you before. I called here, but
the man I saw was quite different.""A little man with red hair--eh?" exclaimed the doctor."Exactly," answered Kate, gladly taking up the cue which was so
unexpectedly offered to her."Did you come here on Wednesday of last week?" continued the
doctor."Yes, it was Wednesday.""Well, then, the whole thing is explained. Jacobs saw my patients
on that day. He saw you, of course; that accounts for the
mistake.""Of course," answered Kate, with a laugh."Nevertheless," continued the doctor, "it does not account for his
omitting to enter your name in his case-book--Jacobs is always most
particular with regard to that. Now I find, on looking through the
book, that there is no mention of your name.""After all, does it matter?" said Kate. "I want you to see my
throat now. I thought when I was consulting Mr. Jacobs that I was
consulting you, Sir John Orme.""And you really lost his prescription?""I did. It was so stupid of me. I must have taken it out of my
pocket with my handkerchief. When I got to the chemist's it was
missing. Was it very rude of me to ask you to send me another last
night?""It was not customary," replied the old doctor with a smile. "But
pray say nothing more, about that. Now tell me what is the matter with
you."Kate described her imaginary symptoms."And you used to sing a great deal?""Yes.""Your voice was supposed to be a fine one?""I think it was a very fine one, Sir John. It used to give me great
pleasure and also my father.""And you say it has now completely left you?""It has; I cannot sing a note.""Then the vocal chords must be seriously injured. You do not appear
to be suffering from cold.""I have none of the symptoms of the ordinary cold.""I will examine your throat. Come and sit in this chair near the
window."The examination took place and was quickly over. Sir John wrote a
prescription."Is there much the matter?" asked Kate, as she was leaving the
room."Nothing to be alarmed about. If you have got the vocal chords
which are essential to a great singer they will soon recover their
tone. Use this gargle three times a day, and take this tonic
also.""And shall I see you again?""It is scarcely necessary. If you have a voice, and the voice is
gone, what you have to do is to get yourself stronger. Good-bye."Kate laid her two guineas in the doctor's palm. When she had gone
he looked strangely at the money."Not at all the throat of a great singer," he said to himself. "I
must be careful to question Jacobs when he comes back. It is quite
unaccountable his omitting to enter Miss Bouverie's name in his
case-book."As Kate was driving home she thought--"Sir John Orme knows perfectly well that I have never sung a note;
I saw the knowledge in his face. I shall take good care never to visit
him again.""Ralph," said Kate, when her lover visited her in the afternoon of
that same day, "my throat was so uncomfortable last night that I
determined to see Sir John Orme this morning. He then told me that it
was his assistant, Mr. Jacobs, who saw me when I first called.""Well, then, that's all right, Kitty; but the main thing to
consider is not who saw you, but what these men are doing for your
voice. Perhaps, when we are married, the doctor would like you to
visit some of those foreign spas, such as Aix-les-Bains.""Oh, I don't think I need do that," said Kate; "I just want to get
quite strong and to get over all the worry I had in India. You know,
dear," she added, "I am naturally very cheerful; but with all that, I
cannot help thinking over matters. I have had restless nights of late,
and my poor little companion dying so suddenly at Mentone has upset my
nerves. I often think of her, and I miss her so much.""To be sure, Kate. I always knew you were intensely
affectionate. Well, dearest, now I have something else to talk over. I
do so wish we might be married before the end of June."Kate smiled."And so do I," she answered. "The sooner I am your wife the happier
I shall be. But we won't marry in May--of that I am quite
determined. It is an unlucky month for weddings.""Well, say the first of June?""You must hurry up Uncle Robert. He does seem to have such a fearful lot to do with regard to my
marriage settlements.""Oh, that can be managed," said Ralph in a somewhat inconsequent
tone; "a few more lawyer's clerks must be engaged in the matter, and
the thing is done. Kate, my darling, you make me the happiest man on
earth. A whole life devoted to you will not be too much. You will see
when I am your husband how deeply I love you, my Kate.""And I hope you will also find out, Ralph, how much I love you. You
suit me exactly. After all, it was an experiment; but it has
succeeded.""An experiment! What do you mean?""I mean this. The chances were that things would be quite
different. Remember you have not seen me since I was a little girl of
eleven. How could you possibly tell that you would like me when I was
grown up? I also felt that there was great risk. I knew it was quite
on the cards that I should not like you; but things are not so. The
dream, Ralph, has turned out to be much more delightful in the
reality, and I believe you feel the same about me. Yes, we are lucky,
and our combined fortunes--""Oh, don't talk about our fortunes in the same breath," answered
Henley with some impatience. "The thing that worries me is your being
so rich. Compared to you, I am a poor man.""What is your income, Ralph?""I am supposed to possess between four and five thousand a
year.""We could be very happy on that," said Kate in a plaintive
voice. She was silent for a moment; she was thinking down deep in her
heart. Suppose she had won Ralph as her true self--as Kate
Mildmay.Suppose that this terrible
deception had never taken place, and that this tissue of lies had not
existed. Suppose--suppose, too--but what was the use of supposing? She
could not have climbed this hill of pleasure by any other means than
those which she had resorted to. She must go on now; she must not
falter and turn back. Of one thing she was determined--remorse should
never seize her."Let us go into the park for a drive," she said restlessly to her
lover. "I have ordered a nice little victoria from the nearest livery
stables to come here every afternoon at four. Will you come,
Ralph?""Of course I will."Half-an-hour later, Kate, in her gayest and most fashionable dress,
was seated by her lover's side in a small victoria drawn by a pair of
spirited bays. Many people noticed the handsome pair as they drove
past. Ralph was smiling and replying to some light words of Kate's,
when suddenly the smile died on his lips, and his brows were
contracted in an ominous frown."Why, what is the matter?" she cried. "Who are you looking daggers
at?""I thought it was the fellow; now I am sure," was his answer."What fellow, Ralph? What do you mean?""A ruffianly chap who molested me at Mentone. He knocked me down in
one of the passes and tried to get ten pounds from me, the scoundrel!
I did not want to frighten you about it at the time. There he is--and
he recognises me. There, Kate--over there! He is a most objectionable
person.""Where--where?" said Kate, her lips trembling in her
eagerness. "Show me the man, Ralph."Henley pointed out the shabby figure of Merriman."Kate, my darling, what is the matter?" he cried a moment
later. "You look as if you were going to faint.""It is the heat," answered Kate. "It is a very hot day for the time
of year.""Hot! I thought it quite cold!""Never mind. I should like to go home.""Did you see the man, Kate? There he is, moving away in the crowd
to the right.""I saw a man; he was looking very hard at you. I am not quite
certain if he is the man you mean. It doesn't matter. My head aches
badly. Do ask the coachman to drive us home."CHAPTER XIONE thing at least Mr. and Mrs. Hume insisted on, the wedding was
to take place from the Grange. Kate struggled against this decision on
their parts, but finally yielded to the combined entreaties of her
uncle and aunt, cousins, and lover. Henley was restless at her living
alone in her flat, and felt much relieved when she gave up the pretty
little suite of rooms and returned to the more conventional atmosphere
of the Grange.The marriage was to be solemnised on the 1st of June. The 31st of
May of that year ushered in the first of a long series of glorious
summer days. A festive and bridal atmosphere reigned already over the
Grange. Signs of bustle and preparation for the coming ceremony were
apparent everywhere. Even Mrs. Hume forgot her sufferings in the
thought of the great event which was so near. Kate was petted and
caressed by every one.The marriage settlements had been finally drawn up and
signed. Kate's enormous income was absolutely settled upon herself and
her future children. Henley was quite satisfied with this
arrangement. He was heard to say once or twice that the one thorn in
his cup was the knowledge of his bonny Kate being possessed of such a
much larger income than he owned himself.As to Kate she lived in a dream. Faster and faster did the whirlpool of pleasure revolve round her
feet. She was raised to such a pinnacle of excitement and bliss that
she found it possible to banish all serious thoughts. By this time she
had persuaded herself that she really was Kate Bouverie. The Kate in
her nameless grave at Mentone returned seldomer and seldomer to haunt
her. The future was her own and the present was all that was
delightful. She was caressed, loved, and fussed over. Everything that
money could devise was used to enhance her remarkable beauty. She had
more dresses than she knew what to do with, and these dresses were
chosen with the most exquisite care and thought. In each costume she
looked more and more fair. Jewels bedecked her round throat and
encircled her snowy arms, jewels gleamed in her dark hair and flashed
a radiance which was only vied with by the sparkle in her eyes. Those
eyes were now soft as well as bright, the latent anxiety which could
never be really absent had given them that depth of expression which
in the old days they lacked. Yes, she was happy. Her scheme had
succeeded. Not only had she won her heart's desire, riches with their
magical power, friends to love and make much of her, but she was also
in love--deeply, truly, desperately in love with the man who to-morrow
was to be her husband."When I was making all my plans," thought Kate to herself, "I never
pictured this last and crowning joy. It never for a moment occurred to
me that I should love Ralph Henley. I meant him to love me as a matter
of course, but that I should give him my heart in return, that I
should tremble when I hear his step, that my heart should leap when he
speaks to me, that the dearest bliss of all is to feel his hand and see his face, that
I never, never dared to think could happen. But it has happened. I
love him with all my soul and strength. I would marry him to-morrow if
he had not a halfpenny.""Kate," cried her cousin Mary, dancing into her room, "your dress
has just arrived--your wedding dress. Mother wants so much to see you
in it. Of course we know that it fits perfectly, but won't you put it
on and come down to the drawing-room? Mother is lying on the sofa, and
she wants so much to see the dress.""Well, my dear Mary, I have not the least objection," said Kate,
who was feeling too happy at that moment to mind what trouble she took
to please people."Then do let us help you," said Mary, in a kind of rapture. "Don't
let Marryat have anything to do with it; we want to put you into your
bridal dress ourselves.""All right," said Kate; "only you must let Marryat put the dress
away afterwards. It needs a perfectly trained maid to do the folding
process without making a crease in the satin."For answer Mary went to the door of the room and called her
sister."Come, Ethel--come quickly!" she cried. "You and I are to dress
Kate in her wedding costume."Ethel tripped eagerly forward."Has it come?" she said."Yes; it is in this great box. Marryat and one of the maids brought
it in a few moments ago.""Let's have a peep," said Ethel. "Oh! how delicious!"The box was uncorded, the tissue wrapper removed, and a lovely dress of the softest satin, richly
embroidered in pearls, was brought to view. The dress had cost a small
fortune, and came from Worth. No London dressmaker could have produced
it."I wonder what the bill will be?" said Ethel."Oh, never mind about the bill--that is Uncle Robert's affair,"
answered Kate. "I told him I wanted an elaborate trousseau, and he
gave me carte blanche to order what I
pleased.""Oh dear!" sighed Mary, "the money this one dress has cost would
keep Ethel and me in every imaginable luxury for a couple of
years.""I think it is rather mean of you to talk in that way, Mary," said
Ethel, "when Kate is so generous to us. Could anything be more lovely
than the bridesmaids' dresses?""Well, do help me into my dress now," said Kate."By the way," continued Mary, as she slipped the lovely robe over
Kate's dark head, "Marryat has been looking for you high and
low. There is a person somewhere in the ground who wants to see
you.""A person who wants to see me! What person?""I have not the slightest idea. Marryat says he is a fussy sort of
beggar person.""Oh, it can be nobody of the slightest consequence," said Kate. "I
am much too busy to attend to strangers to-day."She had scarcely uttered the words before there came a tap at her
door and Marryat entered."Is this the wedding dress, miss?" she said. "How very beautiful!"
She stepped forward and looked at it critically, turning her head from
sideto side, pulling out the train and
smoothing out the soft folds by the young girl's waist."It fits like a glove; it is a dream dress," said Ethel. "I never
saw anything so lovely; and it becomes you so, Kate. You look--oh, you
look superb! You look like--like an angel!""No, no; do not say that," answered Kate, almost testily. "What do
you think of the dress, Marryat?"Marryat nodded her head; the admiration she felt was all too
apparent in her eyes.Meanwhile Mary was silent. She kept on looking at Kate's face as if
she were fascinated. Kate glanced at her and then looked at herself in
the glass. Never had her eyes rested on a fairer vision. The
tenderest, softest bloom filled her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes
was veiled with a sort of mist of the purest happiness. She knew that
she looked lovely. She was glad because she was going to give herself
with all her loveliness to Ralph. She said to herself--"Even though I am all false, even though I am not Kate Bouverie at
all, yet I am the loveliest Kate in all the world. Surely that fact is
enough; surely Ralph is the luckiest of men.""Yes, dress does help beauty," she said abruptly. She turned aside,
and a quick, half-strangled sigh burst from her lips. Just for a
moment she thought of the old days."In the old days," thought Kate, "there were the little cotton
dresses, the faded ribbons, the darned gloves. Oh, I was pretty in the
old days; now--now I am lovely!"Meanwhile Marryat came up and said something in a low tone."There is a man in the avenue, miss, who wants to see you, and he won't go away. I begged him to, but
he won't be satisfied. He seems to intend to make a fuss. Can you
manage to give him a minute?"Kate felt herself turning suddenly pale. Mary's eyes were still
fixed upon her."If the man is a beggar or anything of that sort," said Mary, "you
ought to go to father. You cannot be worried by these sort of people
coming to see you.""Oh, of course he is a beggar," said Ethel. "Kate is known to be so
rich that all sorts of people will be approaching her now.""I don't think the man is exactly a beggar, miss," continued
Marryat. "By the way he spoke he seemed to have seen Miss Bouverie
before now. It might do no harm for you just to give him a minute's
interview, miss.""I'll see about it," answered Kate. "Tell him not to come to the
house.""But you won't see a beggar, surely!" cried Ethel. "I wish you
wouldn't; you really will be overpowered with these sort of people if
you begin to take notice of them.""He looked very miserable, miss," said the maid.Kate glanced at Marryat, read in her eyes what she did not dare to
say aloud, and made up her mind at any risk to see the man."Tell him I will come to him, Marryat," she said."Oh dear me! Kate, I wish you wouldn't," said Ethel again."My dear Ethel, I feel so happy to-day that I cannot bear to turn
any one away who is in misery. Now do come down and let us show the
dress to Aunt Susannah."They did so. Mrs. Hume praised and admired. She, too, saw the
brilliant and yet softened light in Kate's eyes, and had long ago
ceased to miss the expression which she believed the child Kate used
to wear. Yes, the child Kitty had grown into a lovely woman. Mrs. Hume
felt her whole heart going out to her in a great wave of longing."Oh my darling," she said, "how very beautiful you are! Stoop and
kiss me, dear. I love you as if you were my own child, Kitty; I love
you as my own child."Kate fell on her knees, clasped her arms round Mrs. Hume's neck,
and kissed her two or three times. She then got up and slowly left the
room."Why, mummy," exclaimed Ethel, the moment she had done so, "you are
making us jealous. Your poor little Ethel and Mary must come
first.""So they do," laughed the mother; "but Kitty bewitches me, she is
so lovely.""She is perfectly radiant," said Ethel. "I never saw any one like
her.""She is very much handsomer than she promised to be when a little
girl," remarked Mary."What do you mean?" said Mrs. Hume in an astonished voice. "We all
did so admire the little Kitty of long ago.""Nevertheless, she has turned out far handsomer than I had the
least idea of," replied Mary. "There was a want in the old Kitty's
face--""Oh, my dear Mary!""I repeat my remark," answered Mary. "There was a want in the old
Kitty's face which no amount of training could have supplied. She was
very sweet, but she needed strength of character. There is no lack of strength in the present Kitty;
she is immensely, surprisingly improved.""You talk as if--" began Ethel; but Mary interrupted her
hastily."I wonder who that man is who wants to see her?" she exclaimed."A man!" cried Mrs. Hume. "What man?""Oh, a beggar of some sort. Marryat told her about him. He won't go
away, and that foolish Kate absolutely declares she will see him.""It is very imprudent of her," said Mrs. Hume. "You had better go
at once and tell your father. Kate must not see beggars; they will
prey on her good-nature. It is very immoral to encourage begging.""Then I will run at once and tell father," said Mary. She tripped
off to the study. Mr. Hume was writing letters, looking through deeds,
and winding up Kate's affairs."Well, Mary, what is it?" he said. "I am busy.""Mother sent me, father. She thinks you ought to know that there is
a man in the avenue who is worrying to see Kate.""A man worrying to see Kate! What do you mean?""He wants to see Kate in the avenue, and she is going to see
him.""Tell Kate to do nothing of the kind," said the lawyer
impatiently."But she intends to go, father.""Then I had better put a stop to it. What a nuisance it is! That
silly woman, Marryat, is not, in my opinion, at all a suitable maid
for Kate; I hope she will get rid of her.""She has not the least intention of doing so; she is quite devoted
to Marryat.""Well, I suppose I must go and see this person," said Mr. Hume,
"but it is no end of a worry."He put on his hat and went up the avenue. The avenue to the Grange
was long; it wound in and out amongst stately old trees. About
half-way up there was a miniature lake. Now, as Mr. Hume approached,
he saw a man standing by the lake and looking down at his own
reflection in the water. The man was stoutly built and shabbily
dressed. Mr. Hume stood still for a moment to gaze at him; the next
moment he uttered a hasty exclamation, for, crossing the lawn at the
opposite side of the lake, he observed his niece. She was going
quickly in the direction where the man was standing. Hume called out
to her, but she did not take any notice. She reached the man's side,
and the two turned and began to pace slowly up and down. Then they
stood still; Kate was talking and the man was replying. Just as
Mr. Hume, who hurried as much as he could, came up to the pair, the
man took off his hat to Kate and walked quickly away. Kate saw her
uncle, and tripped up to his side."Well, my dear, what is it?" he said."What is what?" asked Kate.There was a slightly brighter colour than usual in her cheeks;
otherwise, she looked perfectly composed."What did that man want with you, Kitty?""May I not see people now and then without telling you exactly what
they want?" was Kate's answer.Mr. Hume glanced at her in astonishment."Oh, I did not mean to be cross," she said then; "but in father's
lifetime I had so much liberty. Of course, Uncle Robert, you are
anxious about me because you love me." Here she laid her slim hand on
his arm."Of course I love you, my dear Katherine. Who would not love one so
lovely and interesting? But the fact is ever present before me that
you are a very wealthy girl. Now, wealth has its responsibilities, and
one of these is that the person who owns money should never squander
it. The man whom I saw you talking to just now did not look like a
gentleman.""Of course he is not a gentleman; I never said he was. Is it
necessary that I should only speak to gentlemen?""My dear niece, don't cavil.""Oh, I won't. I will try to be patient," answered Kate. She bit her
lips, and her hand rested with a slightly heavier pressure on the
lawyer's arm."You have so much money that you cannot shirk your
responsibilities," he said; " and I, as your guardian, will not let
you squander your money. It is sent to use, not to abuse.""Oh, I know all that," said Kate, in her most flippant
voice. "Well, I suppose the upshot is that you want to know to whom I
have been talking. I will tell you. The man's name is
Rogers. Mrs. Mildmay knew him very well at Mentone. He happens to be
in England, and she asked him to call and see me. She is very poor,
and wants a little money. Out of my abundance--my great abundance--she
wants a little--just a little.""Nonsense, Kate! What are you talking about?" Mr. Hume flashed
round and confronted his niece."Now,
once for all, listen to me. I put my foot down as far as that woman
Mildmay is concerned. I know for a fact that she has received from you
within the last three months the sum of two thousand pounds. Even
though her daughter did die in your house, the mother is not to
blackmail you for ever.""She does nothing of the kind. She is not the sort of person you
imagine her to be, Uncle Robert. I promised little Kate Mildmay before
she died to look after her mother, to relieve her difficulties, to
give her a fair start in life.""And has not two thousand pounds done that?""Up to a certain point it has, but not altogether. She had debts
which had to be cleared. She has now started on her own account--has
taken a pension and furnished it well. She will
make a comfortable and easy living in the future.""Then you have done your duty and can rest in peace. Rogers, or
whatever his name is, shall get nothing out of you.""He wants it for her, not for himself. Another fifty pounds would
set her up completely, and she would never trouble me again.""She shall not have it; I will see the man myself.""Oh no, Uncle Robert," said Kate; and now a note of real alarm came
into her voice.Mr. Hume was still facing her."Do you mean to tell me you are afraid of this person?" he
said."Not in the very least. But it pains me to have to refuse--" The
word "Mother" almost passed her lips, but she drew herself up in
time. "It pains me to refuse Mrs. Mildmay," she continued. "I was so very fond of her poor little
daughter who resembled me.""I am sick of hearing of that likeness," said Mr. Hume
impatiently. "The whole thing is preposterous, Katherine, and cannot
be permitted for a single moment.""Very well, Uncle Robert. Then you really will not help me?""I will not give you a penny for that woman. There, I have said
it.""Of course, if you refuse there is an end of it," said Kate. She
turned away from her uncle, entered the house, and went up to her own
room. The moment she did so she locked her door. Out of a secret
receptacle she now took one of the diamonds which she had stored away
in case of need. It was an unset diamond, but a good one, and of the
first water. She knew well that it could be cut into a lovely stone,
and by no means wished to part with it to the man who called himself
Rogers, but whose real name was Merriman. He had said some very queer
things, however, and had frightened her dreadfully. She could not
guess what he knew or did not know; but that he knew
something--something that could implicate her, and perhaps ruin her
whole scheme--was all too evident."At any risk I must not see him again," she thought to herself. "It
would be too dangerous. And yet I must give him what he needs. I must
stop his mouth. He threatened to go to see Uncle Robert to-morrow--on
my wedding day, too--but he mustn't. Whatever happens, he must
not. Just when the cup of happiness touches my lips it shall not be
dashed away. I don't think the man knows much, but I must silence him. Stay, though; need I give
him this diamond?" She glanced hastily at the others. There was one
set in the form of a pin; it sparkled brilliantly. Kate had often
longed to wear this pin, but she had resolved not to do so as it might
be remarked upon. The girls had never observed it, for she had taken
it out of the secret drawer at the same time that she removed the
other diamonds. She now put it into a box, folded the box in brown
paper, and put a string round it. She then rang the bell for
Marryat."Yes, Miss Bouverie," said the maid, coming discreetly
forward. "Why, miss, you have not done much yet in the way of
arranging your things. I want you to select what you wish to take for
your wedding tour, and then I can pack for you.""You can do that in an hour or two. I wish you now to attend to
something else.""Certainly, miss.""That man you saw in the avenue--""He seemed a queer person, Miss Bouverie.""That is neither here nor there. But I must tell you something
about him.""I am all attention, miss.""You will never repeat what I say, Marryat?""I have learned to hold my tongue, Miss Bouverie.""I hope you have, for from time to time I shall be obliged to trust
you.""I know that, miss. You had to trust me about Sir John Orme, hadn't
you, miss?"Kate flushed angrily."I do not wish you to refer to the occasions on which I ask you to
hold your tongue," she said. "A maid, a perfect treasure of a maid,
would never remember such things; she
would forget them. You forget yourself and your place when you allude
to them, Marryat."The maid drew herself up primly, and her face turned white."I will remember this against you, my proud young lady, some day,"
she said to herself. "Yes, I will remember and not forget." Aloud she
said, in a demure and conciliatory tone: "Of course, miss; and I quite
understand.""I am glad you do. Now what I wish you to do is this. Take this
little parcel to the Swan Inn, ask to see a man of the name of
Rogers--Mr. John Rogers--and give him the parcel. There is no
message. Just give it to him. Slip it into his hand when no one is
looking.""Certainly, miss. And there is no message?""No. You will wonder, Marryat, why I am doing this?""Well, yes, miss--although, of course, I have no right to wonder. A
poor woman in my position has just to do what she is told. She is not
expected to use her brains, miss, like--like a grand young lady in
your position.""Oh, don't be silly," said Kate, with a laugh. "You know you are
just dying with curiosity; and you do use your brains--and pretty
sharp ones they are, too. If you had not sharp brains you would not
suit me at all. Well, I have made up my mind to tell you; but, of
course, you won't breathe it to a soul."By way of answer, Marryat closed her lips tightly together."It is this," said Kate. "There is a poor woman in France--a very poor and sad woman. Her name is
Mildmay. She was my housekeeper when I was there, and her daughter,
her dear young pretty daughter, was my companion and friend. She died
in my house, Marryat. Oh, it was so sad!" Kate's eyes filled with
tears as she spoke. "As she was dying, I told her that I would be
good, very good, to her mother. Now, the mother wants money badly, and
this man has come to beg for it. Uncle Robert refuses to give her a
penny.""Quite right too, miss," said Marryat."Oh, Marryat, do you say so? You would not if you had seen her
face--such a worn face, and so sad. Well, I cannot give her money, so
I am giving something else. There, take it, and be quick. Tell the man
to go back immediately to France. Go, Marryat, and be quick. When you
come back I shall be ready for you to pack my finery.""Yes, miss, I'll go, and be back as quick as possible. And mum's
the word, Miss Bouverie--mum's the word."CHAPTER XIIMARRYAT walked quickly to the village--she had Kate's little parcel
in her pocket. She was a prim, smart-looking, well-set-up young woman
of about eight-and-twenty. The villagers admired her very much. She
had coal-black hair and flashing black eyes and a high colour in her
cheeks. Her teeth were white and her lips red. The villagers
considered her a rare beauty. Marryat knew, however, the value of
never giving herself away. She treated the other servants at the
Grange and the few people she happened to know in the village with the
highest scorn. She was therefore regarded with considerable awe by her
fellow-servants and by any acquaintance she happened to have in the
place. She never allowed liberties to be taken with her; she knew her
position too well for that. As she walked quickly now, with her red
lips slightly pursed up and her shining black eyes staring straight
before her, her brain was very busy. Kate was right; Marryat had good
brains, and 'cute ones."I must do this thing as carefully as I can," she said to
herself. "But what's afoot I'd like to know. I wouldn't split on my
young mistress, not for worlds. Why, she's a mine of gold to me; I'll
make my fortune if this sort of thing goes on. But I should like to
know what it means just for my own sake. I could have got another
fiver out of her if I hadpressed it
just now. But lor! I don't want to be 'ard on the poor young
lady. That she has got a secret is plain. Now, what is it, that's what
I want to know. I guessed she had a secret when she sent me in that
queer way to Sir John Orme's house. I have guessed that something
weighed on her mind often and often since then; but to-day has thrown
daylight on much. If that secret hasn't something to do with
Mrs. Mildmay--Mrs. Mildmay who lives in the south of France--and that
man Rogers--coarse sort of person is Rogers--my name's not Jeannette
Marryat. What have these two people to do with our beautiful young
lady--our heiress? That's what I, Jeannette Marryat, have got to find
out."She presently reached the Swan, and saw with a smile of
satisfaction that the object of her visit was pacing up and down in
front of the bar smoking a short briar pipe.The moment Merriman saw Marryat coming, he took his pipe out of his
mouth and surveyed her critically. Merriman considered himself a
connoisseur of female loveliness, and Marryat was quite to his
taste."Good-morning," said the maid. She passed the man without stopping,
but as she did so she glanced behind her, and he guessed that she had
given him an unspoken invitation to follow her across the little
green. He did so at a respectful distance. The geese were cackling on
the green, as is the immemorial custom of geese since greens were
first made. There was the usual pond in the middle with children
playing by its side, there were paper boats on the pond, and many of
these were struggling to avoid a watery grave. There were also two
orthree mongrel dogs, and one of them
barked as Marryat passed by. She found herself quickly at the other
side of the green, and saw, just to her right, a shady and also lonely
road. She entered the road; the man with the short briar pipe followed
her at a distance of about fifty yards. Marryat walked a little way
down the road, then she sat under a tree where a convenient bench had
been placed, closed her sunshade, and began to mop her somewhat heated
face.The man approached, and, as naturally as possible, took the
opposite side of the bench. Marryat glanced in his direction, and he
glanced in hers. The man looked to the right and the woman to the
left; there was not a soul in view."Well," said the man then; "you've come from the young lady. What's
the message?"Marryat did not reply at once; then she looked the man all over
from head to foot. He was dusty and tired, his clothes were shabby,
his face was slightly flushed, for he had just been indulging in a
copious draught of beer. Marryat's high colour had already slightly
faded. She looked exquisitely neat, her dress was perfect, and there
was not a hair out of place on her shining head. On Marryat's smooth
brow lingered no anxiety. She felt that she had the key of the
situation, and did not intend to give it away sooner than she could
help."I don't know what you mean by staring at me like that," said the
man. "I have asked you a civil question, miss.""Eh?" said Marryat. She looked at him again, steadily, as if she
had not heard him speak before. The man flushed up angrily."You know perfectly well that you heard what I said," he
remarked. "I will repeat it. I want to know if the young lady,
Miss--Miss Bouverie, who is to be married to-morrow, has sent me a
message?""And why should you suppose," said Marryat, surveying him
scornfully, "that the young lady, Miss Bouverie, who is to be married
to-morrow, should trouble herself to send a message to the sort of
person you are?""That's neither here nor there," answered Merriman, who now looked
decidedly angry. "Has she sent me a message, or has she not?""Suppose she has not?" said Marryat, drawing a bow at a venture. To
her intense satisfaction the arrow shot home. The man jumped up, came
in front of her, bent forward, and said in a low voice--"Then Mr. Hume shall see me, and--""Yes," continued Marryat, raising her sparkling eyes, and fixing
them on his face; "this sounds most interesting. And when Mr. Hume has
seen you, what will happen then?""Ah!""Shall I tell you what will happen then?"The man did not reply; his thick lips were slightly parted."He'll order you off the premises pretty quick.""What do you bet that he don't?""I never bet; I consider it ungenteel," said Marryat. She tossed
her head as she spoke. The man looked at her again, then he sat down
near her."Look here, my good girl--" he said."I'm not your good girl, and I won't have it said to me," answered
Marryat, starting away in extreme disgust."But what does this mean? Has the young lady sent me a message?
There, I guess she has.""I will tell you about that when I know more," said Marryat. "If
you want things from me you won't get them without payment.""Payment! Now, what do you mean?""You have a hold over my young lady?""I--a hold over her?" said Merriman. He was a very astute person,
and he knew well that the moment he shared his secret--even the tenth
part of his secret--with another, he would lessen its value to
himself. He therefore warily turned aside from Marryat's question and
said--"I am an old friend.""Oh, indeed; that seems rather queer. You don't look the sort that
my young lady would make friends with.""That's all you know.""Have you been in the h'East, may I ask?""I don't know what you mean.""Why this. If you're an old friend of Miss Bouverie's you must have
lived in the h'East. Miss Bouverie has been out of England in the
h'East for the last twelve years of her life.""Oh," said the man, with a flash of intense merriment in his
eyes. "That's a good 'un--that's a rare good 'un." He laughed loud and
long. Some people were seen walking down the road."I will wish you good-evening now," said Marryat, rising. "I am
rested, and am going on with my walk."She stepped forward, but the man followed her quickly."What is it you want me to tell you?" he said."You've got a message for me, I know, and I must have it.""I have a message--I don't deny it," replied the maid, "and I'll
give it for--a consideration.""What's that, may I ask?""That you supply me with the exact address of the woman who is
called Mrs. Mildmay.""And why should I give you Mrs. Mildmay's address?""If you want the message which my young lady has sent you, you will
do so. It ain't a bit important to me that you should have it, but if
you want it I must have something in exchange.""You can't have that.""Nothing else will suit me. There! you had better be quick about
making up your mind, for I have got to hurry back to the
Grange. There's all the young lady's packing to do. It will be a grand
wedding to-morrow, the grandest ever seen in these parts. And the
bride! Oh, there never was such a lovely bride before!""Look here," said the man; "I see you're as sharp as a needle, and
I admire you for it. You're a very fine young woman, let me tell
you. If you give me a five-pound note you shall have the address you
want.""I won't give you that," said Marryat. "I'm no such fool. But I
tell you what I'll do; I'll make you a present of two sovereigns. I
have got my purse here with two sovereigns in it, and you can have
them both if you'll give me the address.""But you'll promise faithfully not to make any wrong use of it?"
said the man."What wrong could I do in having the address of a lonely lady for whom my young mistress has a
kindness?""To be sure," said Merriman. He stood still and reflected. He did
not want to give Mrs. Mildmay's address, but he did want those two
sovereigns badly. Two sovereigns meant forty shillings, or eighty
sixpences. How many mugs of beer would that money purchase? At the
present moment, he had only one-and-sixpence in the world. Kate might
or might not have sent him money. She had positively refused to do so
when he had spoken to her, telling him that she had none. If she gave
him what he expected, namely, some article of jewellery, he would have
to wait a little time before he could turn it into money. But the
sovereigns!--the sovereigns could minister to his temporal needs at
once. He could have all that he required--a good meal, a comfortable
bed, what were to him the luxuries of life--if he gave Mrs. Mildmay's
address to Marryat; and what possible harm could she do with it?A moment later Marryat had taken out her purse and transferred the
two sovereigns to the man's greedy palm. A moment later also the
little box containing the diamond pin was in his possession.The man now walked rapidly from the village, and Marryat returned
to the Grange.CHAPTER XIIITHE bride in her bridal finery stood by the altar. The bridegroom,
with a light in his eyes and joy in his heart, was by her side. The
solemn words were spoken by the priest, and the two were made
one. Kate Bouverie was Kate Bouverie no longer, she was now Kate
Henley.The wedding was a complete success, and surely no bride ever before
looked more charming. There were several newspaper reporters present
to record the fact of her loveliness. The local papers and several of
the best known London weeklies contained accounts of the wedding, and
photographs of the bride in her bridal finery and in one or two of her
other dresses accompanied these descriptions.Yes, Kate was married. She had married the man to whom she had
given her heart; she had therefore won the best bliss of all. The
moment arrived when she stood in her travelling dress and bade her
supposed uncle and aunt good-bye. She kissed Mary and Ethel too, and
stepped into the carriage by her husband's side. Marryat had already
driven to the station in a humbler conveyance. Marryat was, of course,
to accompany her young mistress on her wedding tour.Rice and old slippers and all sorts of good luck followed the bride
and bridegroom. They were away. The deed was done. A friend of
Ralph'shad given up his place in
Berkshire to them for a week, and afterwards they started in Henley's
yacht for Norway. They were absent for three months. During that time
the Humes heard very little about them. But early in September a
letter arrived from Kate. It was addressed to Ethel, and ran as
follows:--"MY DEAR ETHEL,--When you receive
this Ralph and I will be at Castellis. We have had the jolliest	and
most delightful	wedding	tour in	the world, and now mean to settle down
in our own home. We want you, Ethel, to pay us a visit, and if Mary
likes to come too we shall be delighted. Don't you think you could
both manage to give us at least a fortnight? It will be delightful
seeing you. Wire to me to Castellis when you receive this, and I will
come and meet you at the station."This letter was dated from Paris, but Kate had added a postscript
to say that she and her husband would be at Castellis on the evening
of the 10th."Oh," said Ethel, "I should like to go; it would give me just the
change I long for. You will let me go, won't you, mother?""Of course, dear. But I almost wonder Kate cares to have visitors
so soon. Surely she cannot be tired of that nice husband of hers.""For my part," said Mr. Hume, who happened to come in at that
moment, "I consider it very sensible of Kate. It is the worst thing in
the world for a man and woman to tire of each other by having no one
else to talk to. They have had three months of billing and cooing, and
is not that enough for any sensible pair?""And Kate at least is very sensible," said Ethel, in a meditative
voice. "Yes, it will be splendid if we can go. I may accept the
invitation, may I not, mother?""I don't see why Mary should not go too," said Mrs. Hume. "She is
looking pale, and the change will do her good.""But I am not quite sure that I want to," was Mary's answer."Why, my dear Mary, what is the meaning of this?" cried her
father. "Nothing could be more cordial than Kate's wish to have you
both with her.""Oh, I have nothing to say with regard to the cordiality," answered
Mary, "but I am not quite certain that I care about Kate.""Not care about Kate!" cried the other three voices in a sort of
chorus."Mary, how terribly prejudiced of you!" added her father."Indeed, you are prejudiced, Mary," said the mother. "A more
charming, pleasant, delightful girl than Kate I never came
across.""Oh, I admit all that," said Mary. " But I am not sure of her; that
is why I do not like her.""Not sure of her, my dear! What do you mean?""What I say," answered Mary. "She strikes me as--""As what?""As an excellent actress.""Really, Mary, you are too absurd for anything," said Ethel. "Kate
an actress? What has she to act about?""That's just what I do not know," said Mary. "But I always feel
that she is acting a part, and doing it extremely well. From the first
moment she appeared on the scene I
have had that sensation with regard to her. But there, if you really
wish me to go, mother--""I certainly do, Mary.""Then I will go, of course, for it is wrong to yield to
prejudice."Ethel laughed."You have the most absurd ideas," she said; "we ought not even to
listen to you. Oh, I am so glad we can both go. Father, I shall want a
new dress, and so will Mary. Kate, of course, will take us out a good
deal. I must have a new tennis frock; may I order one?""I suppose you may, my dear," said Hume, who for some reason was in
a high good-humour. "Will a ten-pound note suit you, Ethel?""Excellently, father. May I spend it all on dress?""Of course you may. You must make yourself smart. There's no saying
what charming young fellow you may meet at Castellis." He pinched his
daughter's cheek as he spoke. She flushed up rosily and laughed for
pure joy."You'll give poor old Moll a ten-pound note too?" she said."Oh! I don't want it," answered Mary, "I have plenty of
dresses.""Well, take it, my dear, to buy what you like with," said the
lawyer, opening his pocket-book as he spoke and presenting Mary with a
note similar to the one he had just given to Ethel. "Now, girls," he
continued, "what day will you start?""This is Thursday," said Ethel. "We could get some ready-made
things at Redmayne's, and could go next Monday.""Very well, be it so," replied their father.Ethel sat down at her desk and wrote to Kate. Mary slowly left the
room. She went upstairs, pausing for a moment on the first
landing. Her own room was overhead. After a minute's brief hesitation
she entered the room which had been given to Kate during her visit to
the Grange.Hanging above the mantelpiece was the little water-colour drawing
which had been taken of the real Kate Bouverie when she was a
child. Mary went straight up to it now and looked at it
critically."Just the same face," she said to herself, "just the same in every
single particular except for the expression. The eyes, the nose, the
mouth, the general shape, all identical with the Kate who slept in
this room; but the expression--the expression is totally
different. What can it mean? Oh! I shall get morbid over this thing if
I dwell on it too much. And I have nothing to go upon. Of course it
must be all right; but I wish I did not feel so positive, so
absolutely certain, that things are wrong."Early the next day the girls went to Redmayne's and ordered some
pretty tennis frocks. They always dressed alike, and the costumes they
ordered were exactly similar.Mary said nothing more of her undefined prejudice against Kate, and
the next Monday they started for Cornwall. They arrived at the station
near Castellis late in the afternoon, and found Kate and her husband
on the platform waiting to receive them. Kate's face was blooming like
a rose. She ran up to the girls and kissed them affectionately."Welcome, both of you," she cried. "I am so delighted to see
you. Is not it nice of them to come,
alph?" Here she turned to her husband. He also gave Mary and Ethel a
hearty welcome. The three got into a pretty pony carriage, Kate
whipped up the ponies, and they started for Castellis. Ralph shouted
after that he would follow later on horseback.Ethel and Mary had not visited Castellis since they were children,
and they were wild with excitement at the thought of exploring the old
place again."But," said Mary, "it does seem so funny that you should have let
the Pines, Kate. You and my uncle always had such an extraordinary
aversion to letting it. For the ten or twelve years you were in India
the place was unlet, and now the moment you come home you give it up
to the first man who wants to live there. You could not have done it
for the sake of the mere money.""Oh, by no means," answered Kate. "I only thought as an offer was
made for the place we might as well accept it. It was going to ruin
with no one living there.""What is the name of the man who has taken it?" asked Mary."Sir John Fenton-Douglas. I don't know anything whatever about
him. I believe he has a large family.""Well, I am sorry for my part," said Mary."I think Kate was very sensible," retorted Ethel. "What was the
good of allowing the place to remain idle?""Sensible, but untrue to her early character," was Mary's
answer."Well, don't let us talk about it any more," said Kate. "I am so glad to see you both, and you look
remarkably well.""So do you," replied Ethel. "I am glad you are happy, Kate; but I
always thought you would be, as Ralph's wife.""I certainly am," answered Kate, her face flushing with
gratification. "Ralph is as nearly perfect as man can be. I am the
luckiest of girls to have won him for a husband.""Oh!" said Mary suddenly, standing up in her seat as she spoke,
"there's the avenue leading to the dear old Pines. Don't I remember
that gate well!""Sit down, Mary, or you'll be knocked out," said Kate; "the ponies
are very frisky."Mary dropped again into her seat."Kate, Kate," she exclaimed, almost forgetting herself in her
excitement, "do you see that gap in the hedge? I declare it has never
been mended after all these years. It was there you tore your frock
when the bull followed you and Ralph came to the rescue. Don't you
remember it? And Ethel and I hid ourselves in the grass, and you flung
yourself by our sides. Oh, don't you remember?""Of course," said Kate. "Yes, certainly." She began to whip the
ponies."What are you doing that for?" exclaimed Ethel. "They are going too
fast as it is. What is the matter with you, Kate? I don't believe you
are so strong after, all; your colour keeps coming and going.""I am all right," answered Kate. She let the reins drop loose, and
the ponies began to walk up a steep hill."Oh that day!" continued Mary, who had not yet got over her
excitement. "We had a near shave all
of us, and but for Ralph I do believe the bull would have gored you,
Kate.""What was the name of the beast?" said Ethel suddenly. "He was
fierce and awful; and my poor uncle was so proud of him; even after he
had jeopardised your clear little life he would not allow him to be
sold. What did we call him? He had a queer name, I know.""Taurus," said Kate, drawing a bow at a venture."Taurus!" replied Mary, with a somewhat scornful laugh. "Nothing of
the kind." She gave Kate a long, attentive, penetrating glance. "The
name was not Taurus, I am certain," she continued. " What could it
have been?"She taxed her memory, knitting her brows in vain. Kate said nothing
further; she drove on."When will the new people arrive at the Pines?" asked Mary."To-morrow, I believe," answered Kate. "And Ralph means to call on
them immediately. I hope they will be nice. Such near neighbours would
he terrible if they did not turn out satisfactory.""Oh, they are sure to be delightful," said Mary. "Only a man with
taste would care to live in an artistic sort of place like the
Pines.""Are you letting the house with all the old pictures?" said Ethel
suddenly. "You know the picture gallery is famous. You ought to have
had the pictures removed to Castellis. Didn't you think of that?""No, I didn't," answered Kate. "I cannot think of everything all at
once," she added petulantly. "Well, here we are."The ponies had drawn up at the front door; the girls entered the
wide hall. It was made of marble,and
so were the low stairs which led to the first storey. Kate danced
about, showing different improvements. Mary began: "Oh, Ethel, don't
you remember?" and Ethel capped Mary's reminiscences with many of her
own. They ran upstairs to the spacious bedroom provided for them--it
had been newly furnished, and the little beds with their brass rails
and light summer drapery called forth their highest eulogiums."Now, girls, you had better dress for dinner," said Kate. "Ralph
will be home soon. We dine at half-past seven. I will send Marryat to
help you.""But you know we are not accustomed to a maid," said Ethel."You had better have her to-night. She will unpack your things. I
must leave you now."Kate left the room. A moment later Marryat knocked at the door, and
coming in, offered her help. As she unpacked the girls' portmanteaus
she talked to them, telling them what a happy bride and bridegroom
Mr. and Mrs. Henley were, how gay and bright and fascinating Kate was,
and what a lovely place their new home appeared to be.As Marryat spoke she looked from time to time at Mary. It seemed to
Mary as if the woman had a certain sympathy with her, as if she and
Marryat held a thought in common. Mary shook the idea from her mind,
but it kept returning again and again. Meanwhile Henley had come home,
and having completed his evening toilet, went into his wife's
room. Kate was fastening a diamond star into her hair. Ralph laid his
hand on her round white arm."Prepare for a surprise, little woman," he said."A surprise!" she answered. "What do you mean?""You know the people who have taken the Pines?""Yes," answered Kate, "certainly--Sir John and Lady
Fenton-Douglas.""I have quite a romance to tell you about them. He has not long
been Sir John Fenton-Douglas.""Oh!" answered Kate. She stood perfectly still; her arms had
dropped to her sides. Although she could not guess the reason, her
heart gave a thump and then began to beat quickly."Yes," she continued, struggling against an undefined sense of
uneasiness; "yes, Ralph?""My darling, you look quite ill and tired. It seems almost a pity
that Sir John has ceased to act as a doctor.""A doctor! a doctor!" said Kate. She was puzzled by an undefined
memory."Why, my darling Kitty, do you know who he is? No less a person
than the Dr. Fenton who attended your little friend, Kate Mildmay, at
Mentone.""No, no, Ralph; no, no--impossible!" Kate staggered, turned white
as death, and dropped into a chair."I said you were ill. What in the world is the matter?""I am astonished and--oh, Ralph! it brings back old memories and
old sorrows. But it is not true. I don't like it, Ralph. It is not
true.""My darling, why should it not be true? What can it matter to us?
It is true, dearest. He has come in for his cousin's title, and had to
take the name with his large fortune. He only rents the Pines until
his own place in the north of England is ready. How surprised he will be when he sees you again!
You knew him pretty well, did you not, Kate?""No, very, very slightly; hardly at all," said Kate. "Let us go
down to dinner now, Ralph; I am so hungry."She held her head high, and the usual colour was back in her
cheeks. Her eyes were brighter than ever. Just at the moment when all
seemed most secure she found herself in a tight corner. Well, never
mind, she had braved greater dangers than this. She would see her way
out somehow somehow. There was no chance of Sir John Fenton-Douglas,
alias Dr. Fenton, coming across her path for another twenty-four
hours.CHAPTER XIVFOR almost the first time in her healthy life Kate spent an
altogether wakeful night. Look where she would, think hard as she
might, she could see nothing but danger ahead. Just when she was
beginning to feel most secure had come this unexpected and terrible
blow. What had induced her ever to consent to the Pines being let?
What ill wind of fate had driven Sir John Fenton-Douglas of all people
into her path? Why should he of all men have decided to rent the
Pines? Whatever happened she must not meet him. Neither must her
husband meet him. To live therefore at Castellis with Sir John at the
Pines was an impossibility."This is Nemesis," she murmured to herself. "Am I to fail in the
end? No, no, no. I will carry the thing right through. This man, this
doctor, this tiresome rubbishy inconsequent person, shall not destroy
my whole life."She listened to her husband's quiet breathing, and felt that she
would fight to the death--would go through any mire or any dishonour
just to keep his affections."It is no longer wealth," she thought to herself, "it is no longer
the position I have attained, it is the love of my husband which I
want, which I must never, as there is a God above, lose. Oh, what
shall I do? He must not despise me. His love would go if he knew the
truth. He must never know it."Towards morning she had thorght out a plan; it was not a good plan,
but it was the best that could occur to her. Instead of getting up as
usual to breakfast, she turned on her side and pretended to
sleep. When her husband was dressed he came into the room, was
startled to find her in bed, bent over her and said anxiously--""Why, Kitty, are you ill? What is the matter?""I have a very bad headache," answered Kate. "I didn't sleep at all
last night. Something happened, Ralph, in the night.""Something happened, my dearest Kate! What do you mean?""You know Castellis is haunted. I saw the ghost last night!""Folly, Kitty. My dearest Kitty, you are not quite such a silly
goose. You don't believe in anything so rubbishy as a poor old
ghost?""Seeing is believing," answered Kate. She covered her face and
shuddered. "I won't get up yet. My head throbs and my eyes are
tired. Send Marryat to me.""Very well, darling. I will come up myself as soon as ever I have
had breakfast.""No, don't do that, dear Ralph; you were going shooting this
morning.""Yes, two of our neighbours were coming over--Simmonds and
Johnson. I had arranged to meet them in the coverts at ten
o'clock.""Then do meet them, Ralph; keep your engagement. And oh, take the
girls with you. You can order lunch to be sent to one of the
gamekeepers' lodges; they would enjoy it.""But can't you come too? It will be nothing without you.""I cannot; I have got such a bad headache that I am quite
prostrated."Henley left the room reluctantly. A few moments later Marryat
appeared."What is it, madam?" she said, approaching her young mistress and
bending over her.Kate sat up in bed and gazed at Marryat with wide-open bright
eyes."I am in a fix," she said, "that's all.""I have brought you your post, madam, and also your breakfast.""Oh, thanks. Lay the post on the bed.""You must eat your breakfast, madam."Kate made no reply; she kept gazing at Marryat; her teeth were
chattering."There is another letter from that person," continued the maid. "It
arrived by the last post last night. I thought you might as well
receive it with the others this morning.""Lay it on the bed," said Kate."What is the matter with you, madam? You don't look well.""Marryat, I am in a fix.""How so, my dear madam?""I wish I might confide in you," said Kate. "But I cannot--I do not
dare. Lock the door, please."Marryat complied. She then returned to the bedside."The first thing you must do is to eat your breakfast," she said,
assuming a tone of authority. She arranged Kate's pillows, wrapped a
white shawl round her shoulders, and then setting the tray on a table by the side of the bed, stood
herself at the foot. Marryat's bright black eyes travelled all over
Kate's face; she then stood motionless.Kate glanced at her letters. Even the letter with the Mentone
postmark, which generally excited her keenest alarm, had now scarcely
power to rouse her." Marryat," she said, looking full at the maid, "we must go
away. We must make an excuse and get away.""Away from Castellis?" cried Marryat."And you must help me.""But how can I?" said the woman."That remains to be discovered. We have got to think of a plausible
reason for going away, and I--I think I have found one.""But surely, madam, you will think carefully over this. You have
only just arrived, and the two young ladies from the Grange only came
here last night. I am told that the gentlemen and ladies living round
here are looking forward to enjoying a great deal of your society, and
already you have had many invitations from them. It will look very
strange--very strange indeed, madam.""I don't care the very least what the neighbours think. We must get
away," repeated Kate. "And what is more, I must go to-day.""But how? and why?" said the woman."I am not going to tell you why, but I will tell you how. I have
thought it all out in the night. I shall leave here by the two o'clock
train and go to Falmouth. Falmouth is only thirty miles away by
train. My husband can join me there.""And am I to go with you?""Yes; and to ask no questions.""Of course I won't ask any questions, Mrs. Henley.""Please, Marryat, give me my purse."Marryat's eyes brightened. She went to the dressing-table and
brought the little sealskin purse to Kate. Kate opened it, took out
ten sovereigns, and laid them on the bed."These are for you--for keeping silence," she said."Oh, I will keep silent till the day of doom for a reward like
this," said the woman, as she hastily gathered up the money."I believe you will. And listen; I will give you more, much more,
if--if that which troubles me--my secret, if you like to call it--is
safe at the end of the year. In that event I will make you a rich
woman, Marryat. I long for some one to consult with, some one to
advise me, some one with whom I may talk things over.""If you would only confide in me fully, dear lady, your mind would
be much relieved. And I--I can be trusted."Kate shivered."I cannot do that," she said. "Now go and pack a few things. We
will both go to Falmouth.""When will you tell Mr. Henley?""I will write him a letter; he can receive it after I have gone. He
and the young ladies will be out all the morning; we will go while
they are absent.""But my master won't like it.""He will follow me, of course. And the girls can go home. They
don't matter in the very least. Go, Marryat, now, and begin to pack my
things. You will know what I shall require.""Many things, madam?""Oh, pack a good few. We will take a large trunk; the rest can
follow as they are wanted.""Does this mean that you are not coming back?""I shall not come back at present--perhaps not for a very long
time. I hate Castellis.""And yet it is the most beautiful place I ever saw in my life,"
said the woman. "It seems a great pity.""Marryat, you have heard the story of the ghost. You yourself told
it to me yesterday.""Oh, there is nothing in that. You don't mean to say it is that
which is sending you away?"Kate laughed."Not quite," she answered; "but it will do for an excuse. Now, you
understand. Go and pack.""It seems a great pity," murmured Marryat."Oh, dont fret about Castellis," said Kate feverishly. "I am rich,
and can buy another place. Now go, Marryat, and put the things into my
trunk."The woman left the room.Kate toyed with her breakfast, scarcely touching it. She had opened
her letters. Her correspondence was numerous. She finally took up the
last--the one with the Mentone postmark. She read it quickly. It
contained the usual thing--a peremptory demand for money. Kate rose
hastily, took a five-pound note from a private drawer, enclosed it to
the writer of the letter, addressed and stamped the envelope, and then
continued her toilet.Presently her husband came up and knocked at the door. Kate thrust
aside her correspondence and ran to open it. Her cheeks were
feverishly bright and her eyes shining."The girls are so sorry about you, my darling; and, I declare, you don't look a bit well. Won't you go
for a drive? I'll stay at home and look after you. Kitty, I don't like
that expression on your face; you look quite woe-begone, my dearest
love.""Kiss me, Ralph, and leave me," said Kate. "My head won't stand
much talk this morning, and I shall be better alone; but give me a
kiss before you go."She raised her soft lips. He bent over her and gave her a long
kiss."My dearest, I hate leaving you," he replied."Oh, but you need not, for I am really better. I will have a good
rest while you are out."Ralph said a few more comforting words and then ran
downstairs. Kate relocked her door and went and stood by the window. A
few moments later she saw the three men, accompanied by the two girls,
cross the grassy sward and disappear into the coverts at the farther
end. Soon afterwards the report of guns came to her. She looked with
wistful eyes over the beautiful autumn landscape. No place in all the
world could be fairer than Castellis, and the view of wood, and
meadow, and lake, and distant mountains was superb."Mine. The fruit of my sin," she murmured. "But I must give it all
up. Not that I mind; I don't mind anything if I can keep Ralph."She hurried eagerly into the dressing-room, where Marryat was on
her knees packing her trunk."I want you to select some of your dresses, madam," she said."Oh, you choose them," said Kate."But it won't take you any time just to look into your wardrobe and
make a selection."Kate crossed the room hastily; she unlocked the doors of the great wardrobe and flung them open. She
then made a hurried choice."This--and this--and this," she said. "Oh, and this white silk and
this green Liberty dress. Yes, and this pink one. Anything else you
choose. Some blouses, and a few white frocks. That's all right.""With all this luggage I had better order the brougham with the
tray on top," said Marryat."No, I won't go in the brougham," said Kate hastily; "it would
stifle me. I will drive the ponies, and the luggage can follow in a
cart. You must be quick, Marryat; we must catch the two o'clock
train."Kate left the room and returned to her own."Now to write to my husband," she said to herself. She sat down at
her little writing-table and began her letter."DEAREST RALPH,--The
ghost has frightened me out of my seven senses. I cannot spend another
night at Castellis--not for the present at any rate. I am going to
Falmouth, and Marryat is coming with me. I cannot wait even for your
return; for perhaps you would coax me to stay and I should live
through another night of terror. I saw it last
night, Ralph. Oh, Ralph, I shall go mad if I see it again. Do come and
join me at Falmouth, darling, as soon as ever you can. Oh, Ralph, try
to forgive and pity your own poor weak silly Kate. It is an attack of
the nerves--such a bad attack--and if I had another I might lose my
senses. I was always so terrified at anything spiritual or
uncanny."Give my love to the girls. You can bring them with you to Falmouth
if you like; or, if they would rather, they may stay at Castellis; but
if they mustgo back to the Grange, we
can have them to stay with us another time. Tell them I am terribly
sorry. We are going to the Victoria Hotel. Please join me there, and
come as soon as ever you can--the sooner the
better.--Your
ownKITTY."Having signed the letter, Kate left it on the table in the hall,
and soon after one o'clock that day had left Castellis accompanied by
Marryat."I hear that the family are coming to the Pines to-day, madam,"
said the maid, "and that they are remarkably nice people. But what is
the matter? How you shiver, madam.""What carriage is that coming up the hill? " asked Kate
suddenly."I don't know, madam. There is a lot of luggage on it. It is a
travelling carriage of some sort. Why, there is only one gentleman
inside, and he is bending forward. He seems to know you."A tall man with iron-grey hair was seated alone in the
carriage. The moment he saw Kate he started, stared at her, and took
off his hat. But Kate had already pulled down her veil, and her head
was turned resolutely away. She whipped up her ponies, who passed the
travelling carriage at a gallop.Marryat's curious eyes followed the carriage and the man who sat in
it. She then glanced at Kate."It's because of him she is going," thought the astute woman. "Now,
what does this mean?"The groom who sat behind touched Marryat on her shoulder, and
said--"That is the gentleman who has taken the Pines. His name is Sir
John Fenton-Douglas. I am told the family arrive to-night.""Sir John Fenton-Douglas," repeated Marryat. "He seemed as if he
knew you, madam.""Knew me?" said Kate. "You must have been mistaken. What sort of
person was he?""A middle-aged gentleman, with grey hair. He had a very keen
face--clever and interesting, I should say. He certainly seemed to
know you quite well, madam. He bent forward and bowed, and stared so
hard. Didn't you see him?""No; these ponies are so fresh they take all my attention. Don't
talk any more, Marryat; my head aches past bearing.""I'm not a bit surprised at that," thought the woman. "It's Sir
John Fenton-Douglas who is sending her away. The mystery thickens. But
what does it mean?"CHAPTER
XVHENLEY, accompanied by the girls and the two men, returned to
Castellis for tea. The moment he entered the house he asked eagerly
for his wife."Is Mrs. Henley in her boudoir?" he said, turning to the
footman."No, sir; my mistress is not at home. She left the house with
Marryat immediately after lunch. She has left a note for you, sir. She
desired me to deliver it the moment you came in."Henley took the letter eagerly, tore it open and read it. As he did
so his healthy-bronzed cheeks went pale."What is the matter? " said Mary. "Is anything wrong, Ralph?""I don't know; I am afraid so. Kate is ill.""Ill! But Harris says she has gone out.""She has; she has gone to Falmouth. Fetch a Bradshaw immediately,"
he said, turning to the man.The servant, in some wonder, withdrew. Henley went to his study,
followed by Mary and Ethel. The two guests, seeing something was
wrong, remained in the hall.The footman appeared with the Bradshaw. Henley took it up, turned
the leaves feverishly, and searched for the trains to Falmouth."There is one which I might catch within the next hour," he
said. "If I miss that, I cannot get to
Falmouth to-night. Girls, I hope you don't mind my leaving you.""Oh, not at all," said Mary, "if you are obliged to. But it seems
so strange; do tell us more, please, Ralph.""I must first order the trap to be got ready, and then I can attend
to you."He left the room hastily."What does this mean?" said Mary, looking at Ethel."How can I tell, Mary? How queer you look!""I don't like it, that's all," continued Mary.Henley excused himself to his guests in the hall."My wife has been obliged to go suddenly to Falmouth, and I find I
must join her," he said. "I am ever so sorry. I hope I shall see you
some other day.""Good-bye, Henley. We hope so too," said they both and then they
went away.Henley gave orders about the trap, which was to be sent round
immediately. He then returned to the girls."Now, please, Ralph, tell us what is up," said Mary."I don't know myself, Mary. Kate has an attack of the nerves. She
has taken the idea into her head that she has seen the ghost who is
supposed to haunt this house.""Oh, poor Kitty! We all know that Castellis is haunted," said
Ethel."But I really never supposed any person could be so silly as to go
away on account of a ghost," said Mary, with scorn."But don't you remember, Mary, how nervous Kitty always was on the
subject?" said Ethel. "When she was a child she used to hate to sleep
here. We always spent Christmas here when your father was alive, Ralph; but Kitty did so dislike
it, and on one occasion she and I went back to the Pines to
sleep. Don't you remember?""To be sure; I can recall it," said Ralph, a look of relief coming
into his face. "Poor little Kitty! I must reason her out of this.""And you are going to her, Ralph?""I certainly am; she says emphatically she won't come back at
present.""Then what is to become of us?" said Mary."You must please yourselves. She suggests that you should come with
me to Falmouth, or stay here, or go back to the Grange.""It would be very dull returning to the Grange now," said Ethel,
"because father and mother are away. They mean to be away for the next
month, and the whole place is in the hands of the cleaners.""We could go back, certainly," said Mary; "but, as Ethel says, it
would be dull.""And I am dreadfully disappointed," continued Ethel. "I did look
forward to such a jolly time here.""I am really awfully sorry, girls," said Ralph; "but you see how
matters stand, and I cannot help myself. Poor little Kitty must be
humoured--poor little girl!""Of course you would be sure to see it in Kitty's light," continued
Mary. "But still, what is to become of us? If we don't go back to the
Grange, which we neither of us wish to do, where are we to go?""Would you like to come with me to Falmouth?"Mary thought for a moment. She was positively certain that Kate had
not gone away because of the ghost. However frightened the old Kitty
might have been, the present Kitty had no foolish, nervous
fears."She is common-sense to her finger-tips; it is in that particular
where the immense difference lies between the old Kate and the new,"
thought Mary. "Yes, if there is anything wrong I may as well see it
for myself.""I think it would be a good plan to go to Falmouth," she said. "I
should like it."Ralph tried to hide his face of dismay; he by no means wished to
have Mary and Ethel with them at Falmouth."Oh! do let us," said Ethel the moment Mary had spoken; "it would
be terrible to be here alone, and the Grange seems out of the
question. Then, we are both quite anxious about Kate. I am sure I
could comfort her next best to you, Ralph. She always used to confide
in me when she had her ghostly terrors on.""Well, girls, if you must come, you must come immediately," said
Ralph. "Run upstairs and get ready; the trap will be round in less
than ten minutes."The girls rushed off, forgetting even their tea. In a quarter of an
hour they had all left Castellis. They arrived at the station just in
time to catch their train, and reached Falmouth between six and seven
in the evening. They drove straight to the Victoria Hotel. Kate had
already secured a large bedroom and a sitting-room opening on to a
balcony. She was standing on the balcony when the carriage drew up
which contained her husband and two cousins. Marryat was standing just
behind her."They have all come, Marryat," she cried. "I am almost sorry that
Ethel and Mary are here; but they have come, and we must make the best
of it."I never thought that Mr. Henley could catch that last train, but I
am so glad to see him."She waved her hand, as she spoke, to the travellers, and then ran
downstairs to greet them. Henley and she retired as soon as possible
into her bedroom."Now," he said as he shut the door, "what does all this mean? Let
me look at you. What an awful scare you have given me. But, Kitty, you
don't look bad now!""Bad!" said Kate. "I'm quite well again--as well and jolly as
possible. It was all that ghost; it came to me last night; I told you
it did. I saw it come into the room. It walked so slowly, and stood by
the open window and gazed out, and I felt nearly frozen with
terror. It was the ghost of the Grey Lady, who, you know, is supposed
to haunt Castellis. But she never shows herself unless a catastrophe
is going to happen. I saw her. Yes, Ralph, I did. Oh, Ralph, darling,
don't ask me to go back! don't ask me to go back!"Kate was trembling. She trembled with such an admirable resemblance
to a real fit of terror that Henley was completely taken in. He
soothed and kissed her, and told her that, after all, nothing mattered
if she kept well and happy."We won't go back for the present," he said. "It is a great
nuisance that Sir John Fenton-Douglas should have just arrived--for,
of course, I promised to introduce him to everybody; but I suppose we
cannot help it.""Oh! what does Sir John Fenton-Douglas matter?" said Kate,
shivering. "I am so delighted I am away from Castellis. I shall sleep
soundly to-night.""Well, come now and talk to the girls; they are awfully
disappointed, I can tell you.""First of all, I must kiss you for being so good," answered
Kate. "You are the one darling of my life. Nothing matters in all the
world to me if I am with you."Ralph's heart leapt with rejoicing at her words of affection. She
then returned with him to the sitting-room.The girls looked rather disconsolate and tired."Oh, you poor old dears!" said Kate, running up to them. "I cannot
tell you how vexed I am at all this upset. Mary, I know you despise
me--and you, Ethel?""I certainly do not despise you," said Ethel. "I remember the old
days. Why, you were just as bad when you were a child."Kate immediately took her cue. Until that moment she had not heard
that the old Kitty had been much affected by the Castellis
ghost. Marryat had told her the story of the ghost on the previous
day, and it occurred to her during the night that she might utilise it
to account for her sudden departure. Now she began to talk eagerly of
her childish terrors; and Ethel helped her, recalling one incident
after another.Meanwhile, Mary sat silent and watchful. Mary felt more sure than
ever that she was on the brink of a discovery, but just at present she
could not get any clue. After a long period of silence she spoke."Well, Kate," she said, "I suppose you don't mind getting my true
opinion?""Yes, I do," answered Kate; "for I see perfectly well by the
expression of your face that you are going to say something
horrid.""No, I shall not say anything specially horrid. I am your guest. I
simply want to say that I think--""Think what?""That at this moment you are absolutely inconsistent with your true
character. There never was any one less nervous, and less likely to be
affected by ghostly terrors, than you.""Oh, Mary! when you remember the old Kitty," cried Ethel."But I don't think of the old Kitty at all in this matter. As far
as I am concerned, as far as any one who ever knew her is concerned,
she is dead and buried--buried down deep in her grave--and will never
come to life again."Kate gasped and almost uttered a cry."Yes," continued Mary, fixing her eyes on Mrs. Henley's white face;
"I say the old Kate is dead, and the present Kate has nothing to do
with silly fears. She could not act as a fool, however hard she
tried. There, I have spoken."Kate soon recovered her composure."It is only Mary's way," she whispered to herself. "But I wish she
would not speak as she has done about Kate being dead and buried; it
made my heart thump. Well, after all, I am safe; I have got away from
Castellis. Wild horses could not drag me back. No; poor old Castellis
must go. We will buy another place and be happy.""Don't let us talk any more about me and my weaknesses," she said
suddenly. "I want now to try and get you a nice room, girls. I am so
glad you have come with Ralph.""That you are not," thought Mary; but she closed her lips and was
silent.Two or three days passed. The Henleys took a large suite of rooms
at the Victoria Hotel, and the girls had a right good time. Henley
ordered his yacht to be sent round to Falmouth, and they went on many
water expeditions. Kate recovered her wonted health and high
spirits. Nothing ever depressed her, except the mention of returning
to Castellis.Mary's suspicions began to sleep. She avoided Marryat, however, who
began to look at her with watchful eyes. It seemed to Mary as if in
some extraordinary way the lady's-maid read the cold doubt which had
gathered round her heart.As to Ethel she was happy as the day was long. Kate fascinated her
more and more. She believed that it was nothing but her love for the
old Kitty which was strengthened now that this Kitty had grown up. She
never guessed that it was a new-born affection for quite a new
person.Meanwhile Marryat was slowly making up her mind. It was all very
well to receive ten golden sovereigns, or five golden sovereigns, or a
bank-note, as the case might be, from Mrs. Henley, but Marryat was
convinced that she might drop suddenly into absolute wealth if she
played her cards well. She had not the slightest idea of betraying her
young mistress. That would be, she knew, the worst possible policy for
herself; but she did wish most earnestly to hold her mistress's
secret, to keep it as a power which she might use at will. When Kate
was in trouble she hinted at many vague and dreadful things; but when
Kate was happy she was wont to be reticent, to be haughty, when her
moments ofperplexity were alluded to,
and, in short, to make Marryat know what her (Marryat's) true position
was.These were the sort of things that the lady's-maid resented."If I am to help her when she is in a fix, she ought to be nice to
me when she has got out of her fix," soliloquised the maid. "Now, if I
could find out what the whole thing means, why then I'd have the whip
hand. It don't suit me at all not to have the whip hand. She's as
'aughty a young lady as can be, and I don't want her 'aughty h'airs to
be spent on me. I'll find out somehow."Marryat thought and thought. Beyond doubt Kate had a secret which
she shared with a man of the name of Rogers--a disreputable man, who
had evidently quite sunk below his original position. This man, and a
woman who lived in Mentone, had a strange hold over Kate. Marryat, for
purposes of her own, had secured the address of the Mentone woman
whose name was Mildmay. Mrs. Mildmay was the mother of the girl who
had been Kate's companion--the girl who had died during the early part
of the year. Now there was a further strange development of Kate's
secret. She had left Castellis, not at all for the rubbishy reason
which she had given to her husband, but for quite another cause. That
cause, beyond doubt, was connected with Sir John Fenton-Douglas's
arrival on the scene. What had this man to do with the past of bright
and beautiful Kate? He was an elderly and married man. Kate had spent
almost all her life in India. Sir John Fenton-Douglas surely could not
have met her there."He is too old for any flirtation to have been between them,"
thought the maid. "Besides, he is
married; and my mistress is not that sort. No; there is something
else. I wish I could see Sir John and find out from himself. I would
go to him, but I doubt if it is a wise thing to do."Marryat still kept thinking, and the more she thought the more
restless she became. Finally she resolved on another step. She would
go to see Mrs. Mildmay at Mentone. She would go to her as if Kate had
sent her on a message."And my name isn't Jeannette Marryat if I don't get to the bottom
of the truth," muttered the maid to herself.Having made up her mind, Marryat lost no time in putting her scheme
into execution. One morning at an early hour she went into Kate's room
with her hand to her forehead and her face deadly pale. She had put on
a considerable amount of powder and had not rubbed it all off; the
room was in shadow, and Kate, awakening from her rosy sleep, saw
Marryat standing at the foot of her bed."Why, Marryat, you are ill. You look very queer," she said."It is because I have had bad news," said Marryat. "My poor mother
is taken with a serious attack. I must go to her at once.""And leave me?" cried Kate, her first impulse being one of pure
selfishness."Only for a week or ten days, madam.""But what shall I do?" exclaimed the girl. "There are those
letters, you know.""You have just sent off an answer to the last, so it's not likely
another will come till I return," said Marryat. "In any case, I am
afraid I must go, madam. Of course, if you wish it, I will give you
notice and not return.""Oh, I could not think of that," said Kate. "You know perfectly
well, Marryat, that I cannot do without you.""I am pleased to think I am of use to you, Mrs. Henley.""Must you go to-day?" said Kate."I am afraid I must; the accounts of my mother are rather bad. She
suffers from her lungs, and has had a fresh attack of hemorrhage.""Where did you say your home was?""I have no home myself, madam. My mother is in the south of
France.""The south of France ?" said Kate, starting. "The south of France,
Marryat?"" Yes, ma'am. She has lived at a place called Mentone for some
time.""How queer!" gasped Kate."You see, madam, it is a long journey, and I ought to start
immediately. My mother has been moved into a small private hospital;
she wants to see me at once.""Of course you must go.""I thought I might take a train to-night which would reach Dover
the first thing in the morning, then I could cross by the first
boat.""Of course," said Kate. She looked very sad and troubled. Marryat
gazed at her attentively."Is there anything I can do for you while I am at Mentone, madam?
Those letters that come from there?""To be sure; I was thinking," said Kate. "There is a person I know
in Mentone. You might take her a message from me.""I certainly will, madam.""Her name is Mildmay. I should like to write her a letter and send
her a few little things. She is the mother of the girl whom I was so
fond of--the girl who died there. I should love to send her
something."Kate sat up on her elbow; her eyes were shining and her lips
trembling."She is wonderfully fond of that woman at Mentone," thought the
maid."Yes, madam," she said aloud; "I'll do anything in my power.""Well, if you must go, I dare say I can manage to live without
you. You had better pack your things and make arrangements.""I shall be exceedingly obliged, madam."The maid left the room and Kate sat up in bed. A moment after she
rose and began to dress. As she did so she felt her heart beat a
little quicker than usual. If there was a person except her husband
for whom the desperate girl felt an undying affection, it was for the
worn-out and sad mother whom she had, as she thought, parted from for
ever. All the time she was dressing she was wondering what little
comforts she could send her as tokens of her regard. It would be most
dangerous to confide any more of her secret to Marryat. She was very
sorry that Marryat was going to Mentone. She thought it most
unfortunate that the woman's mother should be ill there, but as
Marryat was going, and nothing could possibly keep her from going to
her own mother during her illness, Kate thought she might make the
best of a bad job."There's one thing certain," she said to herself; "Marryat cannot
guess the truth. Yes, she mayas well
go and see mother, and take her some things."Having dressed, Kate looked through her possessions. From her
wardrobe she took handkerchiefs, collars, cuffs, and gloves. She
denuded herself of several pairs of silk stockings; she even put into
the parcel a little pair of bronze shoes with steel buckles."For mother's feet are so pretty," thought the girl, "and she never
had them nicely shod." Finally, she wrote a tiny note."From Kate, for the sake of Kate Mildmay," was all that she dared
to write. She dared not correspond with her mother. From her own purse
she took a twenty-pound note and a ten-pound note, and, wrapping them
in tissue paper, placed them inside the envelope and then sealed it
with her own little seal.She made up the parcel as neatly as possible, and then left it
ready for Marryat to put in her box."Is this it, madam?" said the woman later in the day. "I am to take
this to Mrs. Mildmay?""Please, Marryat. You will see her address on the parcel. And you
may tell her about me if you like. She will be interested to
hear.""Shall I tell her that you are happy, Mrs. Henley?""Yes--do. Tell her I am very, very, very happy. She is fond of me,
because I remind her of her own daughter who died. And, by the way,
Marryat, if you are in the neighbourhood, you might go to the English
cemetery and see poor Kate Mildmay's grave. Buy white flowers,
Marryat, for me, and put them on the grave."Late that evening Marryat took her leave. Kate looked sadly
depressed when she bade her good-bye."Don't be long away," she said. "You are a great comfort to me,
Marryat.""I would do anything in my power for you, my dear young lady," said
the maid ; and then Kate shook hands with her and she departed."I declare," thought Marryat, as she stepped into the cab. "I'm not
an affectionate woman, but I do like her, poor thing, whatever she has
done. All the same, I'll get hold of her secret. I won't betray
her--I'm not quite so mean as that. I'll know everything though, and
then I'll have the whip hand. Whatever happens I must have the whip
hand."CHAPTER XVIMARRYAT arrived at Mentone on the evening of the next day but
one. It is needless to say she had no mother to visit, her mother
having been in her grave for the last ten years; but the excuse had
served her purpose, and she did not feel the slightest remorse for the
lies she had told.It was now the beginning of October, and the little winter resort
was still comparatively empty. Marryat fully intended to act the part
of the lady during this trip. She meant to see Mrs. Mildmay, and to
overawe that good woman into at least a partial confession of the
strange hold which she possessed over Kate Henley. For this purpose
she (Marryat) must make as much of herself as possible. On arriving at
Mentone, therefore, she desired the cabman to take her to one of the
fashionable hotels. There she ordered a private sitting-room, and did
everything like a grande dame.Early next morning she set out in quest of Mrs. Mildmay."And I should uncommonly like to see the man who calls himself
Rogers," she said to herself as she walked down the narrow streets,
and then crossing a side street, pursued her peregrinations along the
shores of the Mediterranean. Presently she stopped at a neat and
comfortable-looking Hotel-Pension which bore
the name of Mildmay over the door. It was called the "Mildmay Pension,"
and was specially intended for English people.Marryat stepped inside, asked to see the manager, and then boldly
demanded an interview with Mrs. Mildmay."The proprietress is out at present," said the man, speaking in
excellent English and staring with some admiration at the smartly
dressed visitor. "But if you happen to want rooms, madam," he
continued, "I can supply you. We have plenty of vacant rooms, the
English season having hardly commenced.""It is very probable that I shall take rooms here," said
Marryat. It suddenly occurred to her that it would be an excellent
plan to do so."For on the spot I can learn so much more than during a chance
interview," she said to herself. She was, however, silent for a
moment; then she asked the man to show her the best suite of rooms in
the house.He asked her to step into the lift, and, taking her upstairs to the
first étage, showed her a charming
bedroom and sitting-room opening one into the other. Out of the season
she could have these two rooms, attendance, and all meals for the
moderate price of twelve francs a day. As this was considerably less
than Marryat was paying at her hotel, she closed with the offer at
once."I will have my things sent in and will sleep here to-night," she
said."Will you have the goodness to leave us your card, madam?"Marryat, grand as she was, had no visiting cards, but she wrote her
name on a slip of paper--Miss Jeannette Marryat. She then took her
leave, not having again inquired for Mrs. Mildmay.In the course of the evening she arrived with all her luggage, and
was present at table d'hôte. There were
only a few Germans and some Italians now staying in the
pension. Marryat, who knew no tongue but her own, thought them rather
dull, and wondered how soon she might have an interview with
Mrs. Mildmay. She had no intention, however, of hurrying matters, and
thought that it would rouse suspicion were she to inquire for the
proprietress that evening. She therefore returned to her sitting-room,
ordered a lamp to be supplied to her, and, taking out a yellow-backed
novel, amused herself reading it until it was time for bed.The next day, thoroughly refreshed and with all her wits about her,
she wrote a note to Mrs. Mildmay."DEAR
MADAM,--I should be glad to see you as soon as
possible on a private matter. I have a message from Mrs. Henley for
you, whose name before her marriage was Miss Kate
Bouverie.--Yours faithfully, dear madam,
JEANNETTE MARRYAT."This note was addressed and then given to a chamber-maid, with
directions to deliver it at once to the proprietress of the hotel.Mrs. Mildmay was in her private sitting-room, going carefully into
her daily accounts, when the missive was put into her hand. When she
read it she gave a violent start and turned very pale; but, quickly
recovering her composure, said to the girl that she would wait on Miss
Jeannette Marryat in her own room in about a quarter of an hour.The maid tripped back to give her mistress's message, and Marryat,
on receiving it, smiled. Hermanners
to the servants at the hotel were intensely haughty, and most of them
thought that she was a lady of quality, and in consequence all treated
her with immense respect.She had dressed herself with extreme care in black silk, and
looked, as she herself expressed it, every inch the woman of
position.In rather less than the time specified there came a knock at
Marryat's door, and Mrs. Mildmay, dressed quietly in black, with a
white lace cap on her head, and a white muslin apron, entered the
room."Mrs. Mildmay, I presume?" said Marryat."Yes, that is my name," said the widow. "You say you have come from
my--from Miss Kate Bouverie?""I have come from Mrs. Henley, madam. I think I must be frank with
you and have no concealments. I happen to be the dear young lady's
maid."Mrs. Mildmay gave a quick glance at her visitor. She was inwardly
trembling much. She was, she knew, a very bad person to hold a secret,
particularly an important one. But a glance at Marryat now caused her
to make a strong resolution. She would fight for Kate--her own
Kate--to the death, if necessary. It was only to look into Marryat's
eager face to see that the woman was devoured by curiosity. It behoved
her, therefore, to be extremely careful about what she said and
did."I shall be glad to receive the message from Mrs.--Mrs. Henley,"
she remarked, in a slow and cautious voice."Certainly, madam. My mistress is extremely fond of you,
Mrs. Mildmay. I never saw a younglady
so taken up with another as she is with you."Mrs. Mildmay's first impulse was to say, "That is scarcely to be
wondered at," but again she shut her lips and fixed her light-brown
eyes on the astute face of her visitor."My mistress has sent you a parcel, which she begged me to deliver
into your own hands.""Oh, thank you. How kind of her. She was always a very sweet
child.""Sweet child!" said Marryat, tossing her head. "There ain't much of
a child about her now; she's a woman, and has the ways of one. But
I'll fetch the parcel and give it to you."Marryat went into her room, returning a moment later with the
parcel which Kate had made up with such trembling fingers and with so
much love in her heart. The parcel had been securely tied and sealed
with many seals, otherwise Marryat would before now have acquainted
herself with its contents."I believe there is a letter inside," she said, as she handed it to
the widow. "Pray, don't mind me, if you would like to open the parcel
and read the letter. I am not in the slightest hurry.""Oh, thank you; but the contents of this little parcel can keep,"
said Mrs. Mildmay. She laid it quietly by her side on the nearest
table. She was dying to leave the room, cut the string, and see the
precious contents. Her whole soul was on fire to hear news of Kate,
and, above all, to read such a precious thing as a letter from her,
but she felt that she must betray none of her emotions before
Marryat."If you are her maid you will tell me about her," she said."Certainly, madam; and I have nothing but good to tell you. My
young mistress is one of the sweetest, most beautiful, most charming
young ladies in the world. Her career since I was lucky enough to
enter her service has been one long success. Mr. Henley is devoted to
her, and so are all her relations. It is touching, madam, to see what
a beautiful, beautiful nature Mrs. Henley has. It seems a cruel pity
that she should have lost her voice, though.""Her voice?" said Mrs. Mildmay, with a start. "Did you say her
voice?""Her singing voice, madam. She cannot sing a note, although she
consulted Sir John Orme, the great specialist. You are looking pale,
madam. I trust you are in good health yourself. Mrs. Henley will be
most anxious to know all about you.""Thank you; I am quite well," said the widow stiffly."Yes," said Marryat, looking full at Mrs. Mildmay, and noticing, to
her own intense satisfaction, the widow's ill-concealed emotion, "it
is beautiful to think of the nature of my young mistress. In the midst
of all her wealth and gaiety and the brilliant life she leads, she
never forgets your young daughter, madam--you will forgive my alluding
to such a sad event--your daughter who died.""Yes, my daughter who died," said Mrs. Mildmay, moistening her
parched lips."I see it affects you very much, madam; and no wonder. But my young
lady often seems as low about it as--almost as low as you are,
madam. And oh, how she does love you! As soon as she heard that I
wished to visit Mentone she immediately asked me to call on
you.""You did not come here on purpose to see me, did you?" said
Mrs. Mildmay."Well, not exactly," answered Marryat."It is a queer time of year for English people to come to Mentone,"
continued the widow, "for the heat is still very great.""Oh, I thought nothing of that; I just wanted a holiday, and as I
saw my young mistress would like to send you a message, I came
here.""Well, I am much pleased to hear of her. I will leave you now if
you have nothing more to say; but if you will come and have tea with
me in my private sitting-room this afternoon you will, perhaps, tell
me more about Mrs. Henley. I will go downstairs now."Mrs. Mildmay got up, took the little parcel, gave her guest a
sweeping inclination of the head, and left the room."Upon my word, quite a lady," said Marryat, when she had done
so. "Yes, and a lady who has seen bad times. Now, who does she remind
me of? She's not exactly like, and yet there is a likeness between her
and my young mistress. No, there cannot be a real likeness; she's a
plain woman, and my young mistress is quite lovely. I declare I'm all
on the twitch to go and have tea with her. I must find out more. I do
wish I could get hold of that man Rogers. He would let out everything
he knows if I had money enough to bribe him." Marryat opened her purse
and examined the contents. "And I could spare five sovereigns," she
said to herself. "It would be money well spent. I do wonder where he
is. I declare, I'll call at the bureau and ask if they know a man of
the name of Rogers."No sooner had Marryat thought of this than, putting on her hat, she resolved to act upon it. She made
her inquiry at the bureau, but without any satisfactory result. No one
of the name of Rogers frequented the hotel. The man at the bureau
could give her no information. She then went out for a walk, and
during her walk the thought came to her that the man she had seen at
the Grange had probably adopted the name of Rogers for reasons of his
own."Anyhow, I know his face," she said to herself, "and if he has much
to do with the widow Mildmay he is certain to be somewhere near. I'll
just take a good look now, and explore on my own account. I must get
to the bottom of this business, whatever happens."Search as she would, however, Marryat could nowhere see a sign of
Merriman. Mentone is not a large place, and he was not lingering round
any of the shops, nor was he in the neighbourhood of the fashionable
hotels, nor sauntering by the shores of the Mediterranean. Marryat
took a bird's-eye view of the entire place that morning. She swept it
all over with her sharp eyes, visiting both the East and the West Bay;
but nowhere, search as she would, could she see Merriman, alias Rogers.Almost in despair she went to the post-office, asking there if the
people could give her the address of a man of the name of
Rogers. There happened not to be a single person of that name staying
in Mentone.The lady's-maid was nonplussed. She little guessed the reason why
she did not see Merriman. As a rule, he was a lounger, and a lounger
of the sort who is always to be found whether he is wanted or not. But
just now he happened to be on his way to England to interview Kate himself. Not being in Mentone,
Marryat could scarcely find him.She returned to the Pension Mildmay for
lunch, and then wondered how she could kill time until the moment when
she was to have her interview with Mrs. Mildmay. Suddenly she
remembered Kate's injunction to visit the grave of the girl who had
died. She asked her way, therefore, to the English cemetery, and soon
afterwards was standing by the white head-stone which Mrs. Henley had
ordered to be put up.Marryat bent low over it and read the words half aloud, a critical
expression on her face."To KATE,
Who went from the Villa Beau Séjour to a more
abiding Home on the 25th March 1897.
Aged 19 years.""Queer, queer," muttered the maid. "Pretty words, but queer all the
same. Now why didn't they put Kate Mildmay? I'll speak to the widow
about that omission. It looks very odd--very odd, indeed. I can make
nothing of it; but it puzzles me, that it does. Well, I must hasten
back now. It's near time for Mrs. Mildmay's tea."Marryat returned to the pension, asked for
the proprietress, was told that she was out, but that she (Marryat)
was expected to tea."Perhaps, miss, you would like to wait in Mrs. Mildmay's
sitting-room?" said the man whom she questioned."Certainly," replied Marryat. "That is a good idea."The man showed her to the room, closing the door after her. Nothing
could please her more. Hersharp
dancing eyes took in all its contents. It was a very dull and plain
room, quietly furnished. There was nothing to arouse suspicion about
it. At one side was a large secretaire. This was locked. Not a paper
was about, not an account-book visible. In another corner was a
bookcase filled with old-fashioned and dull-looking books. There was
no other furniture in the room except a centre table, a few chairs,
and an ordinary dismal sofa covered with American cloth. The room had
a sort of uninteresting English effect, without any of the comforts
which the ordinary English room possesses.Marryat rose from her seat. She walked to the window, she walked to
the door, she viewed the room from each vantage-point, raising her
eyes to take in the ugly prints which decorated the walls. All of a
sudden she gave a sharp exclamation. Amongst the books in the bookcase
was an old-fashioned photo-graphic album. In an instant she had
pounced upon it, taken it to the centre table and opened it."Now, what have I here?" she cried half aloud in her
excitement. She was looking at a portrait of Kate Henley taken nearly
ten years ago--a childish portrait in a shabby frock."My mistress!" she said to herself. She had scarcely murmured the
words before Mrs. Mildmay came in. Mrs. Mildmay walked straight up to
where Marryat was sitting, looked at the photograph and smiled."What is the matter, madam?" said Marryat. "I hope you didn't mind
my examining these old photographs. I see a portrait here of my dear
young lady. I didn't know, madam, that you knew her when she was
twelve years old.""That happens to be a portrait of my own daughter," said
Mrs. Mildmay in a quiet voice. "Have you never heard how very like the
two girls were the one to the other?""They must have been," said Marryat. She closed the book, returned
it to its place on the book-case, and turned to face
Mrs. Mildmay.CHAPTER
XVIIMRS. MILDMAY gazed at her steadily. At that moment she knew quite
well why Marryat had come to visit her. She had come to tear that
secret from her breast which the widow guarded so jealously."But she never shall," thought the trembling woman. "If I ever was
a coward, I will be brave now for Kate's sake--for the sake of my
poor, rash, wicked, but beloved child.""I see you are puzzled by the likeness," she said; "but let me show
you this." As she spoke she took a key from her pocket, and, opening
her secretaire, took out a photograph case. It was an old-fashioned
morocco case, opening with a spring. When it opened it revealed the
portraits of two girls--two girls side by side--one dressed richly and
fashionably, the other also with a certain style, but in poor and
shabby clothes."There," said Mrs. Mildmay, pointing to the likeness of the girl in
the shabby frock, "that is my daughter, Kate Mildmay; and there," she
added, "is Miss Kate Bouverie, who married Mr. Ralph Henley.""Remarkable," said Marryat. She took the photograph case in her
hand and held it near her eyes, glancing from one face to the other
with a more and more puzzled expression."A speaking likeness of my young lady," she said, looking hard at
the portrait of the real Kate Bouverie as she spoke. "It is strange how remarkably alike the
two girls were.""They might have been the very same," answered the mother; "you
would scarcely know one from the other.""Well, thank you for showing them to me, madam. I am much
obliged."Mrs. Mildmay shut up the case and returned it to her desk."Now you must tell me all about Mrs. Henley," she said. "Sit down,
won't you? in this comfortable chair. I want much to hear of her; no
one was ever so good to my darling Kate as she was.""By the way," said Marryat, fixing her sharp, suspicious eyes on
the face of the widow, "I hope you won't think me impertinent, but I
will own that I am strangely curious. Mrs. Henley asked me to be sure
and go to see the grave of your daughter."Mrs. Mildmay suppressed a start."I had nothing much to do this afternoon, so I went. The
inscription on the tomb was very affecting, very affecting indeed; but
why did you not put her full name--Kate Mildmay? It seems queer, very
queer, only to speak of her as Kate. It don't seem a proper
record."Mrs. Mildmay now put on a little haughty air, which sat very well
upon her."Does it matter to you what my reasons are?" she said. "My dear
child can never be forgotten by me. I like the inscription best as it
is. Ah! here comes tea. Let me pour you out a cup.""She does it well," thought Marryat; "but she is hiding something,
as sure as my name is Jeannette Marryat."Miss Marryat, the lady's-maid, and Mrs. Mildmay, the proprietress
of the Mildmay Pension, had tea together, and
during that meal, probe as she would, use her ingenuity with all the
tact and cleverness of which she was capable, Marryat could get no
further clue to Kate Henley's secret. She finally left the widow, and
when she had done so Mrs. Mildmay locked the door, then she fell on
her knees and covered her face with her trembling hands."What an escape my child has had!" she cried. "But I don't think I
let anything out. That maid is a terrible creature! I wish I could
warn Kate; that woman will worm her secret out of her before long
unless she is very careful. But I dare not write to her. What is to be
done?"Two days later Marryat left Mentone and returned to Falmouth. She
arrived at the Victoria Hotel just as Kate was dressing for
dinner. When Mrs. Henley saw her she gave a cry of alarm."Why, Marryat," she said, "how you startled me! Who ever expected
to see you back so soon?""I wanted to get back to you, madam. My mother took a turn for the
better, and I didn't see any sense in putting myself to unnecessary
hotel expenses any longer. I have very pleasant news for you, madam,
about Mrs. Mildmay. I took rooms at her nice pension.""Oh! do tell me," said Kate in an eager voice."Certainly, Mrs. Henley. I will tell you all about Mrs. Mildmay
when I am brushing your hair this evening. Now let me help you to
dress for dinner.""I don't really want dinner. I would much rather hear about
Mrs. Mildmay.""Oh! but, madam, you really are in good health, and your very
affectionate husband and the young ladies will be so disappointed if
you do not dine with them. Are the young ladies still here,
madam?""Yes, they are. Well, help me into my evening dress."CHAPTER XVIIIWHEN the girls left them Mr. and Mrs. Hume decided to take a
holiday on their own account. They went into Yorkshire, and, when
there, travelled about from place to place. In consequence, letters
from Mary and Ethel did not reach them as frequently as they would
otherwise have done.A fortnight had passed and Mrs. Hume was feeling very much better
for the change, when one day she remarked to her husband that they had
had no news from the girls for a long time."Except a very short letter announcing their safe arrival we know
nothing whatever about them," she said."Well, my dear Susannah, if they were ill we would be certain to
hear," was the short reply. "But what is the matter, my love; you are
surely not anxious?""Oh no--not really anxious, but I wonder they have not
written.""Doubtless a budget of letters awaits us at home. Remember, we said
that ordinary letters were not to be forwarded.""I forgot that. Well, I think I will send a line and tell the
servants to let us have our letters," said Mrs. Hume.Mr. Hume gazed for a moment at his wife; then he spoke."I tell you what it is, Susannah; I see you are a little anxious, and the best way for me to
relieve your mind is to go to Castellis.""Oh! my dear Robert.""Yes; it will suit me from many points of view., I want to see Kate
on a matter of business. Those investments in Australian gold mines
are not to my liking. If more satisfactory news does not reach the
market in a day or two I shall insist on Kate selling out. She has
taken a very large number of shares. I can bring you back word about
the girls at the same time. I shall only be away for a couple of
days. Would you like me to bring Mary back with me?""Nothing of the kind, Robert. I would not interfere with the dear
child's pleasure for the world. But, surely, it is a long way to
Cornwall?""Not too long to manage within a day," replied the lawyer. "I will
start by an early train to-morrow morning. You are sure you don't mind
being left?""Not in the least. Thompson is always so kind and attentive. Do go,
of course, if it is necessary."This matter being satisfactorily arranged, Mr. Hume made
preparations for his journey, sent a telegram to Mrs. Henley at
Castellis to announce his arrival on the following evening, and the
next morning started for Cornwall.He had an uneventful and dull journey, and arrived at his
destination between nine and ten in the evening. It had been dark for
several hours before he got to Wavertree Station, the nearest to
Castellis.The moment he landed on the platform he inquired of a porter, who
came hurrying up, if a carriage was waiting from Castellis."I don't think so, sir," answered the man; "but I'll inquire."He returned in a moment to say that no carriage had come from
Castellis, that the only carriage waiting was a brougham from the
Pines, which had been sent to await the arrival of Sir John
Fenton-Douglas, who was coming from town."Ah! and there he is," said the man. "I'll go and tell him that his
carriage is here.""But this is very awkward," cried Mr. Hume; "and I am very much
surprised. Can I get any sort of trap to take me to Castellis?""Yes, sir; certainly, sir. We'll send to the village--it is about
ten minutes off--and a fly can be here in less than twenty
minutes."As the man spoke Sir John Fenton-Douglas was seen approaching. He
heard Mr. Hume speak about Castellis, and, taking off his hat, came
forward."If you are going to Castellis I shall be very pleased to give you
a lift," he said. "My place, the Pines, adjoins it.""Thank you very much," replied Mr. Hume. "Allow me to introduce
myself. My name is Hume; I am Mrs. Henley's uncle. I shall be only too
glad to accept your kind offer.""Then come this way," said Sir John Fenton-Douglas. He led the way
out of the station, and a moment later he and Mr. Hume were bowling
smoothly along in the direction of the Pines."It was lucky for me that I met you," said Hume. "I cannot
understand my niece not sending a carriage to meet me. I sent a
telegram early this morning to announce my arrival.""Perhaps I can explain," replied Sir John. "The family are away
from home.""Away from home!" answered Hume, turning and facing his host. "You
astonish me. Surely you must be mistaken, my dear sir. My two
daughters happen to be staying with the Henleys; they would not leave
home without letting us know.""It is a fact, however," replied Sir John. "The family left
Castellis on the day that my wife and I and our children arrived at
the Pines. It was a serious loss to us, as Henley had promised to
introduce us to the neighbours; but, no doubt, they will soon be back,
and then it will be all right.""Odd, very odd," muttered Hume. "And my girls never mentioned
it. Have you the least idea where they are?""I have not inquired.""Well, well; it is queer, very queer."Sir John said nothing."I hope you like the Pines," continued Hume after a pause."We are charmed with the place. It is Mrs. Henley's property, is it
not?""Yes; she was a Miss Bouverie--a great heiress. The fact is, she
has more money than she knows what to do with, and she is as handsome
and clever as she is rich. I am her guardian and the principal trustee
to her property. It is a great responsibility.""Would she be induced to sell the Pines?""I do not think so. The fact is, I am astonished at her allowing
you to have it even at a rent. Her father was very fond of the old
place, and never would hear of any one else living there. Kate adores
herfather's memory. No, Sir John, I
am afraid the Pines will never become your property."Sir John said nothing; after a pause Hume spoke again."I hope my niece and her husband will soon return. There are few
more charming people than they both are; and Kate, as well as being a
great heiress, is also a great beauty, and is as bright and amiable as
she is good-looking.""Did you say that your niece's name had been Miss Bouverie--Kate
Bouverie?" said Sir John, speaking slowly."Yes, before her marriage that was her name. Why do you ask?""Merely on account of a curious coincidence--"Sir John paused. Mr. Hume turned and faced him. After a moment Sir
John continued--"I ought to tell you," he said, "that I have only lately come into
my property and title. A year ago I was a comparatively poor man--a
doctor. My name was Fenton--Dr. Fenton, of Mentone. I left Mentone in
the February of this year, and a month later my cousin died. I was the
next heir both to the property and title.""A great change for you," said Hume, when the other paused."Yes, yes; but what I meant to say was this--that I had the
privilege of attending a young lady of the name of Bouverie--Kate
Bouverie--at Mentone last winter. Could it possibly have been your
niece?""Highly probable, for she was staying there.""Then it must have been your niece: and do you mean to tell me that
she is quite well?""Quite well! Of course she is. She is in superb health.""Let me congratulate you."Mr. Hume did not speak at all for a moment. Then he said--"Kate never mentioned being ill. Your tone seems to imply that
there was something serious the matter with her. What do you
mean?""People have recovered from serious complaints before now," said
Sir John."Then when you attended her she had a grave illness?""She had; she was very ill. I am glad that she has recovered.""She is quite well! I wonder she never mentioned it. Where did you
say you attended her?""I have not told you up to the present, but I will now. At a villa
up one of the valleys--the Villa Beau Séjour.""The very place!" said Hume. "It is extraordinary. I went there to
see her. Her young companion died suddenly, and she was in great
trouble.""What! Miss Mildmay? A remarkably fine girl!""Yes, now that you mention it, I believe her name was Mildmay. Kate
fretted dreadfully for her; she was much attached to her."Sir John's face became graver and graver; but in the darkness
Mr. Hume could not see its expression. After a long pause he
said--"I am glad your niece is well. Doubtless, happiness and--""Oh, she is really very strong," said Mr. Hume. "I thought her
consumptive," replied Sir John."Did you? When a child her father was anxious on that point; but she has evidently quite got
over it.""I am delighted to hear it."The two men did not speak again until they reached the Pines."I will dismount here," said Sir John, "and send the carriage on to
Castellis with you.""Thank you; you are very kind. It is extremely lucky for me that I
met you."They shook hands, exchanged hopes that they should meet again, and
a moment later the brougham was bowling along in the direction of
Castellis.On arriving there Mr. Hume soon contrived to make himself
comfortable. He obtained Henley's present address, spent a night under
the old roof, and early the next morning started for Falmouth. He
there transacted his business with Kate, saw that she looked well and
blooming, scolded her for her nervous terrors with regard to the
Castellis ghost, and announced his intention of leaving Falmouth for
Yorkshire on the following morning."By the way," he said, later on that same day, "I have a curious
thing to mention. I had the good luck to accompany your next-door
neighbour, Sir John Fenton-Douglas, as far as the Pines last night,
otherwise I should have had either to wait for a trap from the village
or to walk the whole way. In future, Kitty, when you leave home
unexpectedly, let your relations know.""Oh! it was all my fault," cried Ethel. "I have been so lazy I
hardly ever wrote; and then, father, you said the letters were not to
be forwarded.""So I did, my child.""Would you suppose, father," said Mary, speaking suddenly, "that Kate was a nervous person--the sort
of person who would be terrified by a ghost?""I don't suppose what is a fact," replied Hume. "Kate is evidently
terrified of the ghost, as she has run away from it. She inherits her
fear from her mother. What a little goose you made of yourself about
that same ghost when you were a child, Kitty!""Yes, yes; how well I remember," answered Kate."And that reminds me," said Hume, " I have something to scold you
about, Kate. You never mentioned how ill you were last year.""Ill--last year?" she said, colouring. "What do you mean?""My dear girl, I can quite understand your very unselfish wish not
to alarm us unnecessarily, but you must have been very bad indeed. Sir
John Fenton-Douglas told me all about it."Mary uttered a short laugh."This is most interesting," she said. "How in the world did Sir
John Fenton-Douglas, who has never seen Kate to my certain knowledge,
get the information of her illness?""My dear Mary, you have a very rude habit of interrupting," said
her father, with some impatience. "But under the circumstances I will
forgive you. There is quite a little romance about Sir John. He only
came in for the property lately, and was a doctor at Mentone when Kate
happened to be there. He says that he attended you, Kate.""Kate Mildmay he means," replied Kate."No, my dear, he said he attended you, and that you were very
ill. He even seemed to think that you were threatened with
consumption.""Oh, nonsense! that she is not," said Mary, with a short laugh. As
she spoke her eyes grew bright and round. She fixed them upon Kate's
face."Did you know," she said suddenly, "that Sir John Fenton-Douglas
and the Mentone doctor were one and the same?""Ralph mentioned the fact to me," replied Kate."And you never told us?""It escaped my mind. But I remember now that I had a bad cold, and
that Dr. Fenton attended me. I was not specially interested in a
doctor who only visited me two or three times.""He must have done you a great deal of good if he really thought
you consumptive, and if you have recovered.""His prescriptions were excellent. The balmy air also put me to
rights."As Kate spoke she rose to her feet."It was really Kate Mildmay he must have been thinking about," she
said. "She, poor girl, was very ill.""Now, my dear Kitty, I do not know what you mean," said her
uncle. "He spoke of Kate Mildmay as in robust health. What are you
talking about?""It seems to me," said Mary, "that you, Kate, and father are having
a game of cross purposes. What fun this is! You say you were quite
well at Mentone. Sir John Fenton-Douglas says you were very ill
indeed. You say your friend, Miss Mildmay, was very ill, and Sir John
says she was in perfect health. Now who speaks the truth on this
occasion, you or the doctor?""I think I must bear the palm," said Kate, "seeing that poor Kate
is dead and in her grave. WhenI see
Sir John I shall laugh at him for his very short memory.""Well, well," said Ralph Henley, who was standing by his wife; "do
not let us discuss this matter any more. But, Kitty, my love, if you
really at any time of your life had a tendency to consumption, had we
not better go abroad for the winter?""There is nothing in all the world I should like better," replied
Kate."Then we will do it," he said."It is not a bad idea, Kate," said Mr. Hume. "Of course, any one to
look at you now, can see that you are in buoyant health; but it is
best to be on the safe side. And your poor mother died of
consumption. Well, I shall go to bed now. I have a long journey before
me to-morrow, and am dead tired."Late that evening, when Mr. Hume and the girls had retired to their
rooms, Kate sought her husband. Anxiety had made her blooming face
look pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She had already
dismissed Marryat; and now she sat down close to Henley, and laid her
head on his shoulder."Oh, my darling, how I love you!" cried the young man."And I love you, Ralph, with all my heart and soul. Ralph, dear,
say something pretty to me, say something beautiful--something that
will rest my heart.""My poor little girl, how sadly you talk! What do you wish me to
say, Kitty? There are no words to express my true feelings. I love you
beyond words. Is that what you mean?""I suppose it is; you manage to put it in the right way. Ralph, you
don't only love me for my money?""Now, Kitty, that is rank treason. You know that money and you
cannot be named in the same breath.""Nor just for my beauty?""No, my dearest, I love you for yourself--for your bonny, little,
darling, sweet self--for the lovableness which is in you. I love you
because you are so affectionate, so womanly, so true.""Don't!" cried the girl, a sudden passion and pain in her
voice. "Ralph, dearest, best beloved, I have come here to-night to
confess something to you.""To confess to me? My darling, what can you have to confess? If
there ever was a white little life, it is yours ? What do you mean,
Kitty?""Nothing dreadful," she answered, with a laugh. "And yet I think
you ought to know.""Well, I am listening.""I did not tell you, nor Uncle Robert either, how seriously ill I
was at Mentone last year.""Then it was true?" said the young man, his heart beating
hard. "You were very ill?""Yes, Ralph, I was very ill.""And Dr. Fenton, who is now Sir John Fenton-Douglas, attended
you?""He did.""But Kitty, why didn't you tell us? Why should there be any mystery
about the matter? Had we known, we--" He broke off abruptly. "The fact
is, Kate, we always looked upon you as very strong.""And I am very strong now--at least, I think I am. But I was ill
then, and Dr. Fenton was nervous about me. Kate Mildmay first got her
serious illness through looking after me. It was partly on that
account that I feel so intensely sorry for her.""My love, even looking after you would not give her
consumption. Why, Kitty, you are trembling all over.""Put your arm round me, Ralph. Ah! that is better. When I feel you
close to me, and your great, strong heart beating against mine, I am
calm and happy. Ralph, all the world may be on one side of the scale,
and you on the other. If such were the case, I know which side the
balance would go down. I don't want the world, nor beauty, nor
wealth--I only want you. Oh, my husband, I shall go mad if we are ever
to be parted!""Why should we be parted? Kate, you really must be ill again
now. Altogether, my dear little girl, your nature is developing in a
very queer way. You have become so nervous about the ghost, and--""I was always nervous about the ghost. Why do you forget it? Ralph,
I must speak of that, too. I cannot go back to Castellis; I can never
go back.""On account of the ghost?""Partly on account of the ghost, and also--""Ah! perhaps we are coming to the true reason now.""The ghost is one of the reasons, I assure you; but there is
another. I don't want to meet Dr. Fenton.""But, my clearest Kate, why not? My dear girl, this is very
awkward. We really must return to my home some time; and Dr. Fenton
has taken the Pines for five years.""I won't meet him, Ralph. I have quite a horror of him. I remember
how gloomy he was about me. He used to come into my room and shake his
head and put on such a long face that really I thought my days were numbered. It was the greatest
blessing to me when he was called suddenly to England. I should quite
hate to see him again. I believe I should be ill again if I saw
him. Ralph, darling, don't let me see him. I cannot explain to you my
feelings with regard to him. My poor little mother died of
consumption, you know. Oh, Ralph, I was afraid to tell you of my
illness. Do you know why?""Why, Kate?""Before I saw you I thought, of course, I would tell you. But when
I saw you and realised what my feelings were, I got frightened. I said
to myself: 'There is such rubbish talked now about heredity and all
that sort of thing--and Ralph, my dear conscientious Ralph, may think
it wrong to marry me.' I determined that you should never know.""I should have married you in any case," said the young man
gravely."I feared you would not. I was a coward, and I kept the secret of
my illness to myself. But, Ralph dear, don't look so gloomy. I am
quite well now.""I hope you are. You look very pale, and how you are trembling
to-night! I have often noticed lately, too, that you seem
depressed.""I suppose it is the thought of last spring," continued the
girl. "It is true I feel splendidly well now, but when the cold
weather comes--""We will go abroad, Kate. We won't face the cold; the risk would be
too great.""Oh, Ralph, you make me so happy when you say that. It is what I
long for; but I did not like to suggest it when I know how fond you
are of your own country. Let us go to Australia--far away at once to
that beautiful country. When does the next ship sail? Don't let us delay. If I should get that
cough back I might frighten myself into another illness. Even the
thought of Sir John brings back the remembrance of that hacking cough,
and the perspirations, and the weakness. Do let us go as soon as
possible. A winter in Australia will set me up. I know I am really
strong, and at present there is no danger.""But there is. This is most terrifying!" cried Henley. "You must
come up to town with me and see one of our best doctors. I insist upon
it.""No, no; please don't ask me. Do take me away. If I happen to be
ill when we get to Australia, then I will see some doctor. Oh, Ralph,
don't delay.""I certainly won't. I never saw you in such a queer, nervous
state. Yes, there is nothing of importance to keep us here. I will go
to Castellis and dismiss the servants, and put the place once more
into the hands of caretakers.""Do, Ralph. And oh, when do you think we can start?""I will go on to town and inquire when the steamers sail.""Let us go by the Orient Line. We could go in a week, could we
not?""A week, Kitty? But we shall have several things to get.""Oh, never mind the things. We must go in a week.""If you wish it, dearest.""I do. Oh, it will be such a relief! I shall then feel quite sure
that the hideous death by consumption is not to tear me from you.""Your wishes shall be carried out, my darling."CHAPTER XIXAS Sir John Fenton-Douglas walked slowly up the winding avenue of
the Pines after his somewhat startling interview with Mr. Hume, he
thought much."So that healthy, bouncing, clever-looking girl is dead," was the
hurried exclamation which dropped from his lips; "and the other girl
who was in the last stage of consumption is alive. The consumptive
girl has recovered her health, and is now a married woman. I left her
dying. In my opinion she had not a week longer to live. She is now
married to Henley, and is, according to her uncle, in superb
health. Impossible!"Sir John stopped in his walk."There are no miracles in these days," he muttered. "I could not
have been mistaken; I attended her for some weeks. One lung was gone,
and the other nearly so. The girl who died, and who must have died
pretty quickly, was in the ruddiest health when I saw her last. The
consumptive girl, who had, in my opinion, not a week to live, is now
quite well. What does this thing mean?"Sir John thought hard. He was not an imaginative man, nor one
likely to suspect anybody. The daring game which Kate had played would
have been impossible for him even to conceive, but he was so far
disturbed by Mr. Hume's news that he could scarcely eat his dinner,
and his wife noticed his abstraction."There must be another Kate Bouverie," he said to himself; "that is
the only explanation. And yet Mr. Hume did speak of the girl in
question as living at the Villa Beau Séjour.""What is the matter, John?" said his wife."Nothing," he replied. He was always a very taciturn man.Lady Fenton-Douglas looked as if she did not quite believe this
statement."My dear," he said then, "I am trying to untie a knotty
problem."He did not tell his wife anything about his meeting with
Mr. Hume. She was rather sore on the subject of the Henleys,
considering that Kate and her husband had been guilty of rudeness in
leaving Castellis just on the arrival of herself and family.Sir John spent several hours in his study that night. While there
he studied the latest medical works on tuberculosis. He looked into
that tremendous subject from every point of view, trying to bring the
newest lights to bear upon it. At the end of his reading he shook his
head, feeling more puzzled than ever.By the next morning he came to a resolution. Why should he not
visit the Henleys? Why should he not see Kate Bouverie, his old
patient, once again? Nothing would be more natural than for him to
call on her. Mrs. Henley was his landlady--Henley he already knew. If
she were indeed his old patient, how glad she would be to talk of her
marvellous recovery! and, doubtless, he could induce her to allow him
to sound her lungs--thus many perplexities would be laid to rest.Notwithstanding his great change of fortune, Sir John Fenton-Douglas had still an intense love for his
profession, and there were days when he longed for the old busy
practical life."A case like this ought to be reported in the Lancet," he said to himself. "Yes, I must get the
young lady to let me apply the stethoscope. I will go to Falmouth by
the first train this morning."But all that day Sir John found that he could not go to Falmouth. A
large party of friends were coming, and Lady Fenton-Douglas meant her
husband to meet them. The next day, however, nothing prevented his
carrying out his intention, and between twelve and one o'clock he
found himself walking up the Parade in the direction of the Victoria
Hotel. He reached the hotel, inquired for the Henleys, and sent up his
card.Kate had just come in from a walk. She, Ethel, and Mary were
standing near one of the windows examining some purchases they had
made. Henley was writing at a little table some way off. From where he
sat he could see his wife's face in a mirror. He glanced now and then
at her blooming, healthy face with a puzzled expression. Surely what
she had said to him the night before was only a dream! Surely she, his
lovely Kate, was not consumptive! It is true he had heard before now
that consumptive people often looked in robust
health. Perhaps this was the case with Kate; and, beyond doubt, the
taint was in the family, the girl's mother having died of the dreaded
disease. He must not delay in taking her away. He hated the thought of
going to Australia; he was an Englishman, every inch of him, and loved
his native land, but all wishes of his own must be put into
subservience to the onemost
passionate desire of his life--to keep the young wife so precious to
him by his side.Just then a waiter entered the room bearing Sir John
Fenton-Douglas's card.He brought the card to Kate."The gentleman has inquired for you, madam, and is waiting in the
coffee-room," he said.Mrs. Henley glanced at the card, then went across the room to her
husband, bent down, and began to whisper in his ear."Sir John Fenton-Douglas has come," she whispered. "Go and see him
for me, Ralph; I cannot. Make any excuse you like. I cannot see him. I
won't!""My dear Kitty, don't you--"She placed her hand across his mouth."No, no, I cannot. I won't see him. Take him out for a walk; give
him lunch in the coffee-room. Don't ask me to see him.""All right, darling; don't distress yourself. I will look after
him."Henley turned to the waiter, who was still standing in an attitude
of attention near the door."Tell Sir John Fenton-Douglas that I will be with him immediately,"
he said.The man withdrew.Ethel, who was returning her packages to their brown-paper
wrappings, looked up now with a start."Has Sir John Fenton-Douglas called?" she said. "Oh, I should so
like to meet him! He is the man with the romantic history--the doctor
who attended your poor little friend Kate Mildmay when you were in
Mentone, Kate.""So should I greatly like to see Sir John," said Mary in that slow,
somewhat emphatic way in whichshe had
lately learned to speak. "Of course, Kate, you are going to ask him
up?""No," replied Kate."But," echoed Mary, "what do you mean?""Because I do not wish to see him.""But this is most extraordinary," said Mary."Oh, never mind," interrupted Ralph, coming forward at that
moment. "For goodness' sake, girls, don't worry Kate; she is not
well. There, my love, you shall do just as you wish. I will see Sir
John."Henley slowly left the room. He went down-stairs, pausing at every third step. He was completely puzzled.
"How could any one guess even for a moment that my brilliant, darling,
spirited Kate had once been consumptive?--and is now devoured by
nervous terrors," thought the young man. "Wonders never cease!"He entered the coffee-room. Sir John Fenton-Douglas came
forward."How do you do?" he said. "I happened to be in Falmouth, and
thought I would call to pay my respects to your wife.""I am sorry to tell you, Sir John, that Kate is not quite well, and
cannot see you to-day.""Indeed." Sir John had a somewhat red face; it now became a shade
more rubicund. "Did you say your wife was ill?""She is not well. She is strangely nervous and depressed. The old
associations with you in the past are--""You can speak out," said Sir John."She never told me until last night, but it seems she was very ill
when you saw her last.""She certainly was.""Shall we go on the Parade for a little? You will lunch with me
presently, of course; but I should like to talk this matter out
thoroughly with you."A satisfied expression crept over Sir John's face. This was exactly
what he wished to do himself. Henley gave orders with regard to lunch,
and then took his guest out.Kate, who had now retired to her bedroom, watched them from behind
a curtain. She had left the girls to wonder and speculate to their
heart's content. She was alone."Oh, what is he going to tell him?" she thought. She clasped her
hands tightly together in her agony.The two men turned in the direction of the sea."I am really sorry I cannot see Mrs. Henley," said Sir John. "Her
recovery has given me the most unfeigned pleasure, and I wished to
congratulate her. I was much astonished when I heard from Mr. Hume two
nights ago that the young lady whom you had married was the same whom
I attended at Mentone last year.""Yes, she is the same. As I said just now, she told me last night
that she had been very ill when you attended her.""She told you the truth.""Will you be quite frank with me, Sir John, and tell me if, in your
opinion, my wife was in danger at that time?""Danger!" said Sir John, thrown off his guard and a little nettled
at Kate's refusal to see him. "My dear sir, in my opinion your wife at
that time had not twenty-four hours to live.""Impossible! You cannot be telling me the truth. Kate had not twenty-four hours to live! Some
accident.""Nothing of the kind.""What ailed her then?""Consumption, sir--galloping consumption, if you like to give it
its true name! One lung gone, the other nearly so!""You must be mistaken," said Henley. He started back. It seemed to
him as if a hand had clutched his throat. His bonny, blooming Kate
ill--ill unto death."I see you are overcome," said Sir John. "Some miracle has taken
place if your wife is well now; but I am telling you the truth with
regard to her condition then.""But, my dear sir, people as ill as all that--I have studied the
subject a little myself--do not recover as my wife recovered. She is
nervous and fanciful, it is true, but I have never even heard her
cough. She is absolutely healthy.""I am astonished and delighted to hear it," said Sir John. "I
called to-day for the express purpose of seeing her in order to
ascertain with my own eyes if her recovery is likely to be
permanent.""Oh, you must see her. She is queerly nervous about you, and says
that her old unpleasant feelings will return if you visit her.""She must not be so silly," replied Sir John. "I should like much
to examine her lungs. The disease, of course, has been arrested, but
it behoves you, Mr. Henley, to take precautions.""Then you think she ought to winter abroad?""Undoubtedly; but I will tell you more after I have applied the
stethoscope. Let me see her forthree
or four minutes; I will promise not to worry her.""Of course she shall see you. I will tell her that you need not
meet again for some little time. It is not, of course, that she
dislikes you personally, but--I think you understand.""I am puzzled," said Sir John; " and, doubtless, a sight of your
wife will clear up some mysteries. For instance, her young
companion--a fine, blooming, handsome girl--has died, and your
delicate wife is restored to health.""That is so; but do not let us say any more. Come back with me now
to lunch. I will tell Kitty afterwards and persuade her to see
you."The men returned to the hotel, had lunch together, and soon
afterwards Henley went up to his wife's room. He entered the
drawing-room. Mary was lounging in an easy-chair. Neither Kate nor
Ethel were to be seen."Mary," said Henley, "do you know where Kitty is?""I suppose she is in her room. She wouldn't take any lunch. Sir
John Fenton-Douglas's arrival upset her very much. What does it mean,
Ralph?""Why should you suppose it means anything, Mary? But there, I must
tell you the truth. My poor darling Kitty has an hereditary tendency
to consumption, and I mean to take her to Australia immediately."Mary gave a scornful laugh."Why do you laugh like that, Mary?""Because you are such a goose, Ralph. Forgive me for saying
so. Kate is no more consumptive than I am.""You would not say that if you had had a conversation with Sir
John."" I should like to have a conversation with him very much.""But not on the subject of Kate," said Henley with some spirit. "I
am not going to have her worried. There, I can't stay any longer,
Mary. I must find her."Henley entered the bedroom, which opened out of the
drawing-room. It was empty. He rang the bell and Marryat appeared."Marryat," he said, "where is your mistress?""Mrs. Henley went out half-an-hour ago, sir.""Out! Did she tell you where she was going?""No, sir.""That will do, Marryat."Henley went downstairs.""Well, will she see me?" said Sir John."She has gone out, Sir John. I cannot find her.""Then I will call another day. Give my compliments to your wife,
and tell her that I am delighted to hear of her marvellous recovery to
health. Say that I will do myself the honour of calling on her some
day next week."He took his departure, and Henley, with a sigh of relief at seeing
the last of him, went to the smoking-room."How uncomfortable he made me feel!" he said to himself. "On the
whole, I am glad that he has gone. He must have had a dream about
Kitty. She never, never surely was so near the point of death."Between five and six o'clock he saw Kate returning. He went into
the hall to meet her."Well?" she said, looking at him. Her lips trembled and her eyes
were brighter than he had ever seen them."Sir John has gone, darling. But oh, Kitty, I must have a talk with
you. Come to our room. I want to say something to you all alone."Kate immediately turned and went upstairs. Her steps were firm but
her heart was like lead."He does not know all. He does not even suspect the truth yet," she
said to herself. "And yet he knows far, far more than he ought."They entered the bedroom, and Henley shut the door."Well, Kate," he said, "I wrung the truth out of Sir John, and he
really gave me a most alarming account of your health last year at
Mentone. My darling, we must go to Australia immediately; but
beforehand I want you to do something for me.""I will certainly do what I can, Ralph.""I want you to relieve my fears.""How?""You can do it easily. Sir John is a very kind and courteous and, I
am sure, clever man. He saw you in your illness; he wants to see you
again.""No, no," said Kate, turning away. "I cannot see him; don't ask
me.""But, dearest, do be reasonable. He wishes to examine your
lungs. Will you not let him for my sake?""Not even for your sake," said Kate."Not if I beg and beseech of you? Kate, my dear, you are not a
silly, nervous woman--not really, I mean. Do relieve my anxiety."Kate remained silent for a moment or two."If you really wish it, and it is indispensable, you must get some
other doctor to examine my lungs," she said, "but not Dr. Fenton. I
hate the man, and I won't see him."Henley looked at her with much distress."I tell you what it is," he said suddenly. "You and I will go up to
town to-morrow. We can stay for a couple of days, and you shall see
Dr. Martin Hewitt, the best man for consumption. Will you do
that?""If you insist, Ralph. But why will you not believe that I am
better? Do I look like a consumptive person?""I told Sir John that you did not.""Ah, you told him that?""Indeed, I did; but then you know, darling, consumptive people
often look well. You must relieve my anxiety. I insist on your seeing
a first-rate physician. Australia may not be the best place for you to
go to. Consumptive patients are often now sent to high altitudes. We
must take the very best advice, Kate. You know, my darling, you are no
ordinary person; you are my precious little wife, and a very rich
woman. You shan't die, my own Kitty, not if I can keep you alive.""Ah!" she said, with a pant; "how much you love me!" Her lips were
parted, tears trembled in her eyes, and the next moment she ran to her
husband, put her arms round his neck, laid her head on his shoulder
and burst into tears."Oh, my dearest," she sobbed, "I want to live for you. I won't
die. Can you not believe that I am stronger now? Can you not believe
that I am quite well?""There is nothing I more earnestly wish to believe, Kitty; but this
London doctor must see you.""Very well," she answered. Her heart sank. "We will go to-morrow
morning."She thought hard. Her wits must help her through the coming
ordeal. After all, anything would be better than staying in the
neighbourhood of Sir John Fenton-Douglas."I will get an A B C," said Henley, "and we
will look up the trains." His usual good spirits returned at the
prospect of immediate action. He brought the railway guide into their
room, and they looked up the trains together."It is a long journey," said Henley; "but the best train leaves
here at eleven. We shall reach Paddington about seven in the
evening. On the following morning we will go to see the doctor, and we
can return here the next day if you wish it.""Very well," answered Kate.Her husband looked at her, noticed the weary tone of her voice,
uttered a sigh, and left the room.Kate rang her bell, and Marryat appeared.Marryat looked important, and as if she were bubbling over to say
something. Kate knew that expression on her face only too well."What is it?" she said wearily. "Anything fresh?""Nothing particularly fresh, madam; but that man Rogers is in
Falmouth. I saw him to-day."Kate turned white."Then I am doing right to go away," she said to herself. "Marryat,"
she continued in a brisk voice, which concealed the fear which was
eating into her heart, "Mr. Henley and I are going to London
to-morrow.""Of course, you will want me to pack your things and go with you,
madam.""You must pack for me, of course, but you can stay here. You must
see Rogers and keep him at bay. You may give him a trifle. Here is a
five-pound note. Get it changed into sovereigns, and give him one at a
time. Whatever happens, Marryat, keep him at bay; he is
dangerous.""He knows something of your past, Mrs. Henley?""He knows something which I do not wish mentioned. To have it known
would annoy me very much. We need not discuss that matter.""It seems a pity you wouldn't see Sir John Fenton-Douglas to-day,
madam.""I could not, Marryat; the man got on my nerves.""You won't tell the reason?"No; I am tired and have a headache. Marryat, you are to keep the
fact that I have gone to London a secret from Rogers."Marryat remained silent, looking fixedly at Kate. After a time she
came forward, bent low over her mistress and said--"You are going to London, and, doubtless, that is well; but if I
were you I would do something else.""What is that?""I would take the two young ladies up to town with me.""Why so? Surely Ethel--""Oh, as to Miss Ethel," said Marryat in a tone of contempt, "I am
not considering her one way or the other; but Miss Mary is
dangerous.""Dangerous!" said Kate. "What do you mean?""She knows a little, and she means to know more. She distrusts you, madam, and is not friendly. I have
read her thought in her face, and I know I am right. Don't leave her
behind. She might come across Sir John Fenton-Douglas, for instance,
or she might meet Rogers. In such a case there is no saying what
mischief might take place. Take the young ladies to London; it will be
safer.""Thank you, Marryat; I will do so."Soon afterwards Kate left the room. Dinner was announced, and the
little party took their usual meal just as if nothing had
occurred. Kate laughed, talked, and made herself merry as if no sword
of Damocles was hanging over head. Mary watched her, but could detect
no unwonted alarm or uneasiness in her blooming face.Ralph also watched her, and comforted his heart with the truism
that the wisest doctors make mistakes, and that Kitty, his darling,
was not seriously ill.When dessert was placed on the table Kate bent forward and touched
Mary on the arm."Will you and Ethel pack your things to-night?" she said.Mary started."What do you mean?""This. Ralph and I have to go to town to-morrow on business, and it
will be a good opportunity for you and Ethel to come with us.""But, Kate, what do you mean?" cried Ethel. "Father and mother are
still away, and the Grange is dismantled.""Really, my dear Kitty," cried Henley in astonishment, "the girls
may just as well stay here; you know we intend to return on
Friday.""We cannot tell what our plans will be," replied Kate. I am sorry to seem inhospitable, but there is no
use keeping rooms on at this expensive hotel, and surely Ethel and
Mary know me too well to be offended. My dear cousins, the facts are
these. It is inconvenient to me your remaining at Falmouth any
longer. If you will get ready we can all go to London together
to-morrow, and the next day you can proceed to the Grange. We will
take you to our own hotel for the night."Ethel turned pale and then red."If you really wish it, Kate," she said.Mary was silent for a moment."Come, Ethel, and let us pack," was her short remark then."Marryat must help you," cried Kate."No, thank you," answered Mary.The girls left the room and went slowly upstairs."She is afraid--and that is why she is sending us away," said
Mary.Ethel stared at her sister but did not reply.CHAPTER
XXTHE little party went up the next day to London. Their journey was
without adventure. Marryat went to the station to see her mistress
off, and Kate was glad when the train moved on and she knew that each
instant she was putting a greater and greater distance between herself
and Sir John Fenton-Douglas and also Rogers.During the journey her spirits rose, and by the time she got to
town she was so gay and bright and charming that Ethel and Ralph were
quite at ease about her. Even Mary's watchful glances had now scarcely
power to affect her. The very imminence of the danger had roused her
mettle. She felt that she might defy Mary, who suspected much, yet
knew nothing. The real danger lay in the fact that she must see one of
the great doctors for consumption on the morrow. She knew well that he
would pronounce her lungs absolutely sound, that he would say,
further, that those lungs had never been affected. Perhaps never
before in the world's history did a healthy young woman earnestly
desire to have diseased lungs, but at that moment Kate in her
extremity would have gladly welcomed some traces of tuberculosis,
terrible as the disease is.During the journey, however, an idea came to her, and she quickly
resolved to adopt it. They reached town and drove to the "Metropole."
Here theyengaged rooms, and
immediately after dinner Kate pleaded fatigue and begged to be allowed
to retire to her room and to go to bed. As she bade her husband
good-night she spoke again of the great and overpowering weariness
which had visited her. He kissed her and looked anxious."Would you like me to send for Dr. Martin Hewitt now?" he said. "I
believe he is quite the greatest authority of the day on lung
diseases.""No, no," answered Kate. "What a goose you are, Ralph! my lungs are
right enough.""But you were very ill last spring.""Last spring is not now, remember. I will see the doctor, as you
insist on it, to-morrow, but do let me be in peace to-night.""My room is exactly opposite to yours, Kate, at the other side of
the passage. If you want me you will be sure to call me.""I will.""I wish you had brought up Marryat. You are sure you want for
nothing?""Yes; I want my bed and a long, sound sleep. I'll see you in the
morning, Ralph."As his footsteps sounded down the passage Kate locked her door. She
had now several hours in which to perfect her plan. She took her watch
out and looked at it eagerly; it was a few minutes past nine--still
comparatively early. Marryat being out of the way made matters all the
better. The fewer who knew of Kate's present intention the better for
her safety. She changed her dress, putting on an old dark blue serge,
which she had worn long ago when she was an innocent girl. Over the
dress she slipped a long waterproof cloak, put a nurse's bonnet on
herhead, a thick veil over her face,
and, opening her door, locked it on the outside; she then slipped the
key into her pocket and ran downstairs.Henley, Mary, and Ethel were amusing themselves as best they could
in the drawing-room, but even if Henley had met Kate now he would
scarcely have recognised her. She passed through the hall and stood
for a moment on the front steps. A porter who was standing by asked if
he might call a cab. Kate shook her head without replying. She walked
up the street in the direction of Trafalgar Square, and hailing the
first hansom she met, got in and gave the driver an address--"40
Mortimer Street," she said.The man whipped up his horse, and in about a quarter of an hour
Kate had reached her destination.Before her marriage she had insisted on her uncle allowing her to
have a separate banking account, and she had further made a special
request that he should place to her credit in the bank the sum of six
thousand pounds. Up to the present she had drawn very little upon this
sum, but she knew the time had come when she must spend it freely. She
laughed when she thought of the power this money gave to her.The house in Mortimer Street was a quiet one. Kate got out of the
hansom, paid the fare, and then rang the bell. A maid-servant answered
her summons."Is Mrs. Johnson in?" asked Kate.The woman replied in the affirmative."I wish to see her.""Have you an appointment, madam?""No; but I wish to see her, and my business is urgent."The woman stared at Kate, but finally admitted her into the
hall."I will see if my mistress can attend to you," she said. "What name
shall I say?""Miss Pryce," answered Kate.The woman left Kate standing in the hall. It was dimly lighted and
the furniture was of the barest, but it was quite neat and clean. In a
minute or two the servant returned and invited Mrs. Henley to follow
her to a room on the first floor. This room was also furnished barely,
and had something the appearance of an old-fashioned
drawing-room. There was an ugly centre table, a few chairs of
conventional pattern, the usual lodging-house sofa, and one fairly
comfortable easy-chair, into which Kate sank. She kept her veil
down. In spite of all her efforts her hands trembled--otherwise, she
knew that she was calm and steady.After waiting for about five minutes the room door was opened and a
little middle-aged woman in rusty black entered. She went straight up
to the gasalier in the centre of the room and turned all the lights on
full.Kate still remained with her veil down."Miss Pryce?" said Mrs. Johnson in an interrogative way."Yes," answered Kate; and she added, "You are Mrs. Johnson?""I am Mrs. Johnson; but you are not really Miss Pryce?""That is true; but I thought it safer to come to you under a
feigned name. My errand is important and secret.""I can do nothing for you unless you wholly confide in me. Before
we proceed any further you must tell me who you really are."Kate sat absolutely silent: her heart beat hard. After a moment's
pause she raised her hand, lifted her
veil, flung it back, and turned her lovely face full on her
hostess."What a beautiful creature! " murmured the woman under her
breath. She gazed at Kate as if she could not remove her eyes. Kate
slowly unfastened one of her gloves, slipped it off, and exposed her
hand with its wedding ring and magnificent diamond keeper to full
view."I thought you were a married lady," said Mrs. Johnson."I am. I have made up my mind to trust you. It is dangerous, but
not so dangerous as my present position. My name is Kate Henley. I am
in trouble, and I want you to help me.""If in my power," said Mrs. Johnson."It is quite in your power.""What do you want me to do?""You are a doctor, are you not?""I am. But how did you hear of me?""I have known of your existence for some time. I have made myself
acquainted with many strange characters; it has been necessary in my
life.""Then you are not what you seem?""I am quite what I seem. I am Mrs. Henley, the wife of a rich
man. I am a very rich woman myself, too, independent of my husband. I
can pay you well for what I want you to do.""What is that?""Before we come to that question we must arrange terms.""Certainly," replied Mrs. Johnson. "I quite agree." She now drew
her chair close to Kate's. "Just excuse me a moment," she said
suddenly. She got up, crossed the room, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and then returned once
more to her seat opposite her beautiful visitor."Now," she said, "I am at your service.""Are you a fully qualified medical practitioner?" asked Kate."Why do you ask?""Because I wish to know."Mrs. Johnson was silent."There must be no concealment between us," continued Kate
emphatically. "If I tell you my secret, you must tell me yours. There!
I will tell it to you; it will save trouble. You are not fully
qualified. You cure people, but you have no right to cure them. In
other words, you are what the profession would call a quack."Mrs. Johnson's face grew very red."I don't care that for the profession! " she said, in an emphatic
voice. "Curse every one of 'em! Yes, you may call me a quack if you
like. I have performed more wonderful cures than any other doctor in
London.""I am delighted to hear you say so. I am also glad that you are
what the profession call a quack. If you were not the character you
evidently are you would not be of the slightest use to me.""Why so?""Because what I want you to do is--shady.""Ah!" Mrs. Johnson did not again change colour, but on her hardened
face the lines grew deeper, the lips became more compressed, the dark,
closely-set eyes more watchful. It was a thoroughly evil face which
now looked full into Kate's."It is all right," said Kate, but she trembled as she spoke. Bad as
she was herself, wicked as all her
actions had been since the death of the real Kate Bouverie, she had
never before come face to face with evil in others. As she looked into
the face of the woman before her she knew that she was close to
evil. She watched it, and then, as in a vision, she saw another
face--the high-minded, proud, honourable face of her husband. Could
there in all the world be a greater contrast than the face of Ralph
and the face of Mrs. Johnson? And yet, because she wanted to keep the
one always by her side, she must use the skill and power which was
manifest with all its sin on the face of the other.She gave a shudder, and just for a moment it rushed through her
mind that she had chosen badly; but she pushed the thought out of
sight; she meant to carry on her scheme now to the bitter end. To do
anything else would part her from Ralph--to part from Ralph would be
the straw too much. She might stand a good deal, but not that."Well?" said Mrs. Johnson.Kate looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, the minutes were
flying. She might be discovered if she went back too late to the
"Metropole.""I want you to help me," she said. "But, first of all--terms.""What do you require?""Absolute and complete secrecy.""If that is all, you shall have it. It would be against my own
interests to betray you.""I think so; I have thought over that," said Kate, with a sigh of
relief. "Well, I am prepared to pay you.""Naturally," said Mrs. Johnson, with an unpleasant laugh."A large sum," continued Kate."I should not dream of taking anything else.""I have now in my pocket a cheque-book. I will fill in, after I
have explained matters, and you have assured me that you will do what
I want, a cheque for two hundred pounds.""Not enough--nothing like enough.""You shall have that cheque to-night.""Not enough," repeated Mrs. Johnson."Listen. That is not all that I mean to do. I want to go to
Australia.""Ah!""I want to start in a week.""Yes.""You can help me to go there.""How?""I will explain in a moment--our terms are not settled yet."The woman in the shabby black dress waited, suspense now visible on
her face and in the lines round her cruel mouth."Yes," she repeated."The day I sail you shall have a further cheque for eight hundred
pounds. You see, therefore, that for what you do for me you will be
paid one thousand pounds.""By cheque? How do I know the cheque will be honoured?""It will be on my private bank, where I now have a sum to my credit
of six thousand pounds.""Have you? Then I shall want more out of that sum. I cannot do what
you want for a thousand pounds.""I will not pay you another farthing."Mrs. Johnson looked hard at her visitor. She had been paid heavily
before now for work she had done; but she thought that Kate was
desperate, and she knew she was rich. With all her recklessness and
misery. however, Kate Henley was practical."Make your decision quickly," she said; "there is another woman to
whom I can go.""I will accept your terms," said Mrs. Johnson. "Two hundred pounds
now and eight hundred on the day you sail for Australia? Will you
write those terms down on a piece of paper?""No; you must trust me. There must be no writing between us,"
answered Kate."Very well; I think I can trust you. I could make it too hot for
you if you didn't pay up.""I believe so.""Remember, I am cruel and without mercy to those who cheat me,"
said Mrs. Johnson."I believe all that. You would not be the woman for my present need
if you were not cruel, heartless, and without mercy."Mrs. Johnson winced."You say very plain and frank things, Mrs. Henley.""This is no moment to mince matters. Now I will tell you what I
want."The woman bent forward, and Kate began to talk in a low tone. In
about an hour's time she left the house, and Mrs. Johnson herself
called a hansom for her. She drove back to within a few doors of the
"Metropole." She then dismissed the cab and walked to the hotel. No
one noticed her as she glided upstairs, unlocked her bedroom door and
entered. She shut the door, locked it, and undressing, got into bed. During that night Kate did not
sleep. The end was in view, however, and the thought of that supported
her. In one week she would be safe. She had taken, under the
circumstances, the best possible steps to ensure her safety, but the
ordeal was not yet over. Should she succeed, or should she fail?CHAPTER
XXIABOUT seven o'clock on the following morning Kate rose and partly
dressed. She opened the door of her room, crossed the corridor, and
tapped at her husband's door. He did not hear her. She turned the
handle, found that the door was not locked, and entered.Henley started up in bed when he saw her."My darling Kitty, what is the matter? You look worse than
ever.""I have spent a sleepless night, Ralph, and have much to say. Do
dress and come into my room; I want to talk to you.""Certainly, dearest."Henley entered Kate's room in about five minutes. He was fully
dressed. Kate herself had returned to bed. He sat down by her and took
one of her hands in his; he began to stroke the soft fingers."My dearest, how thin your hand is getting!""Oh no, Ralph; you are really imagining." Kate held up her somewhat
plump hand and looked at it, then she burst into one of her old merry
laughs."Ah! that sounds good," said the young man; "it cheers me. Kitty, I
have lived through a miserable forty-eight hours. Ever since Sir John
Fenton-Douglas appeared on the scene I have been too wretched for
words.""I know why you are wretched," said Kate. "Because you think that I shall die." She moved towards
the edge of the bed and laid her head on her husband's shoulder."If you die, I shall die," he said--either die or go mad. You are
all my world. I have loved you for almost the whole of my life, and,
Kitty, I cannot live without you.""You shall not live without me, Ralph; you shall live with me, and
we'll be happy as the day is long. But now I want you to listen,
darling.""What is it you are going to coax me to do?""Ralph, I do not wish to see that horrid man doctor. I won't see
him.""What, Martin Hewitt? But how do you know he is horrid? He is
probably most kind, most sympathetic.""I do not wish for either his sympathy or his kindness. I won't see
him--I can't see him."But, Kitty, Kitty--your promise! Kitty, you compel me to be harsh
with you." A tremor of real distress had now come into the young man's
voice."But oh, darling Ralph, if you would but listen. I hate all
doctors; I don't believe in them. That man, Sir John Fenton-Douglas,
was simply odious. If I had believed in him I should be dead by
now. But I had the courage--yes, the courage--to pull myself together,
and here I am quite well--or almost quite well. Oh, you may call me
unreasonable if you life, but I hate all doctors.""You certainly are unreasonable, Kitty; and, what is more, you must
overcome your unreasonableness, for see Martin Hewitt you shall.""There you spoke like my master, and I love you for it. But do, do listen. I know I am all
contradictions. I am your brave and devoted Kate; but I am also a mass
of nerves--sometimes I think I am all nerves. My terror of the ghost
of Castellis can testify to that, and rushing away from Sir John
testifies to it again.""It certainly does. You have as many contradictions in your
character as if you were the Shrew in Shakespeare's play.""Most people are like that, after all," answered Kate. "But now,
Ralph, we must effect a compromise. You want me to see a doctor?""Certainly; and I also want you to see Martin Hewitt. His opinion
is beyond dispute. If he says that your lungs are sound, all the
Fenton-Douglases in the world cannot alarm me again on your
account.""Your mind must be relieved, Ralph, that is absolutely
necessary. But still, I hold to my resolve; I will not see that
special doctor. I hate all doctors but I don't hate medical women as
much as men. Let me see a lady doctor, and then your heart will be at
rest, and I shall not be quite so much disturbed.""But I don't believe in lady doctors," said Henley, a puzzled
expression coming into his face."Don't you? Then, my darling boy, you show your ignorance. There
are some splendid women who have entered the profession--women with
great brains. Who could say a word against such a woman as Dr. Garrett
Anderson?""Of course; but she is quite an exception," admitted the young
man."Not at all; there are several more, almost, if not quite, as
clever.""Well, well, you shall see Dr. Garrett Anderson.""I would gladly see her, but I do not believe she is in town at
present. But there is the great Dr. Stevenson, who performs most
wonderful cures. I remember hearing last year of three or four society
people whom she brought back from the very brink of the grave. You
must surely have heard of Dr. Agnes Stevenson?""I grieve to say, Kitty, I have not.""Well, you have but to look in the 'Medical Directory'; her name is
there blazoned in big letters, and all sorts of distinctions after
it. May I see Dr. Stevenson, Ralph? You can go to the reading-room,
look up the 'Medical Directory,' and find out for yourself that all I
say is correct.""And if I do find that such is the case, will it make you happy if
I yield in this matter, Kate?""Intensely happy. My nervousness will go; I shall feel certain that
a lady doctor will sympathise with me.""There seems to be reason in it," said the young man, looking
attentively at his wife."Do go down and find out about her, Ralph, and if she is all that I
say, telegraph to her. Ask her to come and see me here. I will stay in
bed; she can examine my lungs better before I dress. If we send her a
telegram now at once, and prepay the answer, we shall know the exact
hour when she will arrive. Do this for me, won't you, dear Ralph?"Henley looked puzzled and undecided."I am old-fashioned enough," he said, "to prefer men doctors to
women. But, of course, if this Dr. Stevenson is really the great
doctor you say--""My dear Ralph, you have only to look in the 'Medical Directory,'
or to speak to any chemist. Bring me
her exact address, Ralph, and we will send her a telegram."Very unwillingly Henley left the room. He returned in about a
quarter of an hour, having got the address of the great lady
doctor. She had certainly a number of letters after her name, and was
fully qualified."Now, then, to fill in the telegraph form," said Kate."What time shall I ask her to arrive?" queried Henley."She had better make her own appointment," replied Kate. "Do be
quick, Ralph, for I want to get out of suspense."Henley seated himself and filled in the form."It would be easier and simpler for me to go and see her," he said
suddenly."No, no, stay with me; I cannot bear you out of my sight this
morning. I feel so nervous and wretched."Henley filled in the telegram and left the room. Presently he
returned to his wife."I have sent it off," he said. "Now are you better?""Much, much better. Oh, it is all right, and I need not worry any
more. After she has gone I shall feel absolutely at rest. It is much
better to have a lady than a man to attend a woman. You see, Ralph,
the patient can confide in her as she will not in a man doctor. Now,
Ralph, you have been good and sweet about it, and I must ask you to do
something else for me.""What?""Get Mary and Ethel away--see them off to the train.""My darling Kate, I must say I think you are a little inhospitable
to your cousins. They are both such dear, jolly girls, and so fond of
you--particularly Ethel.""You may well say particularly Ethel, for I believe Mary almost
hates me. But, Ralph, they must both go; I am dead tired of them. I
want you all to myself. I invited them to visit us much too soon. Go
and manage it, Ralph darling. A good train leaves Paddington at eleven
o'clock. Get them away; they must not see Dr. Stevenson."Ralph, in some wonder, went downstairs. It was now between eight
and nine o'clock. He found Mary and Ethel waiting for him in the
coffee-room. They were in neat travelling dresses, and Mary's face had
a determined, stubborn look about it. The moment she saw her cousin
she went up to him."We have decided to go home by the eleven o'clock train," she
said."Ah!" said Ralph, an expression of relief crossing his face."All our things are packed," continued Mary, "and we do not wish to
stay here any longer. I will be frank with you, Ralph. Kate's conduct
has hurt us very much. She has shown a distinct desire to get rid of
us, which, seeing that we are cousins and old friends, seems scarcely
natural.""Kate is not well," replied Ralph; "you must not judge her too
hardly, Mary. To tell the truth, I am most anxious about her, and have
sent for Dr. Stevenson. I expect her this morning. It may be best,
under the circumstances, that you two girls should be out of the
way.""It would be much more natural if one of us stayed and helped to nurse Kate," said Mary, in her
blunt voice; "but we certainly are not going to offer, for we are not
wanted.""But is Kate so bad as to require Dr. Stevenson?" cried Ethel."Yes; I want to get a first-class opinion about her. By the way, do
you know Dr. Stevenson's name?""The great lady doctor, Agnes Stevenson? Why, certainly--of course
we know her," was Ethel's reply."I am glad to hear you say so. The poor child has taken a dislike
to seeing men doctors.""I can scarcely blame her for that," replied Mary. "Now come,
Ralph, let us sit down; we are starving for breakfast."The girls ate their breakfast, and before it was finished a page
entered the room and put a telegram into Henley's hands. He tore the
little brown envelope open and read the contents--"From Dr. Stevenson, Harley Street. Will call to see your wife at
two o'clock to-day.""Then there is no hurry about our train," cried Ethel."Oh yes, Ethel; we'll go by the train we arranged to take," said
Mary.Soon afterwards the girls went upstairs and entered Kate's
room. She bade them good-bye almost affectionately. As Mary was
stooping down to kiss her she looked full into her eyes, and the words
almost rose to her lips, "You are the greatest sham I ever met in my
life," but she did not say them.A moment or two later, in Ralph's company, they left the
house. They had scarcely done so before Kate sprang out of bed and ran to one of the
windows. The windows of her bedroom looked on to the front. She threw
this one open now and craned her neck out. She saw the two girls and
Henley get into a cab and drive away. She then immediately shut the
window and began to dress as fast as ever she could. It was wonderful
with what expedition she got into her clothes. In less than a quarter
of an hour she was fully dressed and had gone downstairs. She wore a
long travelling cloak over her dress, and a thick veil concealed her
face. She went out, and in a few moments had reached the nearest
telegraph office. Here she filled in two forms. One ran as
follows:--"To Dr. Agnes Stevenson, 204 Harley Street. Sorry to have to ask
you to postpone your visit. Wife and I called out of town in a
hurry. Expect to hear from me later.--RALPH HENLEY."The second telegram was to Mrs. Johnson, 40 Mortimer Street. "Be at
Métropole as arranged sharp at 2 o'clock.--K. H."The two little messages were sent speeding on their way, and Kate
returned to the hotel. She got back to her room, took off her things,
and returned to bed. When Ralph came back about twelve o'clock he
found her lying down with flushed cheeks. She now complained of slight
headache. It rather suited her role to appear ill. She asked Ralph if
he did not think her feverish. His anxiety about her was all too
manifest; he could scarcely take his eyes from her face, and was
looking out for every imaginable bad symptom.Kate, although she was terribly hungry, refused lunch."I cannot eat," she said; "it is all this suspense and
excitement. How can I tell what awful news that dreadful Dr. Stevenson
may have to say to me? I shall not know rest until I am told the
worst.""Or the best," answered her husband. "Don't despair, Kitty. No
doctor, to look at you, could consider you very ill."As Henley spoke he gave his wife a long, attentive glance. Those
rounded cheeks, flushed as they now were, showed no apparent trace of
consumption, and as he gazed at them attentively, he owned to himself
with intense relief that the bright eyes looked more anxious than
ill.At the appointed hour Dr. Stevenson, in a neat claret-coloured
brougham, arrived. Her card was taken up to Kate's bedroom--"Dr. Agnes
Stevenson, 204 Harley Street.""I will go down and see the lady," said Henley.He ran downstairs. A quiet-looking woman, neatly dressed, was
waiting for him in one of the reception rooms. Bright dark eyes looked
full into his, and a small hand, but hard as iron, lay for an instant
in his clasp. He felt a sudden degree of confidence, and asked the
lady doctor to seat herself."I am glad to have a talk with you before I examine your wife,"
said the supposed Dr Stevenson. "Please tell me as briefly as you can
what is wrong with her. Give me any particulars you like with regard
to her age and general health."Ralph told his story. Until quite lately he had always believed
that his wife enjoyed robust health. He had been dreadfully puzzled
and shocked at Sir John Fenton-Douglas's report. As Ralph said these
latter words he looked full into the small dark face of the lady doctor, as much as to say that he expected
her to share his astonishment. But Dr. Stevenson's face was to all
appearance an absolute blank."Take me to the patient," she said, rising.Henley accompanied her upstairs."I should like to see the doctor alone, Ralph," said Kate.Henley withdrew at once into his own bedroom at the opposite side
of the corridor. What he endured during the next quarter of an hour he
was not likely soon to forget. His passion for his wife was growing
stronger week by week. The mere thought of losing her was agony to
him."She shall live! I defy death to take her from me!" was his inward
cry. Just then he heard a step on the landing, and left his room to
come face to face with Dr. Stevenson. There was a sparkle in the eyes
of the doctor, and her lips were smiling."Come," she said, looking at the young man; "it is not so bad as
you fear. But I must speak to you alone."Henley conducted her to a private room down-stairs. There
Dr. Stevenson gave a careful report of Kate's symptoms."The lungs undoubtedly bear traces of serious mischief in the
past," she began, "but at present the old trouble has healed over, and
the disease has been arrested. The proper thing now to do is to give
it no chance of revival.""My God! then it is true," said Henley. "Kate consumptive! I did
not know it when I married her.""I am sorry for you," said Dr. Stevenson. "But, with care, you may
keep Mrs. Henley alive for many
years. I should recommend her to go to a warm climate without
delay.""Why not to Davos in Switzerland?""No, your wife's is not a case for Davos; I should recommend
Australia.""That is her own wish.""It is the climate of all others to suit her. Believe me, that at
present she is not in the slightest danger. With care she may live to
be an old woman."After this Henley and Dr. Stevenson had a long
conversation. Finally, he asked her if she would prescribe a tonic for
his wife?"Quite unnecessary," was her answer. "Mrs Henley does not require
medicines; she needs rest of mind, which, I think, she will have when
she leaves England.""But why should her mind be anxious?""Her health, my dear sir. A woman who was so close to death in the
spring of this year cannot immediately forget what she suffered. I
have assured her that if she goes to Australia before the cold weather
sets in she is safe.""What is your fee, Dr. Stevenson? and will you see my wife
again?""My fee is ten guineas. She need not see me again."Henley paid the fee, and the supposed great doctor got into her
claret-coloured brougham and drove away. Henley did not know whether
to be relieved or not. The undefined sense of uneasiness which had
worried him with regard to Kate's health, was, it is true, not
altogether removed. But, after all, the clever lady doctor had assured him that if he took his wife to Australia she would be safe. He bounded
upstairs, eager to get to Kate in order to make the best of
Dr. Stevenson's verdict. He had scarcely reached the first landing,
however, before he saw her flying down to meet him, her eyes
sparkling, her cheeks radiant, her lips wreathed in smiles."The doctor has come and gone--the ordeal is over," she
cried. "Come out, Ralph. I am sick of the house. I want some fun.""My darling Kate, how well you look!""Of course, I am well. She has relieved my mind, and I have got
over the horrid nuisance of seeing her. Come out, Ralph; we must buy
dresses, jackets, bonnets, hats, and for all the rest of the day we
must have fun, fun--pleasure, pleasure! Ralph, my darling, there is no
one looking--just give me one little kiss and be quick. Oh, I am so
happy--the ordeal is over."CHAPTER
XXIIWHEN Ethel and Mary arrived at the Grange they found that it wore
an unpleasantly deserted appearance. It is true that most of the
servants were there, but the windows were curtainless and in several
of the rooms and on the stairs the carpets were up. The old butler
received the girls with dismay."You didn't even send us a telegram, miss," he said, addressing
Mary."We had no time," answered Mary; "our return was unexpected. But it
does not matter at all about the state of the rooms. We can have
something to eat in the library, I suppose?""Certainly, Miss Mary; and I'll speak to Ann about your rooms at
once, young ladies.""Please do," said Mary, turning in the direction of the
morning-room. Ethel, looking dreadfully discontented, followed
her."Dear, dear," said Ethel, "it is horrid coming back like this. I
must say Kate has not behaved very kindly to us. I don't understand
her. If she is so ill as Ralph seemed to think, she ought to have kept
us both to nurse her.""For my part, I should have disliked very much being Kate's nurse,"
answered Mary; "and as to the trivial discomfort here for a few hours,
what does it matter?""But it is so lonely in this big house without father and mother,"
continued Ethel."We shall not be here long, and while we are here we shall have no
time to think whether we are lonely or not," was Mary's reply."Now, Molly, what do you mean?""I am going to startle you a little bit, Ethel; but I intend to
take the initiative at last in a certain matter which has long
perplexed me. My mind is quite made up.""Oh, good gracious, Mary, how mysterious you look! What do you
intend to do now?""To return to Cornwall to-morrow.""To Cornwall?""Yes. You need not stare at me as if you had lost your senses. You
can stay here by yourself, or come with me, just as you please.""Mary, I don't understand you.""Very likely not; but in any case I go to Cornwall to-morrow. I
will tell you why, if you care to listen.""Please do," exclaimed Ethel."I daresay I have puzzled you a good bit lately," answered Mary,
staring straight at her sister as she spoke, "but, if so, you must be
satisfied with the fact that I puzzled myself still more. But now I am
puzzled no longer. I mean to go straight ahead. Each obstacle as it
arises I shall overcome. There is a mystery, and I must reach the
bottom of it. In the bottom of the well lies truth. I am going to
explore to the very bottom of this particular well, and will bring
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth to the surface.""Now, I think you must be quite mad," said Ethel, "for I suppose
you are alluding to those queer, queer thoughts of yours about poor
Kitty.""Think what you like--will you come with me or will you stay
here?""Do you mean to return to Falmouth?""No; I am going to the neighbourhood of the Pines.""The Pines! Kitty's old home? Where Sir John Fenton-Douglas
lives?""Precisely. I mean to see Sir John Fenton-Douglas and to have a
long talk with him.""Mary! again I say that I think you mad.""Think what you like--do you mean to come with me?""I must; it would be scarcely safe for you to go alone. But how
strange Sir John will think your conduct!""He may think what he pleases. There are a few questions I mean to
ask him; answer those questions he must.""Won't you tell me what the questions are?""Not until I have got the answers which I expect to get. Ethel, how
would you like to be--""What?""Rich--very rich.""I don't know," said Ethel. "I am never going to be rich, so where
is the use of bothering about it?""If Kate were dead you would be rich. We are our uncle's next
heiresses.""But Kate is alive," answered Ethel. "Mary, I hate that sort of
expression which your face so often wears lately. My darling, sweet
Kitty is in the world, and long, long may she remain there. I would
rather be poor and have Kitty, than rich without her.""I don't at all know that I should," answered Mary.She stole out into the garden, leaving Ethel much puzzled and
feeling thoroughly miserable."How horrid everything is just now!" thought the girl. "I wonder if
Mary is really quite right in her head--that queer craze has been
coming over her for some time now. What does she suspect poor dear
Kitty of? What is the truth which she is going to dig out of the well?
Really, Mary's manner is most alarming. Is her brain really going? If
so, I must be very patient with her."Meanwhile Mary was walking rapidly up and down at the end of the
garden. The small suspicion which had entered her head some months ago
had now grown large--so large, that turn where she would she could
think of nothing else.Why did Kate leave Castellis? Why did she refuse to see Sir John
Fenton-Douglas?"The answer is plain," she thought. "Sir John was Kate's doctor at
Mentone; she confessed that fact herself. He knows a secret about
Kate, and Kate is afraid, terribly afraid, that he will tell that
secret to us. Well, it will not be my fault if he does not confide it
to me."The luncheon bell rang, and Mary returned to the house."Where are we going to stay when we get to Cornwall?" asked
Ethel.The village of Castellis has an inn," answered Mary; "we will sleep
there for one night. Our stay will be quite short--one interview with
Sir John Fenton-Douglas will in all probability be sufficient."Ethel was silent. If Mary's mind was going she ought not to
contradict her.Early the next morning the girls started for Cornwall. When they
arrived at the railway station Mary wrote a telegram--it was to Sir
John Fenton-Douglas.Ethel did not
know what she had put into the telegram. It was despatched, and the
journey began. They arrived at their destination late in the
evening. Here a fly was waiting for them, and they drove straight to
the little village inn known as the "Beehive." The landlady came out
to receive them with smiles and welcome."Welcome, young ladies, welcome," she said. "I have got the front
bedroom ready for you both. I am glad you sent me that telegram last
night, Miss Mary, for I have got everything as snug as possible. A
nice little dinner ready, too--a young, tender duck, and bottled peas
as green and fresh as if they had just come out of the garden, for I
bottled them my own self.""Has any message come for me?" asked Mary, in an eager voice.""Yes, miss, there's a letter; a messenger brought it from the Pines
not an hour ago.""Give it to me, please.Mary tore open the thick envelope. A brief note lay within."DEAR
MISS HUME,--I will call to see you this evening
at nine o'clock.--Yours faithfully,"JOHN
FENTON-DOUGLAS.""Dinner--quick, please," said Mary, her eyes sparkling; "and, by
the way, Mrs. Grace, can we have a private sitting-room.""Certainly, Miss Mary; 'tain't likely you would want your dinner in
the bar. There's a cosy little parlour at your service. Come this way
and I'll show it to you."The tiny room into which Mrs. Grace conducted her guests was bright with flowers, and the next moment
a small rosy-cheeked handmaid appeared, to lay the cloth for
dinner."Ethel," said Mary to her sister the moment they were alone, "I
must see Sir John Fenton-Douglas by myself to-night.""As you please, Mary."Mary went up to her sister and kissed her."I see you are dissatisfied with this place," she said; "but never
mind, our visit will be very brief; we can leave to-morrow
morning.""I cannot make you out," answered Ethel.Sir John called sharp to the moment. Ethel had left the room, and
Mary was standing by the fire, looking very pale when he entered."It is good of you to come to see me," she said. "Won't you sit
down?""Can I serve you in any way, Miss Hume?" answered Sir. John. He
sank into the chair which Mary had provided. She looked at him for a
moment without speaking, then she said slowly--"I will come to the point. I asked you to call in order to make
some inquiries from you."Sir John raised his eyes now and looked her full in the face."Are you Mr. Hume's daughter?""His eldest daughter.""Does your father know of this visit?""He does not. I have come on my own account."Sir John stared again at the young lady; then he said gravely--"Your questions?""They have to do with Mrs. Henley."Sir John pulled himself together, and Mary noticed with pleasure the alert look which came into his
eyes."Ah!" he said."You are surprised, Sir John, at my cousin, Mrs. Henley, not seeing
you the other day?"Sir John did not answer. He said, after a moment's reflection--"She has returned to London.""Yes." Mary suddenly seated herself in a chair close to Sir John,
and brought her face to within a few inches of his."I am intensely curious about Mrs. Henley," she said."Your cousin?" answered the baronet."She calls herself my cousin, and I have every hope that such is
the case.""But can you have a doubt?""I have many doubts. I am much disturbed about her. It has occurred
to me that you, Sir John, can set my mind at rest."Sir John did not speak.Red spots had now appeared on Mary's cheeks; there was a cruel
eagerness on her face."I want you," she continued, speaking very slowly, "to give me
full, full particulars with regard to my cousin's illness last spring
at Mentone.""Why?""Because I will know." Mary stood up now, her breath coming hard
and fast. "I will know," she repeated, "and I will tell you why. I am
firmly convinced that she is acting a part. In what condition was she
when you attended her at Mentone?""There is no reason why I should not tell you. Your cousin was very
ill.""Seriously ill?""Yes.""What was the nature of her complaint?""I thought her to be suffering from consumption.""Then, of course, her lungs were diseased?""Extensively.""I wish you could see her now," continued Mary. "To all appearance
she has no trace of consumption; she looks strong--very strong. You
know the delicate colour which most consumptives have?""Your cousin had that colour," said the baronet. In spite of
himself he was much interested."If she had, she lost it before she came to England," said
Mary. "She looks what she is--a strong and beautiful woman. But now I
have one more question to ask. Why does she dislike meeting you?""Her husband explained that," answered Fenton-Douglas slowly. "He
said she showed a very marked nervousness at the slightest allusion to
that time of dangerous illness. I think I can understand her
feelings. My presence would, of course, have revived old
associations.""For instance, the death of her companion?" said Mary. "She seemed
much attached to her companion.""A fine girl," said Sir John--"a very fine girl.""What was her name?""Miss Mildmay.""And the two were remarkably alike in appearance?" said Mary, in a
musing tone."Yes; now that you speak of it, the likeness between them was
extraordinary. But why all these questions, Miss Hume?""I have one or two more to ask, then I will tell you. Did you see
Miss Mildmay die?""Certainly not; when I last saw the poor girl she was, to all
appearance, in robust health.""Like this, for instance," said Mary. She had taken a photograph
out of her pocket, and now thrust it into Sir John's hand. He stared
at it."Yes," he said, "that is the girl; that is exactly how she looked,
poor thing, when I last spoke to her.""That happens to be a photograph of my cousin, Mrs. Henley," said
Mary."Imposs--" began the baronet; then he stopped--the words were
arrested on his lips. He looked at Mary in an almost frightened
way."I cannot understand this," he said; "I could have sworn that that
was the portrait of Miss Mildmay.""The two girls were remarkably alike," answered Mary; "I have been
often told of the strange likeness between them. And yet, when you
last saw Mrs. Henley, she was, in your opinion, far gone in
consumption?""Such was my opinion.""How long did you give her to live?""She might have died at any time. When I last saw her I did not
think she would survive a week. Sudden business called me to England,
and I did not see her again. I left the case in the hands of my
colleague--a Dr. Gardner; but Miss Bouverie even then had a strange
dislike to seeing medical men, and earnestly requested that he would
not call unless specially sent for. I have learnt since that he was
never sent for. He has since died--otherwise he might throw light on
what puzzles you.""And yet," continued Mary, "Miss Mildmay died a week later, and
Kate Bouverie got quite well. This
picture you have just looked at is supposed to be one of Kate
Bouverie; when you saw it you thought it was Kate Mildmay. Sir John, I
think I can guess why my cousin, Kate Henley, refuses to see you.""If so, except for the natural reason which I have stated, you know
more than I do, Miss Hume.""I will tell you why she won't see you. She does not wish you to
sound her lungs because they are perfectly strong and healthy, because
there has never been anything the matter with them.""Here you make a mistake," answered Sir John."What do you mean?""I will read you part of a letter which I received from Henley this
morning."Sir John took a letter from his pocket, opened it, and read the
following lines:--
"My dear wife, at my express desire, at first consented to see
Dr. Martin Hewitt, who, as you know, makes consumption his
speciality. I meant to take her to him this morning, but found that
her nervous dread of consulting a male doctor was almost bringing on
an illness. At last, to compromise matters, she allowed me to call in
the very well-known lady doctor, Dr. Agnes Stevenson of Harley
Street. Dr. Stevenson has just left, and her opinion in all
particulars coincides with yours. Both lungs are now healed over, but
the left lung in particular was gravely affected last year, and traces
of the past mischief are abundantly evident. My wife and I go to
Australia immediately, in compliance with Dr. Stevenson's
orders.""You see," said Sir John, as he folded up the letter, "that
Mrs. Henley really was very ill last year. I will own, Miss Hume, that your questions have puzzled
me. I cannot imagine why you should have ever doubted my opinion with
regard to Mrs. Henley's case.""I never for a moment doubted your opinion, Sir John.""This letter is conclusive," said Sir John, rising and putting it
into his pocket. "Why, what is the matter? Have you any other
questions to ask?""No more questions of you at present," answered Mary, "but I have
one remark to make.""What is that?""Kate Henley is the cleverest woman that ever lived.""What do you mean?""This. I don't believe that testimony. I am going to see Dr. Agnes
Stevenson myself."CHAPTER
XXIIIMARY did not enlighten Ethel with regard to her interview with Sir
John Fenton-Douglas. Poor Ethel was devoured with curiosity, but she
had to keep her feelings to herself. Mary was glum and severe; there
was a malicious look in her eye, and also a certain gleam of
satisfaction. Ethel considered her sister not only dull, but
disagreeable."Whatever she has at the back of her head," thought the girl, "she
certainly is nothing like as nice as she was before poor dear Kate
came back from Mentone. It is all very queer, and why she won't leave
the poor dear girl alone puzzles me more than I care to say."It was a relief, however, to Ethel to hear her sister remark
casually that they were to return to London and to the Grange on the
following day."I am glad to hear it," said Ethel, "for I cannot say that I care
to be in Cornwall so late in the year.""My business being concluded, I am going back to town," said
Mary."Oh! is it concluded, really, Mary? Then I suppose you will be your
old self again. You will return to the sort of life we led before Kate
came back.""My business is concluded in Cornwall, but that does not say that
it is concluded in London," said Mary; "on the contrary, I may say it
has only begun."Ethel made no further remark. She sighed heavily.The next morning at an early hour the girls left the little inn and
took the next train back to town. They arrived in town in the evening,
and there, to Ethel's amazement, Mary still proceeded to act in a very
eccentric way. During the journey up Mary had absorbed herself in a
book, although Ethel strongly suspected that she was not reading
it.When they got to town Ethel took out her watch."If we are quick, Mary," she said, "and secure a cab in a hurry, we
can just catch the train at Victoria, and shall reach the Grange about
ten o'clock to-night.""But I am not going into the country to-night," said Mary."Oh dear me, what next?" said Ethel, gazing at her sister with
round eyes."I mean to stay at a hotel in town.""We two by ourselves at a hotel! Then I suppose we had better go to
the Metropole. How surprised Kate and Ralph will be to see us--oh, do
let us go to the Metropole, Mary.""I think not," said Mary. "It certainly would be a temptation," she
said, speaking slowly, "to see Kate and just mention casually that I
have been having an interview with Sir John Fenton-Douglas, but on
second thoughts it may be best not to warn her. She is too clever, and
might try to circumvent us. No; we will go to the Grosvenor
Hotel.""Would father like us to stay alone at one of these big hotels?"
queried Ethel."Oh, nonsense, Ethel, I am not a baby. As long as you are with me
you need not be frightened.Come, we
will take this hansom and desire the man to drive us to the Grosvenor
Hotel."Ethel had nothing more to say, but she felt more and more
uncomfortable. What did Mary really mean? What was at the back of her
head? She had a queer sensation that there was trouble ahead, but
could make nothing of Mary's attitude.The girls arrived at the hotel, wire Mary acted in a very prompt
and business-like way. She secured a comfortable room for herself and
sister, ordered dinner to be sent to them in a private sitting-room,
and was not seen downstairs again that night."You can trust yourself to me most comfortably," she said to her
sister. "I would not do anything fast or strong-minded for the
world."Ethel had now ceased to make any remonstrance."I suppose," she said once, in a rather timorous voice, "you will
allow us to return to our own home to-morrow?""It will all depend on what to-morrow brings forth," answered
Mary. She opened her book again and once more hid herself behind its
pages."Really, she is unbearable," thought Ethel. "Why should I be
ordered about by her? and it is so dull to stay here doing nothing
while she thinks her thoughts behind that book. I will just watch her
and see how often she turns a page."Mary's eyes were glued to the pages of her yellow-backed novel."She never turns one at all," thought the other girl. "She is just
thinking, thinking, and she really becomes most disagreeable. I shall
be glad when it is time to go to bed. I wonder if I might slip away
and get into a hansom and drive off to the Métropole and see my dear darling Kitty--really
anybody is a better companion than my own sister in these days; and
what is she driving at? I do wonder if her brain is going; nothing
else can account for her remarkable conduct."Mary jumped up hastily."I am tired and shall go to bed," she said; "you can follow me when
you like."She left the room, and Ethel was left alone."Worse and worse," thought the girl. "Bad as she was, she was some
one to look at, and it is not ten o'clock yet. I cannot go to bed
before ten, I am not a baby. Really, Mary is very queer."Ethel passed the rest of the evening as best she could. At last,
perforce, she was obliged to retire to rest.At an early hour in the morning Mary was up and stirring."I am going out for a little," she said to her sister."Well, I suppose I may come with you, Mary?""I think not; I should prefer to go alone."It suddenly occurred to Ethel that nothing now should prevent her
going to the Métropole to talk to Kate and Ralph."I must see them," she said to herself, "and I won't submit to
Mary's dictatorial ways another hour."Accordingly, she pretended to he quite satisfied to stay behind at
the hotel, and Mary, dressed in her quietest and most severe style,
went downstairs. The hall-porter called a hansom for her, and she gave
the address of Dr. Agnes Stevenson in Harley Street."I have plenty of money in my purse, I will pose as a patient, burst into her presence and learn the
truth," thought the excited girl.She arrived at the house. This was the hour when the great doctor
was seeing patients. Mary gave her name, and asked if Dr. Stevenson
were in. The footman who opened the door replied in the
affirmative. He then asked the young lady if she had an
appointment."No, I have not; but my business is urgent. I want to see
Dr. Stevenson this morning. Is it possible for her to see me? I shall
not keep her very long.""I will go and inquire," said the man. He conducted Mary into a
large waiting-room, which was already half-full of ladies and children
who were waiting anxiously for the moment when the doctor could
receive them. Mary took her place near the door, feeling somewhat
forlorn; her whole heart was hot and impatient, she did not want to
wait long. If she slipped a sovereign into the foot-man's hand would
there be any chance of his admitting her first into his mistress's
presence? She accordingly went into the hall. The servant, however,
seemed to guess what she was going to say, for he put his hands
impulsively behind him."Dr. Stevenson will see you if you like to wait after the other
patients have gone," he said, "but she would rather you made an
appointment. Can you come to-morrow morning instead?""No, I think not; I will wait now.""You will have to wait for a couple of hours at least.""Oh, it does not matter, I will wait. Please tell the doctor that I
am waiting.""Yes, miss," replied the man.Mary went back to the waiting-room. One by one the patients were
shown into the doctor's presence. Mary seldom passed through a longer
two hours, the minutes seemed to drag. She wondered what Ethel was
doing in her absence."Poor Ethel! but she will thank me some day," thought the girl,
"some day when wrong is made right. Oh, I am sure, I am certain, I
shall soon discover the great fraud which is being played upon us. I
have no longer the least doubt on the subject."At last the time of waiting was over, and Mary Hume was admitted
into Dr. Stevenson's presence. Dr. Stevenson was a very bright-eyed
little woman, not so very unlike the other bright-eyed little woman
who, posing in her name, had seen Kate at the Métropole a
couple of days ago.Mary entered, and Dr. Stevenson motioned her to a seat."What can I do for you?" she said. "What are your symptoms?""Oh, I am not ill at all," said Mary in a slightly defiant
voice."Not ill at all!--then why have you come to me?""I have come to speak to you about one of your patients.""Indeed, but that is rather unusual.	Is the patient, may I ask, a
relation of yours?""By way of cousin," said Mary in a blunt voice."And by what authority do you come to ask me questions about
her?""Simply because I want to know. You said that her lungs were very
much affected, whereas I ampersuaded
that her lungs are absolutely healthy. I want you to tell me the
truth.""Do you mind telling me the name of the patient about whom you have
come to make inquiries?" said Dr. Stevenson in a very icy voice."Yes, of course, Mrs. Henley--Kate Henley. She was staying at the
Métropole--you saw her a couple of days ago."Dr. Stevenson did not speak for a moment. She got up then, crossed
the room, and opened a large book. She looked quietly in the book for
a moment and then returned to her seat."And you want me to tell you about this patient?" she said then in
a grave voice."Oh yes, if you only would.""I am sorry, but I must refuse.""Refuse? Why?""Because it is against my rules ever, except to the father or
mother or husband of a patient, to disclose anything whatever about
her condition.""Is that rule absolute? This is a most important case; in fact, I
suspect fraud," said Mary, who for the moment, with the keen eyes of
the lady doctor fixed on her face, forgot her customary prudence."I am sorry for you, Miss Hume," said Dr. Stevenson, rising; "but
if that is all you have got to say to me it is a pity you waited so
long this morning.""And you absolutely refuse--absolutely?""I am sorry--it is against my rules--I cannot oblige you.""Thank you."Mary fumbled in her purse for a fee."No fee," said Dr. Stevenson. "I have done nothing. Good-morning,
Miss Hume."Mary left the house. Lunch was waiting for Dr. Stevenson, and she
was tired and hungry and had earned it well, but nevertheless she did
not go into her dining-room until quite ten minutes after Mary had
left her. She was standing once more beside the large case-book which
she had opened. There was a brief entry under the name of Kate Henley,
an entry to the effect that the patient and her husband had left town
unexpectedly and could not see her for the present."What does this mean?" she said to herself. "What can this mean?
That girl who called just now, and whose unpleasant face I by no means
took to, said that I had seen the patient and had reported that her
lungs were very much affected; but I never saw that patient; she had
left town. Miss Hume does not know of this, and she says she suspects
fraud. What does it mean?"There were few keener, shrewder women in London than the celebrated
lady doctor. She thought for a minute or two, then, taking up her Swan
fountain-pen, made a few remarks on the margin of her case-book. These
remarks were made in cipher, and no one could read them but
herself."When the time comes I shall be prepared," she said to
herself. "But what does it mean?"CHAPTER XXIVMEANWHILE Ethel, with the daring and courage of which she had never
believed herself capable, had ordered a hansom and had driven straight
to the Métropole. She found Kate in her bedroom."My dear Ethel, how glad I am to see you," said Mrs. Henley.Kate was looking quite blooming; she had cast off the last vestige
of care, her daring idea had succeeded, she was soon going to leave
England and these cares, these dangers, these terrors, behind her for
ever. Already she and her husband had taken their passage on one of
the largest Orient liners. They were to sail for Australia in a week's
time."It's very nice to see you again, Ethel," said Kate; "but where is
Mary?""Oh, goodness knows. Don't ask me where Mary is," said Ethel. "It
is perfectly distracting; I cannot imagine what is the matter with
her; she grows queerer every day. What do you think we did the day
after we left you? Where do you think we went?""How can I tell?""Well, my dear Kitty, if I am worn out with travel and anxiety
don't be astonished--we went down to Cornwall.""To Cornwall? What for?" said Kate. A little of the old anxiety
visited her clear eyes, but she quickly veiled them. She was learning
better day by day to suppress all undue emotion."To Cornwall!" she repeated. She turned and began to fold up
different ribbons which she was putting into a hat-box."Do look at this unique, delicious travelling case for hats and
bonnets," she said. "See all these little pegs-- everything in such
complete order. I can take eight hats in this trunk, and they will be
as fresh and as little likely to get injured, as if they were reposing
in my wardrobe at home. Oh dear, oh dear, how tired I am! But what
took you to Cornwall? You were just telling me.""If you want to know who took me to Cornwall--Mary took me,"
replied Ethel. "I always go where Mary goes; I have done so all my
life. She wanted me to accompany her, so I went. We went down the day
before yesterday, and who do you think we saw in the evening? We went
to your place, you know.""To my place--to Castellis?" said Kate.She was getting intensely, fearfully interested, but she did not
dare to show it."Yes, to Castellis. Not to the house, of course, but to the
village. We put up at the inn, and in the evening we had a
visitor.""Who?""Oh, can't you guess? We don't know many people round there. Sir
John Fenton-Douglas.""Oh, do be careful, Ethel; you are spoiling that Marabout
feather."Kate sprang towards her cousin and, almost roughly, took the small
pink Marabout feather which Ethel was playing with from her hand."There, do forgive me. I was cross," she said."You certainly were; you jumped on me almost as if you meant to
give me a blow. And I really was not injuring the feather.""I am so sorry, darling. Sit down here and let us talk. How very
funny of Mary to go to Cornwall!--but what did she say to Sir John
Fenton-Douglas?""Ah, I wish I could tell you that, Kate, but I cannot. They had a
long interview, a very long interview, but when she came up to bed
afterwards she would not tell me a word of what they had said.""Then you were not present? Oh, Ethel, wish you would not
fidget!""Fidget? I am sitting as still as a mouse. You seem to have got
Mary's nerves. I was not present because Mary wished to see him
alone. Oh, it was a great mystery, and she was frightfully excited. I
cannot think what has come to her: she seems to have a sort of
suspicion about you, Kate--why, Kitty darling, how white you are!""It is because I am not strong," said Kate. "What in the world can
Mary suspect me of? But I have noticed it, Ethel; I don't mind
confiding in you.""I should think you could scarcely help noticing it. She has been
suspecting you ever since you came home, and it breaks my heart,
Kitty--that it does." Here the impulsive Ethel sprang towards her
cousin, flung her arms round her neck, and burst into tears."Oh--I love you so--I love you so!" whispered Ethel. "It's horrid
of her--it is--it is!""Never mind," answered Kate, "she cannot do me any harm; only I
should like to know what she really thinks.""Oh, who cares what she thinks?" said Ethel. "But it is a sign of
insanity, isn't it, when one begins to suspect people?""A very grave sign," said Kate."Well, I am awfully nervous about Mary. Did you ever hear, Kate,
that any of our family were--I scarcely like to ask it, but did you
ever hear that any of our family were insane?""Oh, don't question me," said Kate. She turned away and began once
more to fiddle with her ribbons and feathers."But why don't you speak? You know all about our family, of
course.""I was only thinking of a story my father once told me; it was
about an aunt of both of ours.""Oh, tell me--do tell me!""She went queer, very much as Mary is going queer. She began to
suspect all kinds of people. They locked her up for a time, then she
got better. That is the only case I have heard of, and her name was
Julia--Aunt Julia.""Aunt Julia--why, of course, we have her picture at home.""Poor thing, she made a very low marriage--married beneath
her.""We have the picture up in the attic," continued Ethel. "It is not
thought anything of. She was very pretty, sweetly pretty.""Yes, that was her. She married beneath her, and then she got
queer. She began to suspect her husband of all sorts of things, and he
was a very good man and very faithful to her; and they locked her up,
and she came out again, but she did not live very long--she died of
consumption. We are not avery healthy
race," continued Kate, and here she gave a deep sigh."Oh, do tell me, please Kate--never mind about Mary just now; I
earnestly hope she is not going off her head--but just tell me,
please, what Dr. Agnes Stevenson said of you."Kate sat down gravely. She said  "You don't mind my telling you
quite the truth, go you, Ethel?""Why, of course not; but she is not frightened about you?""Not frightened, darling; but she acknowledges that I have been
very ill--the traces of my illness are quite apparent. She says if I
go to Australia soon I shall be all right.""And are you going? How I wish you would take me with you!""I would gladly, Ethel, if you liked it. Would you care to
come?""Awfully--beyond anything. Since Mary has got so queer I cannot
stand her, she makes me so nervous.""Poor Mary! she ought to have a change; she ought to go away from
her people.""I will suggest it to father, and I will suggest that I go with you
and Ralph. Oh, do agree to it, Kitty darling!""I should like it of all things," said Kate. She considered
carefully for a moment. After all, it would be an excellent plan if
she took Ethel with her and left Marryat behind. Marryat knew too
much. She might pension Marryat off, she could make it worth her while
to be silent, and she was no longer essential to her. She could do
without a maid, and take this gentle, clever, affectionate little
Ethel; and Ethel would so like to come."We will think of it," she said; "I will speak to Ralph when he
comes in. But if you come, Ethel, you have very little time to
prepare, for we are sailing this day week.""Oh yes," thought Kate to herself, "we must on no account postpone
our departure--Mary is getting quite terrible. I must foster that idea
of Ethel's that Mary is going off her head. It is an excellent thought
which Ethel has put into my brain."Ethel presently left her cousin. She did so before Ralph appeared
on the scene. She drove straight back to the Grosvenor Hotel. Mary had
just returned from her non-successful interview with Dr. Agnes
Stevenson. Mary was feeling not only cross but snubbed; she was just
in the humour to snub others, and Ethel had the reverse of a gay time
at lunch. Ethel mentioned casually that she had taken the bull by the
horns and had gone off on her own account to visit Kate."And Kate is going to Australia this day week," said Ethel."Oh no, she is not," replied Mary. She raised her eyes and fixed
them on her sister's face."She is not?" said Ethel in absolute terror. She was now certain
that Mary was insane. "Why do you say that? She has taken her
passage--she and Ralph are both going. Dr. Agnes Stevenson saw her,
and says that dear Kate is very far from strong, her lungs bear traces
of serious disease in the past, and she must get away to a more
equable climate immediately.""Oh, I know all that," said Mary; "but all the same she is not
going--not if I can prevent her.""I don't understand you, Mary. But there, take your lunch, you look
quite fagged."Mary flung herself petulantly down by the table. She did not care
for her food, and only played with it. Ethel, who was very hungry
herself, felt too much alarm about Mary to eat. She longed to be at
home; she wondered when her father and mother would come back."What are we going to do this afternoon?" she said at last."We are going back to the Grange. I did not mention that I had a
telegram from father in the course of the morning. He and mother
arrived home last night.""Oh, how glad I am!" said Ethel, heaving a deep sigh of relief."Dear me, Ethel, I did not know you missed them so terribly.""But I do, I do," said Ethel; "I have not been away from the
darling mummy for so long for many, many years, and, Mary, so much has
happened.""I should rather think a great deal has happened," replied
Mary."And--and you are not well, Mary.""I not well? I am perfectly well; what do you mean?""They always say they are perfectly well; they never guess for a
moment that their minds are going," thought Ethel. "Well, I must
humour her. I am glad you are well, dear old Mary. It is only just the
extra fatigue, that is why I said it--you are so pale lately.""I wish you would not stare at me in that unpleasant way, Ethel. I
believe you have taken it from Kate; she often stares fixedly at a
person and then looks away.""I have never noticed it," said Ethel."Have you not? But you are not remarkable, my dear Ethel, for your
powers of observation. Now then, I'll desire the waiter to bring our
bill; we will settle up and go home by the next train."This was done, and on the evening of that day Ethel found herself
pacing up and down the shrubbery by her father's side.Mr. Hume was in excellent spirits. He was glad to be back
again. The house was in perfect order; his wife had benefited by her
change; his own business prospects were excellent; he enjoyed the
thought of being back again in town day after day, very busy at
work. He was delighted to have his girls with him, and now pinched
Ethel's ear playfully."Well, little lass," he said, "what is the matter? You look as if
you meant to ask me something.""And I do mean to ask you for a great, a very great favour,
father.""Well, little woman, ask away.""But will you grant it?""Certainly not, until I know what it is.""Oh, father dear, if only you would grant it, oh, how grateful I
should be.""Well, ask it, my child, ask it.""You know, don't you, that Ralph and Kate are going to Australia
next week?""Yes," said Mr. Hume. "I must go up to town to see them
to-morrow. I had a line from Ralph; he has taken their passage on
board the Hydra. She is one of the fastest
ships on the line.""And the Orient Line boats are splendid, are they not, father?""Yes, dear; some of the best of all."Ethel sighed. The little hand which rested on her father's arm
trembled slightly."Now, what is it, young woman? What does all this mean? You are
sorry to part from Kate, eh? That I can quite understand.""Oh, father, I should be terribly sorry to part from her, I love
her so much. You know I have always loved our dear Kitty.""I know that.""I feel so differently towards her to what Mary does.""Mary does not look well," said the lawyer in an anxious voice."Oh, father, I don't think she is very well. But I am not talking
about her now; it is about myself.""Well, Ethel, I wish you would not beat about the bush.""It is this, father; it would be such a treat: may I go with Kate
to Australia?""What?" said Mr. Hume. He dropped his daughter's hand, turned and
faced her."May I go, father? I should enjoy it so much.""Don't on any account give her permission, father," at that moment
said Mary's voice. "I have heard her; her request is preposterous. I
have something I wish to say to you in private. You can leave us for
the present, Ethel.""But I won't go," said Ethel; " I won't!" Her colour came and
went. "I won't be ruled by you any longer, Mary. I am determined to go
with Kate to Australia. You won't say No, will you, father?""Father will not only say No," replied Mary; "but Kate herself will
be obliged to remain in this country. I have something important to
say to my father, and alone. Leave us, Ethel, for the
present."CHAPTER
XXVMARY'S nature was stronger than Ethel's, and after a moment's
hesitation, during which she struggled to resist Mary's authority, the
younger girl gave way. She walked slowly back to the house."I will go and see mummy," she said to herself. "Perhaps mummy will
understand. How queer Mary is--how different from what she used to be!
What can it all mean? Oh, if I only might go to Australia with Kate
how very happy I should be! During our absence Mary would forget all
that now worries her, and when we came back again she would be her own
dear self."Ethel quickened her steps. She soon reached her mother's room.Mrs. Hume, tired from her journey, was lying on the sofa. She was
considerably better, her eyes were bright, and there was a healthy
colour in each of her cheeks. Ethel ran up to her impulsively, knelt
down by her side, and took one of her hands in hers."It is good to see you again, mummy," she said."And it is very nice to see you, my little Ethel," replied
Mrs. Hume. "Sit down, darling, and tell me all you have been
doing.""All, mummy? That will mean a long narrative.""Well, begin; tell me something at any rate. How did you enjoy your
time at Castellis?""Oh! but don't you know," cried Ethel, "we had scarcely any time there.	Kate hurried us away. She was
nervous, poor Kitty was.""She used to be nervous as a child," said Mrs. Hume; "but I fancied
from her appearance that she had quite outgrown it. But what could
make her ner us at dear old Castellis?""Such an absurd idea, mother. She took it into her head that the
place was haunted.""Oh! my dear child!""There was an old story about it, don't you remember?""Yes, dear; but I never listen to things of that sort. You don't
seriously mean to tell me that Kitty was affected by any nonsense of
that kind?""She was, mummy; and so seriously affected that she rushed off to
Falmouth, and we had to follow her. But, after all, it didn't
matter. It is not the place, mummy dear, it is the people that make
the difference; and Kitty was delighted at Falmouth, and we were in a
splendid hotel and had every comfort. We went out on the water a good
deal in Ralph's yacht. Oh! we had a gay time, and--""Yes, darling. Why do you stop?""If it were not for Mary, mother, I think I should have been
perfectly happy.""But what had your dear sister to do with pre-venting your being
happy?""Mother," said Ethel--she looked fixedly into her mother's
eyes--"don't you see a change in our Mary?""You alarm me, my love. A change in her health, do you mean?""Well, I don't really know that it is her health at least, I don't
think it is her bodily health. But she is changed, mother; she is very
queer. She seemsfull of suspicion
about--about our Kate--our Kitty, mother!""Our Kate--our Kitty? Mary suspects Kitty?" said Mrs. Hume. "But of
what?""Really, mother, I cannot say. She is so strange about it. From her
attitude and ways one would think that Kate had done something very,
very wrong, and that Mary's mission in life was to find it out. Let me
tell you, mother. Listen, won't you?"Mrs. Hume did listen while Ethel repeated the various things she
had observed with regard to Mary--her hurried visit to Cornwall, the
interview with Sir John Fenton-Douglas, their coming back to town,
were all graphically described.Mrs. Hume listened without making any comment. Her life of
invalidism had made her thoughtful and wary. In the old days she used
to be impulsive; now she held herself in firm control, and allowed
Ethel to see very little of her mind."What does it mean, mother?" said the girl in conclusion. "What is
wrong?""Nothing, I hope, darling. What should be wrong?""But she has no reason whatever for her strange conduct! What can
Kate have done wrong?""I hope nothing, my dear.""But Mary thinks she has. Mary suspects her. Sometimes I almost
think that she--it seems incredible--but I almost think she suspects
Kate of not being Kate at all!""Now, my dear Ethel, you are getting a little unintelligible.""Oh! I know, mother, it all sounds very strange; but let me tell
you what fear troubles me.""Do, darling.""I am so awfully afraid that our Mary is growing like Aunt
Julia."Now, indeed, Mrs. Hume turned pale."No," she said, half rising from her sofa. "No. Impossible!""People who go out of their minds get affected that way; don't
they, mother?""Yes, darling; but I am sure it is not true in Mary's case."Just then steps were heard in the corridor; they stopped outside
Mrs. Hume's door. The next instant Mr. Hume and Mary came in."What are you talking about, Ethel?" said Mary, glancing at her
sister, who flushed vividly at sight of her."I was talking to mother.""About me?" said Mary."Well, yes, Mary. I cannot deny it.""I suppose you won't tell me what you have been saying?""I don't think I can.""Certainly not, Mary," said Mrs. Hume; she looked at her elder
daughter as she spoke. "Ethel is at liberty to talk privately to her
mother without being forced to repeat her words.""Oh, of course, mother," said Mary; "but you look fagged and tired,
just as if Ethel's words were exciting--too exciting for you to
hear. I think I can guess what Ethel has been saying. I have seen the
thought in her mind for the last couple of days.""What thought, my dear?" said her father.Mary laughed. Her laugh was scarcely tuneful. Her face had altered
very much during the last fewmonths;
it had lost the first comeliness of youth, the cheeks were a little
hollow, there were black shadows under the large dark eyes. The
complexion was no longer clear, but was somewhat inclined to be
sallow. Mary's lips trembled, too--there was a want of repose just now
round the lower part of her face which anything but improved her
appearance."I know what you mean," she said, and she stood where the full
light of the evening sun fell all over her. "You think, father thinks,
Ethel thinks, that I am following in the steps of Aunt Julia.""Oh, don't, my child, don't," said Mrs. Hume. She gave a little cry
of distress."I am not doing so," continued Mary. "I am more sane than any one
of the rest of you. Something is hidden from you which I see quite
clearly.""They all think that," murmured Ethel under her breath, and
something like the same thought occurred to Mrs. Hume. She knew that
those who were going out of their minds were, as a rule, the last to
recognise it."Yes, mother," said Mary, with passion, "it is very hard to be
misunderstood; but I vow, I declare here before my father, before
Ethel, before you, that I will tear the disguise from that adventuress
Kate Henley.""My dear!" cried her mother."She is an adventuress," repeated Mary. "She is robbing us of our
money--she--she is not the Kitty we used to know.""How dare you say it, Mary?" exclaimed her father."My poor child!" cried her mother. "There, there, Mary, come to
me."Mary knelt by her mother's side. She suddenly burst into tears."Oh, don't think me mad," she cried. "You are all misunderstanding me, but I vow and declare that I
will not rest until I have proved my words.""This is quite terrible," said Mr. Hume. He looked with distress at
his daughter."Leave her, leave her to me," said the mother. "Go away, Ethel. Go,
dear," she added, looking at her husband, "leave the child to me."Mary was left with her mother, and no one quite knew what passed
between the two. When Mrs. Hume was seen again there was a new
expression of anxiety round her lips and in her eyes. Mr. Hume spoke
to her eagerly."Well," he said, "I hope you have driven that nonsense out of
Mary's head.""I have not; it is firmly rooted there.""What is to be done with her?" said the father."I don't know. I think she ought to go away for a time, quite away
from Kate and Ralph. I never knew that our girl could be so keen about
money, so desirous to possess a fortune. She has always been simply
brought up--she has seen little of the worldly side of life. I cannot
understand her present attitude. I have suggested to her that she
shall go away from home, and to my surprise she is willing.""But where is she to go?" said Mr. Hume."Ah, that is the question; we must consider the matter for a few
days.""She talked a lot of absolute rubbish to me," said Mr. Hume. "I
could see no coherence in her story. Why should Kate for a single
moment be any other than Kate?""Mary does not seem to quite know that herself; she only insists
upon it that Kate carries a secret, that that secret is undermining
her health, that there issomething
wrong with her. She says that from the moment she first appeared in
the house she had nameless suspicions about her, that these have
strengthened as the time went on, and during her visit to Castellis,
and more particularly to Falmouth, the suspicions became
certainties. Mary believes that her maid, Marryat, knows something of
Kate's secret; but she says she would not have moved herself in the
matter had it not been for Kate's most curious aversion to seeing Sir
John Fenton-Douglas.""I noticed that myself," said the lawyer thoughtfully. "I
considered it very queer, and was sorry that Kitty retained so much of
her childish nervousness; but all these remembrances make it more
certain that the girl we know and love is really the Kitty of long
ago. How can it possibly be otherwise? There is no sense in the
thing. Sir John recognised her as the girl he had attended at
Mentone.""Ay," said Mrs. Hume, "but why would she not see him?""Because of that same nervousness, my dear Susannah; it was only
the failing of the child more marked in the woman.""Quite so; but then the little Kitty of long ago would have yielded
to her husband's entreaties, and allowed Sir John Fenton-Douglas to
examine her lungs."Mr. Hume stared at his wife."Really, Susannah, one would suppose that you were affected by
Mary's extraordinary suspicions.""Oh, I am not--not at all; but it is only fair to our child that
her suspicions should be treated, at least at first, with a certain
amount of respect.""Not at all. I have no patience with her," said Mr. Hume. "She
opened up the most perplexingand,
indeed, terrible questions. She is nervous. We ought all to be anxious
with regard to her, bearing poor Julia's history in mind; but as to
Kate, I refuse to allow her to be discussed any longer.""All the same, Robert," said his wife, "you might go up to town
to-morrow to see her.""I shall certainly do so and early in the morning too. Their
hurried visit to Australia makes it necessary that I should have a
good deal of talk with Kate with regard to money matters.""And meanwhile Mary?" said the mother."Mary had better be taken no notice of. If she wants change, she
shall have it. She shall go abroad if she likes. By the way, Susan,
what do you think of the proposal that Ethel should accompany her
cousin to Australia?""Ethel go to Australia?""Kate is very anxious about it.""Oh, I do not think it would do at all, Robert, and if there
were--""There, there, my dear; I won't even allow you to complete your
sentence. Mary must not sow the seeds of suspicion in this house. I am
going to ask Kate and her husband to come down here to-morrow. Give
orders that the best spare room is got ready immediately to receive
them.Mr. Hume left his wife. Mary had already retired to her
bedroom. Ethel wandered about just outside the drawing-room
windows. She was perplexed and anxious, but her thoughts were more
occupied with Mary and her supposed state of health than they were
with her cousin Kate.Early next morning Mr. Hume hurried off to town, and soon after ten
o'clock he was ushered intoKate's
presence. She came to meet him in the private sitting-room which she
and her husband had engaged at the hotel, with both hands extended and
her lovely eyes dancing."Ah! it is good to see you, Uncle Robert," she said."And good to see you, my dear Kitty," he replied, bending forward
and kissing her on her forehead. "Why, how well you look, my
dear!""Oh, I am well now, but I was a little anxious a few days ago. I am
so fearfully busy, however, that I have no time to think of my
health. We are off on Thursday next. Have you come to tell me that
dear, darling Ethel may come too?""I have not come to say anything of the sort, Kitty. Your aunt and
I want you and Ralph to comne to the Grange this evening.""Oh, I am sure we will with pleasure," said Kate, without a
moment's hesitation."Then that is all right, my dear. Your sudden visit to Australia
necessitates my having a long talk, with you with regard to money
matters.""I expected something of the sort," replied Kate; "but don't make
our interviews too complicated, please, Uncle Robert. Remember that
your Kitty has not got the brains of a lawyer.""My Kitty has got a very astute brain for all that," said
Mr. Hume. He looked her up and down as he spoke. He noticed the
breadth of the brow, the massive head, the broad, well-defined
shoulders, the noble figure. He said to himself: "That woman has got
courage, shrewdness, intellect of a high order. The little Kitty of
long ago has developed into a finer woman than I ever expected. Can it
be--" But he thrust the thought away from him."By the way," he said, "I was sorry at the necessity of your going
to Australia. It is a serious thing, my dear Katherine, when a man has
to leave his estates, when a man in your husband's position cannot
take up the duties which Providence means him to undertake.""Oh, I know that, and I hope one winter abroad will cure me," said
Kate, her lovely eyes filling with tears. She looked so like the Kitty
of long ago at that instant that the lawyer's very faint fear with
regard to her was dismissed as utter rubbish. He sat down and took her
hand."Of course," he said, "your husband's first duty is to see after
you; but it is a grief to feel that you require the change.""Yes," she said softly, "I am sorry that I do; but you know
Dr. Agnes Stevenson's report on my lungs was on the whole
unfavourable.""Ah, you saw Dr. Agnes Stevenson, the great lady doctor?""Of course I did. Did not Ethel tell you?""No, I don't think Ethel mentioned it. And what did she say?""She said that there were traces of serious mischief to be found in
my lungs, but that they were both more or less healed now. It was
possible, however, that the climate of England might cause fresh
mischief, and she thought it safer that I should winter abroad."And you have specially chosen Australia ? It seems a long way
off.""Oh yes; we had better get quite away into another hemisphere. I am
restless for change, too.""And you have taken your passage in the Hydra?""Yes. We start on Thursday from Tilbury.""And you seriously propose that Ethel should go with you?""I propose it because I love Ethel. May she come?""I will think it over.""I must know your decision soon; we have to take her passage.""I will let you know to-morrow morning," said the lawyer; "and now
I must go, my dear. You and your husband will be with us in time for
dinner.""Yes," said Kate.As Mr. Hume was walking down the steps of the Métropole,
having bidden his niece good-bye, he was attracted by a four-wheeler
which had drawn up at the kerb. One of the waiters from the hotel was
helping the cabman to take a trunk off the roof. Out of the cab,
meanwhile, was stepping a neatly dressed, dainty-looking person. She
turned as she came up the steps of the hotel, and Mr. Hume saw her
face."Ah, Marryat!" he said.Marryat dropped a respectful curtsey."I have been anxious about my mistress," she said. "Do you happen
to know, Mr. Hume, if she is in?""Yes. I have just come from her," replied Hume. "I am glad you are
back, Marryat; Mrs. Henley is not well.""I am very pleased to be back in order to attend the dear lady,"
was Marryat's gentle response. The lawyer hurried off."I cannot think why Kate left her maid so long at Falmouth," he
said to himself. "I am glad she is with her now. She changed colour so
often duringour interview that I
begin to think she is by no means so strong as I at first
fancied. Dr. Stevenson's story was an ugly one--traces of mischief in
both lungs. That fact, joined to a family history in which
tuberculosis takes an unquestionable part, is enough to raise the
fears of any one. Poor Henley, how devoted he is to his pretty wife!
No wonder! no wonder! But if Kate were to die?"The lawyer's eyes glistened, and just for one moment some of the
avarice which had appeared in Mary's dark eyes visited his, for Kate's
was an enormous fortune--a colossal fortune; and, failing her having
children, in the event of her death it would go to his daughters.He pushed the thought away from him almost as soon as it came. He
was an honourable man, and a good man, and he loved his niece. He had
a great deal of business to attend to, and spent a very busy day in
town.Meanwhile, Marryat asked to be taken to Mrs. Henley. Kate was
standing by the window of her pretty sitting-room. She was looking out
at the traffic which ever and ever rolled by in the broad thoroughfare
below. It was difficult to know where her thoughts were. She stood
perfectly still, her hands folded behind her back, the bloom of health
on her cheeks, and yet a slight expression of anxiety already drawing
the most delicate lines round her sensitive mouth. The opening of the
door caused her to turn round."Marryat!" she cried, with a sort of gasp.The maid advanced with a somewhat mincing step into the room. The
waiter who had introduced her closed the door behind her."Yes, ma'am," said Marryat. "Not hearing from you for several days,
I thought it best to come up.""But I didn't tell you to," said Kate. "Why did you do it?"Marryat stood very still, and gazed gravely at Kate."I had my reasons," she said; "and one of them is this: Mr. Rogers
has returned to the Riviera; that being the case, there was no longer
any necessity for me to stay at Falmouth.""Oh! He has gone?" said Kate, with a sigh of relief. "Has he gone
for good, Marryat?""He has gone for the present," replied Marryat."Well, Marryat, now that you have come I am glad to see you. You
had better stay with me until I leave England.""Until you leave England, ma'am!""Yes, I am going away. I have taken my passage on board the Hydra--my husband and I leave Tilbury on Thursday
morning.""For Australia, ma'am?""Yes.""And I, dear madam?" said Marryat, in a soft voice."I shall not require a maid on the voyage--it is too expensive. I
shall engage another maid when I get to Australia."Marryat coloured very faintly. This news was anything but
welcome. She stopped still for a moment to consider, then she said
slowly: "You are perhaps aware, Mrs. Henley, that I know something
special about you.""I thought you would say something ridiculous of that sort," Kate
replied. "May I ask what you do know?""This, madam, you possess a secret--that secret is known, at least
in part, to Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers has confided what he knows of that
secret to me."Kate started."I cannot imagine what he does know," she said."I will not tell you at present; but you must make it worth my
while to hold my tongue with regard to what Mr. Rogers has said to
me.""Worth your while? But, Marryat, you would not do anything to make
me feel uncomfortable?""Of course not, dear madam; that is, if you make it worth my
while.""But I have made it worth your while in the past.""That is true; I want you to make it worth my while in the
future."Kate thought for a moment."Don't ask me any more questions now," she said. "I will think
about it. Meanwhile you had better resume your duties as my maid. Go
upstairs and pack my things--my husband and I, and of course you with
us, are going to the Grange.""Oh," said Marryat, "that will suit me exactly. You don't forget, I
suppose, that Miss Mary Hume suspects you quite as much as I do,
madam.""What a monster I must be!" said Kate, with a laugh, "so many
people suspect me. Do I look like a monster, Marryat?""You look like a very beautiful young lady," said the woman. She
gazed into the large dark eyes, and at the lips tremulous now to the
point of sadness."Be kind to me, Marryat," said Kate; "be kind to me.""I will--I will, if you make it worth my while," said the
woman.CHAPTER
XXVITHAT evening the Henleys, Marryat accompanying them, arrived at the
Grange. Kate looked radiant, and yet there was a pallor about her
which made her face even more interesting and beautiful than it
generally was. The fact is, after Marryat had left her she boldly
locked the door of her sitting-room and flinging herself on a sofa had
burst into a storm of weeping. Never since the moment when she had
first thought out her bold and wicked scheme of substituting herself
for the real Kate Bouverie had she given way to tears. These tears now
came, however, with such overwhelming force that she could not resist
them. At first this great torrent of weeping was accompanied with
physical agony, but after a time the pain ceased and the relief
began. She cried until she could cry no longer, then suddenly
remembering that tears would be fatal to her appearance, put on a hat
which was lying on the table near, concealed her face under a thick
veil, and went out to walk up and down on the Embankment. She came
back about lunch-time, and no one now noticed any traces of her great
fit of weeping. But in the evening those tears had given her eyes a
peculiarly pathetic expression, and had certainly taken some of the
bloom from her cheeks. She looked delicate enough when she entered her
aunt's presence to cause that good lady to utter an exclamation--"Oh, my dear Kitty," said Mrs. Hume, "you certainly do not seem at all strong. I am not surprised
that your doctor has been wise enough to order you to leave
England."Mary was seated near her mother. She got up when Kate appeared, and
moved towards the door. Kate intercepted her."How do you do, Mary?" she said. "Won't you shake hands with
me?""Oh, how do you do?" replied Mary, in a careless voice. She took no
notice of Kate's proffered hand, but left the room. Kate turned and
gave her aunt a glance of well-feigned annoyance."What is the matter with Mary?" she said.The mother sighed. "Take no notice of her," she answered; "the poor
child is not very well; we are a little anxious, she must have change
of scene; but sit near me, Kitty; it is not necessary for you to go up
yet to take off your things. What is this I hear about your wishing
Ethel to accompany you to Australia?""I very earnestly wish you would let her come with me," said
Kate."But your uncle says that if I do you will leave Marryat
behind.""I think not--I have changed my mind about that," answered Kate
slowly."Well, I am glad. With your large fortune it is quite unnecessary
for you to do without the comforts of a maid, and if Ethel did go with
you I should like Marryat to help her also.""Of course, Aunt Susannah, Marryat shall do as much for Ethel as
she does for me. Oh, do let her come; do say 'Yes.'""I cannot give any promise, my dear, for the matter scarcely rests in my hands; but I know your
uncle is thinking about it; you can speak to him if you like after
dinner.""I will, I will," cried Kate, springing to her feet, as she
spoke. "There is no time to be lost, as if Ethel does come we must
take her passage early to-morrow. I will go to my room now if you
don't mind, Aunt Susannah; I want to change my dress for dinner."As Kate was passing through the wide hall she came face to face
with Mary. Mary stood and confronted her."Are you going on with it?" said Mary Hume, going up then to Kate
and looking her full in the face."Going on with what, Mary?""You know what I mean. You know perfectly well that you are a base
impostor, you are nothing better than an adventuress, there!""Mary!" said her father, who just then appeared on the scene, "I am
very much annoyed with you; you must not speak in this way to my niece
Kate Henley again.""Oh, don't let her, uncle," said Kate; "she quite frightens me."
Kate ran up to her uncle and put her arms round his neck. "Say that I
am not an impostor, Uncle Robert. Mary terrifies me; what can she
mean?""I mean exactly what I say," answered Mary, "but as the time is not
yet ripe for any one to believe me, I will try and be civil to you
while you remain in the house, but shake hands with you I will
not."She turned and went upstairs."Her mother and I are quite anxious about her, Kitty," said the
lawyer, looking now into Kate's white
face, "but do not be alarmed at what she says, my dear sweet child; it
is only that she herself is out of health. How pale you look, Kitty!
indeed it is true you are not at all strong."Kate went up to her room. Her interview with Mary had distressed
her far more than she cared to own."I must not even whisper to my own heart that I am an impostor,"
she said to herself; "there is nothing for it now but to go through
with it, but Mary's attitude makes things very trying. How glad I
shall be when we are really off! She will drop that poison of hers
into so many ears. She will go on repeating what for some
extraordinary reason she believes to be true so often that suspicion
cannot but arise, it cannot but grow. Yes, Marryat must certainly come
with me, and oh, if I could only get them to put Mary into an asylum,
there might be a chance of my own escape. It is a dreadful thing to
do, but I must work the idea, I must. Nothing now shall or can
interfere with my plans; I am Kate Henley, I was Kate Bouverie--no one
shall ever discover what I have done."Kate rang her bell and Marryat appeared. Marryat had already
unpacked her mistress's things, and now asked in her demure tone what
it would be Mrs. Henley's pleasure to wear at dinner."Choose the dress that becomes me most," said Kate in a reckless
voice. "Ah, I know, I will wear the crimson lace, my crimson Spanish
lace.""Madam! but you look pale already.""I will wear it," said Kate.Marryat got out the dress without a word of demur. Kate knew that
of all her dresses she looked more striking in this than in any
other. She had got the dressat an
enormous cost, and rather at a venture, but it had turned out, as far
as her appearance went, a most complete success. Marryat helped her to
get into it, and laced it to the slim young figure. Kate walked up to
the mirror and looked at herself."I am a handsome woman, am I not, Marryat?""You are indeed, madam.""The sort of woman a man would love?""Ay, madam, just so.""Marryat, my husband loves me, does he not?""Poor fellow, he worships the ground you walk on," said the
maid."And I love him," said Kate; "he must go on loving me intensely,
passionately, and my Uncle Robert must love me, and Ethel must adore
me, and Mrs. Hume must think me the sweetest, prettiest creature she
has ever seen ; and even you, Marryat, even you must have a spark of
affection in that funny, queer heart of yours for the girl who is your
mistress.""Ay, madam, I have, I have--you are a very bewitching young
lady.""Marryat," said Kate, skipping up to her, "you shall come with me
to Australia--you shall come and I will pay you, oh, so well. Will you
come, Marryat, will you?""That I will," answered Marryat, her eyes sparkling."If you come, you understand?""What, madam? you must put it into words.""But that's just what I hate to do. The more words I put things
into, the more muddled I get. If you come you will be true to me,
faithful to me in word and deed. You will think of no one in
comparison with me. You will put my welfare first of all?""And if I do all this?" said the maid."But will you? that is the question.""I will tell you that when you say what my reward is to be.""Ah, then you cannot care for me," said Kate impulsively; "it is a
money bargain. You need not come; stay in England; I won't have you on
those terms."She turned petulantly away; the colour had risen to her cheeks, but
again had faded. When her husband entered the room she turned, a pale
Kate in her crimson dress, to welcome him.Marryat left the room by one door as Henley entered by another."Well, Kitty," he said.Kate ran up to him."Do you like me in my crimson dress?" she said; "I bought it a week
ago. It was something of a spec.; do I look nice in it--the sort of
Kitty you would be proud of?""I am always proud of you, Kate, whatever you wear," answered the
young man.There was something in his tone which caused Kate to regard him
attentively."Why, what is wrong with you?" she said, "are you ill? You look
very, very queer.""I don't know what is the matter with me," answered Henley; "I did
not feel well this morning, and I have been getting steadily worse all
day. I have a horrid sore throat and a splitting headache, and I am a
bit feverish.""I will take your temperature," said Kate. "You see what a wise
woman I am; I always go provided with things for an emergency. You
have just got a cold, darling, nothing to make you the least bit
anxious. Oh, Ralph, suppose it is discovered that you are a little tiny bit consumptive, too, then
you won't be quite so angry with your own Kitty for marrying you.""Whatever you did I would never be angry with you," he said, and
then he sank into the first chair he could find. Ordinarily he was a
remarkably healthy-looking man with the bronzed and yet clear
complexion of perfect health. He was a big fellow, broad shouldered,
long limbed. Now he had a curious collapsed sort of appearance. The
bronze in his cheeks had faded to an ashen grey, his eyes were very
dull.Kate got out her thermometer, and made him hold it in his mouth. It
registered 102°."Then you are really ill," she cried, her eyes dilating. "You must
lie down; we will send for the doctor.""Oh no, I don't want to make a fuss," he answered; "I will dress
and come down to dinner; don't say anything about it. Perhaps after I
have eaten I shall feel better.""Well, stay where you are, darling, and I will brush your hair and
bathe your forehead. You don't know how much nicer you will feel when
my hands are touching you."He smiled at her, but it seemed almost an effort to do even
that. Kate fussed round him, giving him that feeling of pleasure which
her mere presence always provoked.With an effort he got into his evening things and they both went
downstairs. Kate's pallor, and yet her beautiful appearance in the
crimson dress, prevented any one from specially noticing Henley, and
as Kate sat at the same side as he did at the long dinner-table she
was not able to discover whether he was eating or not. She heard his
voiceas he spoke to her uncle, and
his tone seemed to her to he quite as full, and strong, and joyous as
ever. Once she gave a sigh of relief when she heard him give way to
one of his hearty laughs.At last the meal came to an end and the ladies withdrew into the
drawing-room. They had not been there five minutes before Hume
appeared. His face was quite grave."Where is Kate?" he said.Mary, who was in a low chair turning over the leaves of a new
magazine, raised her sulky face."I don't know," she answered; "it's always Kate, it seems to me,
but I am not her keeper.""Don't be silly, Mary; your affectations are past bearing," said
her father in some annoyance. "There, stir yourself, make yourself
useful. Henley is ill, he wants his wife; send her to the dining-room
immediately."In some astonishment, but still with marked unwillingness, Mary
rose to her feet; she went out. Ethel and Kate were pacing up and down
at a little distance. Kate was expatiating for the benefit of Ethel's
all too willing ears on the delights of the voyage and the happy time
they might hope to spend together in Australia. Mary, who guessed what
they were talking about, called out now in a tone of triumph--"Come in, Kate, you are wanted; your husband is ill."Kate leapt away from Ethel's side almost as if some one had shot
her; she rushed past Mary and ran into the house. A moment later she
was kneeling by Henley's side; he was lying on the sofa, his eyes were
shut, there was a slight dew on his forehead, and his brows were
contracted with pain. Mr. Hume was standing near."Don't be frightened, Kitty," he said, "I have sent for the doctor,
but there is no doubt that Ralph is ill. He just slipped off his chair
in a dead faint after you left the room. I brought him to before I
called you. We will put him to bed, and the doctor, I hope, will order
him something to put him right."The doctor, a bright-looking young man of about eight-and-twenty,
soon afterwards appeared. His name was Thornton. He examined the
patient very critically, ordered him to bed, and helped to put him
there. Kate entered the room as soon as the sick man was lying between
the sheets."We shall want a nurse," she heard Thornton say to her uncle."A nurse!" said Kate. For the first time she was seriously
alarmed. Was her husband, her darling, seriously ill? Was there
something at the eleventh hour going to prevent her taking that trip
which seemed to her her only way of salvation! She even forgot Henley
in her intense anxiety about this latter fact. She ran up to the
doctor."A nurse," she said, "for my husband? But I will nurse him.""You can do as you please, Mrs. Henley," was the medical man's
reply, "but do not raise your voice so loud; I will speak to you in
another room--follow me."Kate followed him very unwillingly. She led him into her husband's
dressing-room and immediately closed the door."Now, what is wrong?" she said. "He has taken a chill, has he not?
I told him before dinner that I was quite certain he was in for a bad
cold.""It is impossible at so early a date to say what is really the matter," answered Dr. Thornton, "but I
cannot mince facts, Mrs. Henley; your husband's condition appears to
me to point to a much more serious illness than a mere cold. I shall
be able to pronounce definitely as to the nature of his complaint,
either to-morrow or the next day.""To-morrow or the next day!" said Kate, stamping her foot; "but we
are going to Australia on Thursday, and this is Monday night. My
husband and I will have to leave here early on Thursday morning. You
see there is no question of to-morrow or next day. Our passage is
taken in the Hydra--ill or well, we must
go."Dr. Thornton looked attentively at the beautiful and winsome face
of the eager speaker."How little she apprehends things!" he said to himself. Aloud, he
said slowly, "I fear that I must destroy some of your hopes. There is,
unless I am much mistaken, not the slightest hope of Henley's being
well enough to take that voyage this week; even if his present attack
leads to nothing more serious than a bad cold, he must not leave his
bed for several days. The voyage must be postponed.""What?" said Kate, "postponed?" She sank on the nearest chair, her
arms fell prone at her sides, her face grew so white that for an
instant the doctor thought she, too, was going to faint. He fancied
that a certain word came to her lips, but he was not quite sure. He
only knew that those lips had blanched to a deathly pallor, and that
her whole face presented the appearance of a woman stricken to
death. Did she or did she not utter the word "Doomed"? This was the
thought in his heart. He could not be sure, he could never to his
dying day be sure, but he certainly fancied he heard it.CHAPTER
XXVIIBY the next morning Henley was delirious, his temperature
registered 104; it ascended yet higher and registered the dangerous
figures 105 on the little clinical thermometer. Kate, who had really
known very little of illness before in her life, was, for a few hours
at least, carried completely out of herself. Her love for the sick man
rose in all its passionate intensity. She had sat up all night
devouring his face, her heart beating high, her own pulse almost at
fever speed, and when the doctor came in the morning the look that she
fastened on him almost unnerved this somewhat stoical but kind-hearted
young man. He saw her and Mr. and Mrs. Hume in the next room."What I feared last night I am now almost certain of," he
said. "This is a case of blood-poisoning, and I believe that Henley is
sickening for a very serious typhoid attack. We cannot be absolutely
certain whether it will turn to typhoid or diphtheria for the next
twenty-four hours, but I do not think the condition of the throat
sufficiently inflamed for diphtheria, and there are other symptoms
which point directly to typhoid.""Typhoid! Diphtheria!" said Kate in a low tone. She raised her eyes
and looked for a momentuabsolutely dumb with misery."Which is the longest of the two complaints?" she asked
then."The longest, and in my opinion the most dangerous, is typhoid,"
answered the doctor. "We now have certain remedies for diphtheria
which as a rule minimise its danger, but I do not think your husband
is going to have diphtheria, so we need not discuss it. His throat is
much affected, but this symptom may quickly be relieved.""And how long is an attack of typhoid?""Any time from twenty-one days to six or even eight weeks."Kate turned so white that she had to catch hold of the nearest
chair to support herself."Well, dear," said her aunt very kindly, "it is a good thing you
are here, far better than being at an hotel. All that this house
contains is at your service.""There is one thing, Mrs. Henley," said the doctor in a quick
voice, "you must have assistance in the nursing, you must have not
only one, but two, nurses--one for day duty and one for night
duty. You yourself of course can be present with your husband as much
as your strength will allow, but this typhoid is a nasty thing; it is
a severe struggle between life and death. Even the most favourable
cases may become dangerous at a moment's notice. You never can tell
what the fell disease will do, nor what turn it will take. Much more
depends on the nurse than the doctor, and the patient's strength must
be kept up. He must have food day and night at least every hour--food
of a certain quality, directions for which I will leave. I will send
in two capable nurses accustomed to typhoid within the next few
hours. I will go at once and see about them."He left the room and Kate listened to his retreating footsteps as
he went downstairs. He was wearingnew
boots and they creaked very, very slightly. The creak of the doctor's
boots seemed to get upon her tired brain. She raised both her hands
and clasped them round her head; her face wore a wild expression."Don't give way, Kitty," said her aunt; "I know how devotedly you
love that poor fellow, but pray God, he may recover. We must turn to
our God in this hour of sore trouble, my child. Oh, my Kitty, don't
repulse me."Mrs. Hume had held out her motherly arms; the girl hesitated for a
moment, then she flung herself into them."Help me, pray for me," she said with a sob; "my burden is greater
than I can bear.""No, no, Kate; no burden can be that," said Mrs. Hume. "Pray to
God, child; turn to the Deliverer in this hour of your need.""I cannot," said Kate, in a dry choking voice, "and it is that
which makes it so hard.""Why not, my darling? in the old days you were religious,
Kitty.""In the old days!" said Kate--"for God's sake don't remind me of
them now; I shall go mad if you do. Oh dear! oh dear! oh my heart! my
heart!" She clasped her hand to her palpitating breast, her eyes
looked wilder than ever. The handle of the door was softly turned and
Hume came in."This is very sad news," he said. "Dr. Thornton is full of
apprehension. Oh, Kate, my poor child, I did not notice you.""Never mind me, I have heard a very plain-spoken opinion," said
Kate. She leant up against the wall."We will do all we can for him, and I don't believe myself half
what doctors say," said Mr. Hume; "they always make the worst of things, imagining that their
glory will be the greater when recovery takes place. It is not at all
likely that a strong man like Henley will succumb to a mere
illness. He will just have a sharp bout and be as well as ever
again. But, Kitty, my dear, you had better allow me to go down to
Tilbury and see the captain of the Hydra. He
will doubtless be able to sell your tickets to some other
passengers. By the way, have you got them?"Kate knit her brows."The tickets don't matter," she said; "we can get others.""But that is really silly, my dear--first-class tickets to
Australia cost a great deal, and very likely some other passengers
will be only too glad to avail themselves of them. Find them, dear,
and I will take them at once and try to get rid of them. You will have
to postpone your voyage for at least three months.""Oh, then we may as well never go," said Kate.Mr. Hume looked at her with some curiosity."Why do you say that?""Don't speak to me about anything now, Uncle Robert; I cannot take
in what you are saying, everything is too dark."She left the room and went to the room which had been arranged for
herself. There she found the tickets and brought them back to her
uncle. She handed them to him without a word.Mrs. Hume stole softly into the sick-chamber; she intended to sit
for a few hours with Henley until the trained nurses arrived. Kate
went and stood by the window of her own room. Presently a light step
was heard in the room; she turned her head, Marryat was there."I am very sorry for you, ma'am; this is very bad news.""It is distracting news," said Kate. "I wish to heaven I had not
given up the tickets; I was mad to do it.""Why, madam, what possible use could they be to you? Mr. Henley
certainly cannot be moved from here on Thursday.""Oh, I know that; I don't realise what I am saying. Oh, Marryat,
aren't you--not that it matters--but aren't you sorry for me?""I am, and for him, dear gentleman," said the maid stoutly. "You
ought to think of nothing now, ma'am, not even of that secret of
yours, but just of your dear husband alone. May it please the Almighty
to raise him up! But you must nurse your own strength, madam. You stay
here and I will bring you some breakfast. Don't fret now, dear; you
have been up all night, and, dear heart, you are not used to it. Let
me take off this dress and put you into one of your comfortable
tea-gowns, then you shall lie down and I will bring you some breakfast
myself.""Oh, do, Marryat; how kind you are!" said the poor girl."There's just one thing I should like to say," continued the maid,
as she unhooked Kate's dress and took it off, and got her mistress
into a warm and comfortable tea-gown, "there's just one thing I should
like to say, and it's this: Keep away from Miss Mary, stay up here as
much as you can. I am not the best of women, and I always look to
number one, but there are times when I'd be a fiend if I didn't take
your part, madam.""Oh, yes, yes, you would indeed be a fiend," said Kate, "but my
head aches so much that I can scarcely think. Get me a cup of strong
tea, Marryat, and then for God's sake leave me alone."Marryat slipped softly out of the room, she glided
downstairs. There was no fear of her boots creaking as she walked, she
knew better than that. In the hall downstairs she came plump up
against Mary."Well," said Mary Hume in an eager voice, "how is she bearing
it?""Much as you would bear it, Miss Mary, if your husband, that is, if
you ever have the luck to have one, was lying at death's door.""Oh, that's no answer whatever," said Mary. "Is she feeling put out
about not going on Thursday? That, doubtless, is the sorest of her
present worries.""She naturally, Miss Hume, thinks of no one but the man who lies in
such terrible danger," said the maid. "But don't keep me, Miss; I want
to fetch some breakfast for my poor mistress."Marryat brought the breakfast and Kate was induced to eat a little;
then the maid, seeing she could do nothing further, left her."Mrs. Hume is in the sick-room," she said, "and I also shall be
within call. The nurses are expected any moment. Now you will rest for
a little, Mrs. Henley; promise me, ma'am, that you will lie down."Kate promised--she would promise anything at that moment to get rid
of Marryat. At last the door was shut and she was alone. When she
found herself so she sprang immediately to her feet. She began to pace
up and down the length of the room. She found she could think more
clearly and consecutively while in motion than when perfectly
still. The moreshe thought, the more
perplexed, miserable, and terrified she grew."If I allow this terror to gain the upper hand I shall be undone,"
she thought. "It is not only the fact that Ralph is so ill, that the
man I love to distraction is at death's door, it is not only that--I
myself am in peril, in the most awful peril. This delay is exactly as
if God Himself, with a flaming sword, stood in my path. What am I to
do? What shall I do? I dare not pray, I cannot pray, and yet I must, I
must do something."At that moment a sound of voices outside reached her ears, she
stole softly to the window and saw with a momentary sense of
satisfaction that Ethel and Mary had gone for a walk. They had stood
for a moment under her window talking together, and then quickly, as
if in a hurry, had started to walk down the avenue."She is out of the house, that is one comfort," thought
Mrs. Henley, as she looked after Mary."If only I had not parted with those tickets," she said to
herself. "If I had them I should feel that there was at least a chance
of my getting away, then should the worst come out I should be in
another hemisphere, the danger to myself would not be so great. The
best thing I can do after all is to go. Oh dear! oh dear! why did I
part with the tickets?"She thought hard for a moment or two, she had not seen her uncle go
to town. As a rule, the dog-cart came for him and he started on his
way to his place of business an hour or an hour and a half before now,
but as she had not heard the sound of wheels it occurred to her that
for some reason he might have postponed his departure."If so, I will try and get the tickets from him in some way or other; I will get them, I will make an
excuse, anything to have them back again in my hands," thought
Kate.This idea had scarcely come to her before she proceeded to act upon
it. Her soft tea-gown made her look completely dressed. Without
waiting to make any addition to her toilet she ran downstairs. She
knocked at her uncle's study door; there was no answer, she went
in. Yes, beyond doubt the bird had flown--the fire had not been lit in
the grate, the windows were partly open, and there, on the study
table, just as if he had laid them down and forgotten them, was the
envelope which contained the tickets for the voyage to Australia."He has gone, he has forgotten all about these," thought Kate. "He
shall not have them now." She clasped them wildly to her heart,
slipped them into the front of her dress and ran upstairs. She was
quite panting with excitement. Not a soul had seen her leave her room,
not a soul had seen her return to it; she felt a sense of immediate
comfort with the knowledge that the tickets were in her
possession. After all, at the worst, she could go on Thursday, make an
excuse to her husband, take her passage, and be off. Doubtless she
would not do so, but she had at least this weapon of defence in her
hand.She now dressed in her ordinary clothes and went back to the
sick-room. She sat down by Ralph's side. He was still quite delirious,
but was more or less stupid owing to the medicines he was taking. He
was lying in that sort of wakeful sleep which is so trying both to
patient and friends.Mrs. Hume, when Kate entered, went out very gently. She went downstairs--her daughters had now
returned from their walk."Well, my dears," said Mrs. Hume, "we must make up our minds to a
sick house for the present. I have been planning how things ought to
he. The doctor says that Ralph is in for a very long
illness. Fortunately I gave the young people the largest room in the
house, and there is a nice dressing-room attached which could be for
the use of the nurse. The nurse off duty could have a room next to the
servant's to sleep in, but I was thinking, Ethel and Mary, that it
would be a good plan if you moved from your present rooms to some in
the west wing, so as to allow poor Kate to have her own part of the
house to herself.""Most inconvenient," said Mary; "why should we do it?""Only out of kindness, dear. She is terribly to be pitied.""Indeed she is," said Ethel, "so loving as she is--such a
darling. It is a fearful blow to her.""Not going to Australia on Thursday must be a frightful blow," said
Mary in her quietest tone."Oh, Mary, how can you speak like that? Your father has gone to try
and exchange the tickets; he will doubtless be able to succeed.""Did Kate give up the tickets to father?" said Mary."Yes, why shouldn't she? what possible use could she have for them
on Thursday?""Oh, none," said Mary, "only I rather wondered, that is
all. Mother, I see I am in the way here. I cannot feel at present any
charitable feelings towards Kate. You and Ethel can pet her to
yourheart's desire; you still believe
in her; you think her good and true--well, I don't.""Oh, my poor Mary!" said Mrs. Hume."You may pity me, mother, for I am very unhappy at present, but I
am in full possession of all my faculties. I should like, however, to
leave home; I will go and stay with Aunt Maud in Russell Square."The Aunt Maud to whom Mary referred was her mother's
sister. Mrs. Hume's brow quite cleared."That is an excellent idea," she said, "but are you sure that your
aunt is at home?""You had a letter from her yourself last week, mother, and I think
she said in it she would return yesterday. I will go to her and ask
her to take me in. My absence from home just now will be a relief to
you all.""Well, if you still continue to distrust Kate, it will be a
relief," said Mrs. Hume."I will go and pack," said Mary, "then Ethel can move into any
small room suitable for her. Come, Ethel, and help me."She took Ethel's hand, and the two girls went upstairs."It is a relief," thought Mrs. Hume. "Mary is very queer at
present. Ah, I doubt not that cab coming down the avenue contains the
nurses."It did. Two capable-looking, bright-faced young women
appeared. Mrs. Hume immediately felt as if a great responsibility was
lifted from her own hands. She had an interview with them downstairs,
and then, taking them up, ushered them into the bedroom which had been
hastily got ready for Kate. She went to the door of the sick-room and
motioned Mrs. Henley to come to her."Here are the nurses, dear," she said. "Nurse Bryan, who wishes to
take the day nursing, and Nurse Simpson, who will look after your
husband at night. Nurse Simpson has been up all last night, and would
be glad to go to bed at once. That I can manage. Nurse Bryan says she
will go on duty immediately.""I should just like to put on my cap and apron," said Nurse Bryan,
speaking in a cheery voice, "and then, perhaps, Mrs. Henley, you will
take me into the sick-room and just show me where I can find things. I
will soon have the poor gentleman quite comfortable. You must bear up,
my dear," she added, and the kindly woman laid her hand on Kate's
arm.Kate shuddered at the touch. What did nurses mean? Horrible
illness, often death. Oh, she loathed the look of both these capable
women; then they would take possession of her husband and keep her
away from him, and if things really came to the worst--and she--she
had to leave--she would like to say good-bye to him all--yes, quite
alone. Oh, it was awful! How was she to bear the terrible strain?Mrs. Hume motioned to the two nurses to follow her; just as she got
to the door she turned to Kate."I am making arrangements for your comfort, Kate," she said, "and
Mary and Ethel are moving out of their present bedroom. The room can
be used as a sitting-room for the nurses, and to keep medicines and
all sorts of nourishment in. It will be very useful. Thus, my dear,
you and your husband will have the entire of this east wing to
yourselves.""How kind you are!" said Kate; then she added, "but won't it be
very inconvenient?""Not at all. Did I not tell you that Mary is going away for a week
or so?""Mary going away!" said Kate--her whole face lit up with as keen an
expression of ecstasy as if some one had said to her that her husband
was out of danger."Yes, dear," answered Mrs. Hume, noticing how the wilful expressive
face changed and brightened, "in some ways it will doubtless be a
relief. Ethel will have the room next her father's and mine."Mrs. Hume went away followed by the nurses. Kate almost felt as if
she could clap her hands."That is a blessing," she said to herself; "perhaps after all the
tide is going to turn in my favour. I have got back the tickets, and
that awful spy Mary is leaving the house." She felt almost cheerful
when Nurse Bryan returned."We must trust in God, Mrs. Henley," said that good woman; "I have
often nursed typhoid cases before and never lost one. Now, will you
take me into the sick-room?"CHAPTER
XXVIIIAT lunch that day there came a telegram from Mr. Hume. Its contents
were as follows:--"Left tickets for the Hydra on my study
stable by mistake. Please send them into town to my office by special
messenger."Mary had already gone to London, and Ethel had accompanied
her. Mrs. Hume and Kate were the only people seated at the luncheon
table."I will go to the study and look for them," said Kate. She left the
room, returning in a few minutes."I cannot find them," she said; "where did he say he had left
them?""On his study-table; I had better go, my dear."Mrs. Hume went, and Kate played with her food. Presently the good
lady of the house came back."It is most strange," she remarked; "where can they be? They are
certainly not on his study-table.""Oh, he must have taken them after all," said Kate; "did you search
anywhere else in the room?""Yes, I looked in all the likely places. What is to be done? This
is Tuesday; the Hydra sails on Thursday
morning; the only chance of selling the tickets is to-day. I will go
and have another search.""I will go with you," said Kate. "Two pairs of eyes are better than
one."The two women went back to the study and both searched and
searched. Kate pretended to be intensely anxious."It would he provoking if we lost all that money," she said; "not
that money counts for much now.""You seem in better spirits, Kate," said her aunt suddenly."I think it is Nurse Bryan," answered the girl; "she is so strong
and capable. I began by hating her, but she made the room so nice; she
has put it into quite apple-pie order. You never saw anything like the
look the bed has now, and Ralph is not nearly so restless. I expect
his temperature will go down presently, and, oh, I cannot help being
more hopeful. Everything seemed in such a muddle before the nurses
came.""These trained nurses are invaluable," said Mrs. Hume; "in times of
serious illness what should we do without them? Now, my dear, what
about the tickets?""We cannot find them," said Kate. "Probably Uncle Robert slipped
them into his waistcoat-pocket and has either dropped them or will
find that he has them after all.""Well, I will wire to him at once," said Mrs. Hume. She sat down
and filled in a telegraph form. Kate stood near whilst her aunt wrote
the necessary words."Tickets not in your study. Kate and I have searched
everywhere."This little missive was soon speeding on its way, and Kate went
slowly upstairs."They cannot suspect me," she thought. "No one saw me go to the
study; no one saw me leave it. No one could think that I should wish
to have the tickets kept, and they may be a way out, yes, they may be
a way out if need requires it."When Kate got upstairs she was met by Nurse Bryan on the threshold
of the sick-room."I should like the doctor to be sent for," said the nurse; "the
patient's temperature is going up. This is a serious case. Don't be
frightened, madam, I have nursed cases as bad, but if a messenger
could be sent for Dr. Thornton it would be a matter of satisfaction to
me."Kate, her heart beating wildly and for the moment losing complete
sight of herself and her own danger, flew downstairs. She rushed into
her aunt's presence."Oh, Aunt Susannah," she said, "he is worse, even nurse seems
frightened. Oh, do please send for Dr. Thornton immediately. If you
have no messenger I will run for him myself. Oh, do please, please be
quick.""George shall go at once, my dear. Ring the bell, Kate. Oh, my dear
child, try to--""Try to exercise self-control, you mean. Oh, I am all right, but it
is his life--don't keep me, Aunt Susannah."She flew from the room, rushed upstairs, and notwithstanding a
warning glance from the nurse ran up to the sick-bed. Her husband was
sitting up, the nurse had her arms round him, he was struggling
against her and was looking round him with wild eyes."Where's Kitty? come to me, Kitty, where are you? It isn't true, is
it, Kitty?""Oh, my darling, what isn't true?" said Kate. Her voice
trembled. Had Ralph secret suspicions of her, and was he going to let
out his innermost thoughts in this awful delirium. But no, the sick
man had no suspicions of his wife; she was his own, his darling, his
white Kitty, the one woman without speck or flaw."Is it true that you are consumptive?" he said; "it will kill me if
you die. Stay with me, Kitty, stay with me--what, you won't! then I
will make you."He struggled to get out of bed. Now Kate assisted the nurse in
forcing the sick man to lie down."It is I, Ralph, I," she said."You, who are you?" he answered. Her words arrested him, he looked
up into her face. "You are not my Kate, you are a devil. Go away, I
want Kitty, my own Kitty, not you.""Oh, nurse, what am I to do?" said the poor wife."Nothing, dear, nothing; he does not know what he is saying. Ah,
thank God, here comes the doctor."The firm step of the medical man was heard as he crossed the
floor."Come, come, what is this?" he said, "I say, Henley, you must lie
quiet, my man. Now then, that is better." His sharp terse voice seemed
to pierce through the delirium in which the poor patient was
wandering."Come," said the doctor, "ah, that is right." He laid his hand with
a certain force on the patient's forehead, took the wrist between his
finger and thumb and felt the flying pulses."I will give him a sedative," he said to the nurse "go out of the
room and bring in my bag. Mrs. Henley, perhaps you had better not
remain here.""You cannot send me away," said Kate. She was crouching down near
the foot of the bed, her face looked wild with agony."Don't let him see you, then," said the doctor in a low tone.She slipped a little behind where a curtain hid her, and yet where
she could peep at her husband. Already the wild paroxysm was leaving him, his eyes were
closing, and that dreadful semi-slumber, which is worse than no
slumber at all, took possession of him. The doctor, who had put a few
drops of a certain medicine into a glass, now administered the draught
to the patient."This will make him sleep," he said. "Nurse, I want to speak to
you."The nurse stepped round to the doctor's other side. Still holding
his hand across the sick man's brow, the doctor asked her one or two
questions. Kate strained her ears to listen. What were those two
talking about; those two who were nearly driving her mad just now, who
between them were holding her husband's life in their hands, who were
thrusting her outside; she who had been his nearest, his dearest, his
best beloved, pushed away now by the doctor and nurse? Oh, it was past
enduring!For the present she had forgotten all her own imminent and awful
danger. She could think of nothing but Ralph. If he died. after all
nothing mattered, she might go where she pleased, she might be
arrested, locked up, charged with her crime, doomed to penal
servitude, anything--anything might happen to her, and she would not
care."Oh, it may be best for him to die," she thought for one swift
moment of agony, "then he would always think of me as his white Kitty,
white as snow.""Mrs. Henley, can I speak to you for a moment?" said
Dr. Thornton. The sick man was now sleeping, the nurse resumed her
place at his side. Thornton and Kate went out on the landing."I cannot conceal from you," said the physician, "that your husband
is not only ill, but he is in danger.""But, oh, it is not hopeless?" said Kate."In cases of this sort, fever cases, we always say, where there is
life there is hope," said the doctor, in a reverent tone, "but I must
acquaint you, Mrs. Henley, with the fact, that unless we can bring the
fever down and very quickly, too, his strength will not stand it. I
mean immediately to telegraph to town, to Dr. Bennett Shaw, the great
fever specialist.""Do so," said Kate; "how soon can he be here?""I shall ask him to come the first possible moment. I intend to
remain in the house for a little, I need not be in the sick-room, and
yet I want to be within call. Where would you like me to stay?""We have furnished a room here as a sitting-room; will you come
in?" said Kate. She went before the doctor who followed her."Now, try and rest yourself. Be assured that all that can be done
will be done," said the man of science, looking kindly at the agitated
face of the young wife."Oh, don't think of me, I am nothing, worse than nothing, only,"
said Kate impulsively, "don't take him quite away from me.""What do you mean?""I cannot explain, but you and that nurse--""Nurse Bryan She is one of the very best nurses on my staff, a most
admirable, kindly, excellent woman.""Oh I know, I know, but she nurses him, and you try to cure him,
and I am pushed aside, and it drives me nearly wild.""My poor girl," said the doctor, trying to conceal his own
impatience at what he considered the weakness of Kate's words, "in a
case of this kind one must forget one's self; the thing is to get your
husband well. Now, for instance, what would you have done in a paroxysm like what has just occurred? You
would not have had strength enough to keep him in bed, he might have
got to the window and jumped out. See for yourself how far better it
is in cases of severe illness that the patient should be nursed by
strangers.""It is horribly cruel, all the same," said Kate. She left the
room. On the landing Marryat met her. Marryat looked self-important
and at the same time troubled."Mrs. Henley," she said, "can I speak to you?""I don't think you can, Marryat, I am too much upset. If you have
anything special to say I will--""It is," said Marryat, "very special; there is a lady downstairs
who wants to see you.""A lady? Whom?""I don't know her name, but she says that you saw her a week ago in
Mortimer Street. She wants to see you, and immediately.""The false Dr. Agnes Stevenson," thought poor Kate. "She has come
for her money, the thousand pounds I promised her before we left the
country. Yes, yes, dreadful as things are I must see her at any
cost.""Where is she, Marryat?" asked Kate aloud."I have shown her into Mr. Hume's study; it seems the only place
for her to be in.""Oh, I must see her, and quite by herself," said Kate. "Go down and
tell her so. Ask her to go outside; say I will meet her in the
shrubbery; show her the shrubbery, Marryat; be quick, be clever, rouse
yourself, don't allow any one to suspect; I will pay you anything. I
must see her quickly, you understand, Marryat. I will meet her in the
shrubbery.""Yes, madam, I think I can manage," said Marryat in a grave
voice. She slowly left the room. Kate put on her hat and jacket, and
ran downstairs.CHAPTER
XXIXDR. THORNTON, who was leaving the house in his brougham just as
Kate dashed out by a side entrance, was somewhat astonished to see
Henley's wife running wildly in the direction of the shrubbery."What is that excitable young woman up to now?" he said to himself;
but being much absorbed in several anxious cases, he did not trouble
himself to pursue this train of thought any further. He knew that
Henley was about to have a severe tussle for life, and he thought it
extremely doubtful what the final issues would be."I hope Bennett Shaw will he able to come down this evening," he
said to himself; "of course the treatment is more or less
straightforward, but in a case like the present it is well to have a
higher authority than one's own."He desired his coachman to stop at the nearest telegraph office,
and when there, sent an urgent message to the great specialist.Meanwhile, Kate, her heart beating in great throbs, her eyes almost
dizzy, ran in the direction of the shrubbery. She was thankful when
she found herself under its shade. She looked around her, there was no
one in sight. Oh, how fearful if she were to meet Ethel now! But Ethel
had gone to town with her sister, and Mrs. Hume would scarcely leave
the house. Yes, she was comparatively safe. She saw Marryat slowly returning to the house. Marryat's whole
attitude was that of a woman who was watching. She stood quite still
when she saw Kate; she raised her hand and beckoned to her
mistress."I have taken the lady to the summer-house," she said. "You will be
safe there--no one will overhear."Kate nodded, and running up a path which led to the top of a little
incline, soon found herself standing before the rustic
summer-house.A lady, neatly dressed in black, was seated on one of the rustic
chairs. She had her veil down and the veil was a somewhat thick
one. She rose when she saw Kate, came a step forward, and held out her
hand."It is well to be careful," she said. "How do you do,
Mrs. Henley?""How do you do?" answered Kate. She did not take the proffered
hand--she stood panting by the doorway."You want to speak to me," she said, then.The little woman raised her veil for a moment, and favoured Kate
with a piercing glance."Not having heard from you this morning, as I fully expected," she
said, "I called at the Métropole. I was there informed that you
had come here. I came down, thinking you would rather have a personal
interview than a letter.""Oh yes, of course, a personal interview is best," said Kate."Quite so, that was what I felt. When do you go to Australia?"Kate was about to reply, when the woman darted forward and laid her
hand on her arm."Stay," she said, "it is not safe for us to talk here; you don't want your maid to know all about
this.""My maid! What do you mean?"I mean that any one standing at the back of this little
summer-house might overhear some of our words. We are safer in the
open. Where can we go where we can be quite undisturbed?""Oh, thank you," said Kate, "but Marryat would not be so mean. All
the same, perhaps you are right. Come this way." She held out her
hand, took that of Mrs. Johnson, and walked rapidly down the hill in
the direction of the outer edge of the plantation. There they found
themselves in a field--a sort of paddock. Mary's brown pony was
grazing at the farther end; there was not another creature within
sight."We are safe here," said Kate."Safe," said the little woman; "perhaps so, but in a case of this
kind it is well to make doubly sure. We will walk in the middle of the
field.""Then some one may see us," said Kate."Better to be seen than to be overheard, and why should you not
walk with me and talk to me--what is there in it? At the worst only
the vaguest suspicion would be aroused by such a fact, but to be
overheard just now==""Then you think," said Kate, with a weary smile, "that I do carry a
very dangerous secret?""I have ceased to think about a patent fact, but your secret is not
my affair, except in as far as I can use it for my own purposes. I
mean, however, to be straight with you. You have done something wrong;
what, I have not the slightest idea; but, if you keep your part of the
bargain I will keep mine.""Of course," said Kate, " I never wanted to back out of my
bargain. You did me a good turn that day last week. I am extremely
grateful to you.""We managed it well, did we not?" said the false Dr. Stevenson with
a sort of chuckle."Splendidly; you are very clever--it was wonderful of you to think
all this out.""Ah, my dear, the only capital I possess is what is stored up
behind this forehead of mine. If I had not acute and clever brains I
should long have ceased to exist in this world. There is no place in
the world nowadays for fools, Mrs. Henley; it is only the wise ones
who enact the part of the survival of the fittest."Kate clenched her hands."Let us to business," she said; "I am in great trouble to-day.""I am sorry to hear it." Mrs. Johnson did not ask what the trouble
was. She stood quiet for a moment, then she said: "The day fixed for
your departure for Australia is Thursday morning, the fifth of this
month, is it not?""Yes, but--""There are no buts in the matter, Mrs. Henley. I have come for my
money. You paid me two hundred pounds last week, I have come for my
thousand pounds to-day.""I can give you a cheque for the amount.""I should prefer the money in gold and notes.""I cannot give you gold and notes, I do not possess them. Won't you
take a cheque?""No, thank you, cheques may be traced. Can you not come with me to
the bank? If we catch the very next train there is still time.""I cannot, my husband is very ill--at death's door.""Your husband ill? Then you are not going away on Thursday?""Yes--no, no--of course not. How could I go when my husband is so
ill?" But Kate thought, with a sudden pang of comfort, that she still
possessed the tickets which entitled her to two berths on board the
Hydra."Everything has been postponed, everything is changed," she
said."Then the greater reason why I should have my money, and not in a
cheque, please. You must come with me to the bank at once.""It is impossible, Mrs. Johnson; you ask me what I cannot do; my
husband is terribly ill.""Are you nursing him?""No, we have got nurses, of course--professional nurses--but I must
be there.""It would be better for you to come with me; I cannot take a
denial. The arrangement was that I was to be paid that money on the
third of October. The day and hour have come. I want my money; you
must come with me, and at once.""I cannot, I cannot.""Then I have no alternative.""But what?""To tell Mr. Hume what I did last week.""You--you dare not; you will get into trouble yourself.""That is my affair--I shall not be uneasy. Mr. Hume will pay me a
still larger sum for the information I can give him. Or stay, I have
been gathering much information; there is a young lady who lives here
who suspects you, Mrs. Henley.""What do you mean? How do you know?""Never mind how I know. Once a case has been put into my hands it
is my bounden duty to learn all the side issues, to travel along the
by-roads which branch out to right, to left, in every direction. If my
clients are true to me I never give them away, but if they break their
word, then I have no mercy. I told you that at the beginning.""You did. Do you really mean that I must go to town with you
now--now? But the bank will be closed at four o'clock.""It is not more than half-past two. A train leaves for town in ten
minutes; we are not five minutes from the station, we shall get up to
London in three-quarters of an hour; a cab will take us to the bank,
we shall reach it at a quarter to four-time enough to draw the
thousand pounds. It can be done. I know it is hard on you, but as I
said before I have no mercy.""Oh, God help me! this, indeed, will drive me mad," said
Kate. "Well, if I must I must, but I shall have to go back to the
house.""No, you have not an instant to lose. Have you gloves? Your hat is
on and your jacket--you can come as you are.""I have not even a pair of gloves.""That is bad, but I have an odd pair in my bag, perhaps they will
fit you; yes, of course they will you have small hands for your
height--put them on. Come, there is not a moment to lose."Kate never knew afterwards how it was that Mrs. Johnson got such
complete control over her. Her husband was in danger, perhaps he would
die. Anyhow he was ill, very ill indeed, and there was this woman
dragging her away.They rushed along the dusty high-road. Kate panted as she
ran. Mrs. Johnson's quick firm foot-steps kept pace with hers. They
reached the station."I have no money," said Kate, then."That does not matter, I will pay for both; you can give me a
little more from your bank to make up for it.""Oh, what a cruel, cruel woman! Why did I ever put myself into her
power?" thought poor Kate. "I am sinking deeper and deeper. Why did I
do it? Was there ever a more miserable creature in all the world than
I am? and Ralph--oh, if Ralph really leaves me I shall kill
myself."Mrs. Johnson took tickets for both--they travelled third-class to
town. Kate had no veil; she pushed her hat well forward and sat with
her eyes glued to her lap. Mrs. Johnson provided herself with a
newspaper and read contentedly until they reached Victoria. As soon as
they got there she jumped out excitedly."Come," she said, "the train kept excellent time--it is only a
little past half-past three; we shall do it splendidly." She held up
her parasol to a hansom driver. A moment later the pair were whirling
through the streets. Kate had given the direction of her bank. They
reached it.They went in. It still wanted ten minutes to four. Kate had not
personally visited her bank before. She felt queer and strange. Her
bewilderment seemed to shine out of her eyes. A handsome-looking clerk
who was standing behind the glass partition looked at her with some
interest.Mrs. Johnson remained quietly in the background; from her
appearance the man thought she was Kate's maid. Kate asked for a
cheque-book."I want one for myself," she said. "You have an account of mine
here. My name is Kate Henley."The man immediately went away, made some inquiries, came back, and
presented Kate with a cheque-book."Yes," he said, "we have your account, Mrs. Henley." He spoke in a
respectful tone. Kate Henley, the great heiress, was not unknown to
some of the clerks in the bank."I want," said Kate, looking up now and speaking desperately, "to
draw a thousand pounds from my account. I suppose I can have the money
immediately?""It is a somewhat large order," said the clerk in a dubious
tone. In reality it was nothing very special, but for a young lady to
come just before the closing hour and ask for a thousand pounds in
gold and notes was sufficiently out of the common to make him anxious
to speak to one of the managers."I will let you know in a moment," he said. He went away. Kate
stood moody and silent by the counter--she was excited. The agony she
had gone through was leaving her, however.It was now Mrs. Johnson's turn to feel her heart palpitating, and
every nerve in a high state of tension. She had been calm enough up to
the present, but at this juncture she and Kate seemed to change
places."I wish they would be quick," she said, pulling Kate's sleeve. "The
time is flying. It is against the rules to draw money from the bank
after four o'clock--it wants five minutes to four now. What is that
foolish clerk lingering about?"Kate made no answer. She was thinking of the next train back to the
Grange--how soon she could catch it, how soon she could be by her
husband'sside again. The thousand
pounds did not matter at all to her. Presently a grave voice spoke in
her ear. She looked up--a grey-haired man of about sixty was bending
towards her."How do you do, Mrs. Henley?" he said. "You want a somewhat large
sum. Will you take it in gold or notes?"Partly gold, partly notes," whispered Mrs. Johnson in Kate's
ear."I don't really very much care," answered Kate. "I suppose you had
better give me part of it in gold."The grey-haired man was looking her all over. He observed the
pallor of her face, and the heavy lines under her eyes. He noticed her
shaking hand, her general look of misery. She was also dressed in a
somewhat slovenly way for so rich a lady. It was a moment before he
replied, then he said cheerfully--"You had better take a hundred pounds in sovereigns, and the rest
in notes. You could not take away more gold conveniently--it would be
too heavy to carry.""As you please," answered Kate.The required sum was made out, and given to her in a little brown
paper parcel, which the manager, after counting the notes carefully
over in her presence, took the precaution of sealing."This is a large sum for a young lady to carry," he said. "Would
you like one of my clerks to accompany you to the railway station?""Oh no, there is not the slightest need," replied Kate with a
smile. She took the packet, and, as though it were not of the
slightest consequence, slipped it into her pocket. She did not hear
the manager as he said good evening.As soon as she had left the bank, this man turned to the clerk who
had first drawn his attention to Kate's case."There is something wrong here. You are sure you have taken the
number of all the notes?""Yes, sir, certainly.""Well, of course, Mrs. Henley had a right to her own money, but
there is something in the wind which I do not quite like. Keep the
numbers, Hudson, and now it is time to close."The moment they got into the street Mrs. Johnson turned to
Kate.If you will let me have that brown paper parcel," she said, "I will
say good-bye to you. You have kept your contract, and I shall not
trouble you again. May I see you into a hansom?""Here is your money," said Kate. "Good-bye."Mrs. Johnson held out her hand. Kate gave her the parcel. She
whipped it into a little bag which she held in her hand."Good-bye," she said, holding out her own hand. Kate pretended not
to see it."I will not trouble you to call a hansom for me," she said, "I see
an omnibus passing which I think will take me in the direction of
Victoria. Good-bye."Mrs. Johnson walked down the street."I have got it," she said to herself, "and I shall take the
precaution to leave London to-night. I didn't care for that manager's
look, and beyond doubt he has taken the number of the notes, but I
know how to get rid of them, and when all is said and done I have come
by the money honestly. It is young Madam who will get into a
scrape--her secret won't be hers much longer."CHAPTER
XXXMEANWHILE, Ethel Hume, having seen Mary comfortably established in
Russell Square, was finding her own way home. Ethel was getting quite
independent in these days, and she enjoyed her freedom immensely. She
was not sorry to part with Mary. She loved Mary very much, of course,
but her sister's attitude of late had been extremely puzzling. Mary
was exactly like a person suffering under a delusion, and although
Ethel never for a single moment believed her wild words and her
apparently unfounded suspicions, yet, nevertheless, she could not help
owning to an intense relief at her being away from home just now."And just when darling Kate is in such terrible trouble," thought
the girl. "How fearfully she would be in the way! I wonder how soon
Ralph will take a turn for the better. Oh, of course he won't die;
people don't die in these days when they are young and strong and can
have the best advice and the best nursing. I shall tell Kate that,
when I see her. Poor dear! I wonder when they will start for Australia
now, and I wonder if father and mother will allow me to accompany
them. Dear, dear Kate, there is no one like her in all the world; she
is the most beautiful, fascinating, charming girl I have ever
met."Ethel found her train all right, but just as she was stepping into
it she was startled by hearing avoice
in her ears--a familiar voice. She turned and saw Kate running,
panting, down the platform. "Why, Kitty!" she exclaimed."Yes, it is me, Ethel. I know you are greatly astonished. Oh, let
me in. I thought this train had gone. I am in a fever to be back again
with Ralph."Ethel held out her hand to Kate. The train was just beginning to
move out of the station. An angry porter shouted out a
remonstrance. The door was slammed behind Kate, and the two girls
found themselves alone in a first-class compartment.Kate flung herself, panting, on the cushions. She could not speak
at all for a moment. Her face was ghastly pale. Her hair was in
disorder. She scarcely looked pretty. She was certainly wildly
excited."But where have you been?" asked the astonished Ethel."Listen to me, Ethel." Kate was now recovering her breath. Ethel
bent forward."Oh, do close that window. I cannot speak with the rattle the train
makes."Ethel lifted up the window in question."Now, what is it, Kitty? You do look queer and wild.""I am glad I met you. We can go back to the Grange together. I
don't want any one to know that I have been to town.""But is Ralph better?""Better! He is worse, a great deal worse.""Then have you been up to get a fresh doctor?""I? No!""Why did you go?""I cannot tell you why, and you must not ask me, and don't tell any one you met me. When is Uncle Robert
likely to be back?""He is sure to take an early train, but he is not in this one and
there won't be another for an hour.""That is all right, Ethel; we'll get out just before we reach the
avenue, and you can go down in the trap and I'll walk through the
plantation, and you won't tell any one that you met me; you'll
promise, won't you, dear Ethel?""Of course I will promise, Kitty, but I cannot understand it.""I know that. There are a great many things which you cannot
understand just now. Oh, Ethel, I am so miserable.""Poor Kitty, poor darling! " said Ethel. She laid her hand on her
cousin's arm. "How hot you are!" she said. "I hope you are not getting
Ralph's fever.""It would be a good thing if I did get it. I wish I could. I wish
typhoid fever was infectious.""Kate, why do you talk in that wild way?""If you were me you would talk just as wildly. I am persecuted and
miserable. Mary's manner is enough to turn my life into a hell.""She does not mean it, poor Mary," said Ethel; "it must be as you
think, Kate; her mind cannot be right.""I dare say it is not, but that does not make things more pleasant
for me. She suspects me--she hates me. It is awful of her, and now
that Ralph is so ill.""Oh, I was going to speak to you about that," said Ethel, cheering
up at the mention of Ralph's name. "I feel quite a firm conviction in
my mind that Ralph will recover. He is young and strong, and strong
young men are often frightfully ill for a little, but they always get better. Yes, Ralph will recover,
and you will be happy, poor Kitty, and if you renew your invitation
perhaps we can go out to Australia in a month or two and have that
delightful time together. Oh, I am so looking forward to it."Kate heaved a heavy sigh; she was quite hopeless at the present
moment."There's one comfort," she said after a pause. "Mary has taken
herself off. I won't have her angry suspicious eyes fixed on my face
wherever I turn.""It is a very good thing for us all," answered Ethel. "I am as much
relieved as you are.""And you fully believe in me, don't you, Ethel?""Believe in you! " said Ethel with enthusiasm--"there is no one
like you. You don't know how I love you.""You don't think there is anything queer about me?" Ethel looked
slightly puzzled."It is, perhaps, that you are so charming," she said then slowly,
"and one of your charms is the sort of mystery which envelops you; but
there is no one like you, Kitty, and I love you with all my
heart.""Only you suspect me just a little?" said Kate."No, indeed, I don't.""You are greatly wondering why I have gone to town on the day my
husband is so ill?""I won't let myself wonder," said Ethel stoutly.Kate now changed her seat and sat close to Ethel. She slipped her
hand inside Ethel's arm and presently laid her tired head on her
shoulder."You are one in a thousand," she said. "I love you, Ethel, with all
my heart."Before the journey came to an end Kate, leaning against Ethel, was
sound asleep.CHAPTER
XXXIIT was late in the afternoon when Kate re-entered the house. Ethel
had already arrived, but according to her promise to her cousin, had
said nothing about having met her. Ethel and her mother were talking
in the drawing-room when Kate slipped softly upstairs. She turned in
the direction of the west wing, which had been given up absolutely to
the requirements of the sick man. Nurse Bryan was looking out for
her."Where have you been, madam?" she said. "Your husband has been
extremely ill, and quite wild, but this last hour he is a little
calmer, and has asked for you. Will you go and sit with him now? Oh,
please, not like that," continued the woman. "Take off your hat, and
smooth your hair. You must exercise self-control. You can sit by the
bedside, if you will not talk; you can hold his hand and look at
him. He loves you very much, madam. He has been distressed at your not
coming to him.""I will be in the room in a moment," said Kate. She ran into her
bedroom, quickly smoothed back her hair, changed her outdoor shoes for
soft velvet slippers, and entered the sick-room. She had plenty of
tact, and, now that she had entered the house without any one
specially observing her, felt a certain sense of relief. It was a
great comfort, too, to know that Ralph had asked for her. Perhaps his
illness would be of short duration. Oh, the doctors were so often wrong. Perhaps he would be well
enough to go, not on board the Hydra, but on
the next boat which would leave in a week's time.Kate calculated quickly. Could she avert discovery for another
week? Would the precipice on which she was standing not crumble away
for one week longer? She wondered--she doubted--she knew the extreme,
the absolute danger in which she had placed herself. If only Ralph
could be well in a week. She sat down now, and turned her flushed face
and bright eyes upon him. He was very ill, but he had lucid moments,
and one of these had come to him. He feebly stretched out his burning
hand and let it lie for a moment in hers."Little--little--darling Kitty," he said. The words dropped from
his lips. Kate was not little, but it was one of his endearing names
for her. Her eyes filled with tears, a great wave of intense affection
for the man whom she had deceived and yet whom she worshipped rushed
over her."Oh, Ralph, get better, get better," she said. She did not sob, but
there was an intensity in her words. She seemed to infuse strength
into the sick man. He turned his head feebly."No talking please, Mrs. Henley," said the nurse, who was seated by
a distant window.Kate ground her teeth, her lips formed an angry charming
pout. Ralph, ill as he was, gave a feeble smile."Little rebel," he said, then he closed his eyes, and a moment or
two later was rambling off once more in the world of delirium. Alas,
and alas, he was not better. Kate went up to the nurse."Why does he breathe so quickly?" she said. "It seems as if there must be a great weight on his
chest.""He is very ill, very ill, madam," said the nurse. She spoke
sternly. She had felt great pity for Mrs. Henley, but her
extraordinary absence, absence for hours while her husband's life hung
in the balance, was too much for the nurse's sense of decorum."She does not love him; she is so handsome and wilful that
doubtless she has got tired of him," thought the good woman. "I have
no patience with her, and he is as nice a gentleman as I ever had the
nursing of."Finally the nurse motioned Kate out of the room."Your husband's quick breathing distresses you," she said; "he is
suffering extremely. The case points to the strongest
blood-poisoning. I doubt very much if it is typhoid. Anyhow it is a
most alarming case.""Oh, why do you terrify me?" said Kate. "Why do you speak like
that? Is there no hope? Oh, there is Dr. Thornton; oh, I am glad to
see him!"Dr. Thornton was coming upstairs. He was accompanied by the great
specialist, Dr. Bennett Shaw. The nurse bustled about importantly. She
was much interested in her case, but she would not have been human if
she had not given herself little airs on the great event of a
consultation."You must not be present, madam," she said; "the doctors do not
wish it. Do you mind staying in your own bedroom or in this
sitting-room until they come out again?""Don't attempt to order me," said Kate in the haughtiest voice."Dr. Thornton, I must speak to you."Dr. Thornton and the specialist both entered a sitting-room,
accompanied by Kate."May I introduce Mrs. Henley?" said the doctor, turning to the
specialist.Dr. Bennett Shaw bowed--he was taking Kate in from head to
foot."Highly sensitive, nervous, overwrought," was his quick mental
comment. "I hope she won't have much to do in the sick-room. These
sort of women do no end of mischief in a case of this sort.""You are the doctor who has come to see my husband. You are the
great specialist who--who saves people's lives at the last moment,"
said Kate."Under God, madam, I have sometimes effected cures," said the
doctor; "but come, my time is precious--I want to see the
patient.""One moment, first. You must save him, or if there is no hope at
all you must tell me the truth. I will hear the truth--you have got to
tell it to me.""There is no reason why I should not tell the truth to this lady,
is there, Thornton?" said the specialist."None whatever, if she wishes to hear it," replied
Dr. Thornton."I will wait here until you come out again; I must know the truth,"
said Kate. She turned and stood with her face to the window. She was
looking out but she did not see anything. She heard the steps of the
doctors dying away in the corridor, she heard them enter the sick-room
and shut the door behind them. Then there came what seemed like an
eternity to the waiting, distracted, anxious woman."Oh, of course Ralph would die, of course there was not the
slightest doubt that he would die, and leave her. I cannot see him
die," she said to herself, "I cannot stand it. When he dies all will
be up.I shall be able to keep the
truth to myself no longer; oh, he must not, he must not die! and yet,
and yet I know he will die. Oh, I saw death on his face, and the nurse
thinks badly of him, and Dr. Thornton looked very grave, and as to
that other man--oh, has he any feeling at all. Oh, I hate him. Why am
I left here so long in suspense? I shall go mad, I shall go mad. In
all the wide world, was there ever such a wretched, miserable woman as
I am!"She fell on her knees; she dug her hands into her hair, she pulled
it out in handfuls. She struggled to her feet--she was almost beside
herself. Then there came a quiet voice in her ears, and Dr. Thornton
stood before her."Will you see Bennett Shaw now?" he asked. There was something very
quiet and very sorrowful in his voice, and he avoided meeting her
eyes."Yes, I will see him. Why doesn't he come in--what is he afraid
of?" said Kate.The specialist entered; he shut the door behind him. Kate felt that
she was a new patient--her husband was a physical one, she was a
mental. They had doomed him to death, of that she was certain, and
they were now going to drag her heart out of her breast. She stood and
faced both men with dilating eyes--her breath came pantingly."Oh, doctor, I know you think the very worst, but do please tell me
the truth," she gasped."I have something very painful to tell you," said Dr. Shaw. "Your
husband is most dangerously ill.""Dangerously ill? I know that, but is there any hope?""There is scarcely any hope. In cases like the present while there
is life there is always hope, but
certain symptoms have arisen which make it extremely doubtful if your
husband will hold out till the morning.""Until the morning? Must he die so soon? He was quite well
forty-eight hours ago.""It is a quick case of the most aggravated blood poisoning. I have
given certain directions, a certain remedy will be tried, but I must
frankly say that there is--""Oh, say it and have done," said Kate. "You mean there is no
hope?""Not quite that, Mrs. Henley, but there is so little hope that you
must be prepared for the worst.""I may stay with him--you will not send me away from him?""Nothing that you do can hurt him; he is past all that. He has
already sunk into a comatose condition. Whether he wakes from that
state is doubtful, but we are trying a certain remedy, and
Dr. Thornton will sit up with the patient to-night."CHAPTER
XXXIIKATE refused to go down to dinner. She refused to see Ethel when
she came up and humbly knocked at her door."Let me in, please, Kitty; Kitty darling, do let me in.""No, no, you must go away, I cannot see any one," replied Kate. And
Ethel went downstairs again disconsolate.Then Mrs. Hume came and knocked at the door."Kate, I must see you; open your door at once." Her voice was not
exactly imperative, but it was pleading. Kate had respect for her
years and for the motherhood which was in her, and going to the door
unlocked it."Well," she said, holding her long arms to her sides and staring
full at her visitor. She was dressed in black, her face was ghastly
pale, her hair was in disorder."Why are you dressed like that? Why do you look like that?" said
Mrs. Hume. "It is unlucky to put on black, why did you do it?""Unlucky," said Kate with a wild laugh. "Yes, but not more unlucky
than I am--than I shall be. Come in, Mrs. Hume, if you will.""Mrs. Hume! Why do you call me that?""Aunt Susannah I mean. Oh, my whole heart is closed up. The man I
love best in all the world is leaving me--why was I ever
born?""Poor child, poor child! sit down, dear Kitty." Mrs. Hume seated
herself in a chair, but Kate did not sit--she still stood bolt
upright."It is no use your seeing me," she said, "and I would rather you
did not pity me until this thing is over one way or the other. If he
dies I believe I shall lose my senses.""Do you indeed love him so passionately, Kate?""Love him?" said Kate. "Love him? In all the world I only love
him. I love him well enough to sin for him. I love him well enough to
lose all that I care for on earth and in heaven for him. If he dies I
shall lose my senses.""We must trust in God--shall we pray to God now? Shall we ask Him
to spare that most precious life?""Pray!" said Kate, with a laugh. "Pray! no, Mrs. Hume--Aunt
Susannah I mean--I cannot pray.""Your uncle wants to see you for a moment or two," said
Mrs. Hume. She got up, she was weak and trembling. Kate's defiant
attitude pained her inexpressibly. She did not know how to contend
with her, nor what to say. "Will you see your uncle, Kate?""If he wishes. I am indifferent.""I will send him up, dear. He has just one or two things to say to
you; he will not keep you long.""I will leave the door unlocked," said Kate, "and I hope he won't
keep me long.""I will tell him that you cannot stand much. Good-night, dear
child, even though you cannot pray yourself, try and remember that I
am praying most earnestly for you."Kate did not even say "thank you." Mrs. Hume slowly left the
room. A moment or two later Mr. Hume appeared."My dear Katherine," he said, "you know how I feel for you in this,
but I will not trouble you with words of mere sympathy at
present. Even in the most acute cases favourable symptoms take place,
and one never knows what may or may not occur. I should recommend you
to take a good sleeping draught and lie down. You look terribly
excited.""I! sleep when--when Ralph may be dying!" said Kate. Her eyes were
dilated in a fearful manner; she shook her head."I will not suggest it again, my dear. There is one thing, that in
an acute case of this kind the crisis must come quickly. We must hope
for the best."Kate made no sign. After a time she said slowly--"Aunt Susannah said you wished to say something.""I do. It is most provoking about those tickets--I cannot imagine
where they are.""Oh, I cannot discuss them now. My head reels, I scarcely know what
tickets you mean.""My dear child, it is wrong to trouble you about these things, but,
Kate, I wish you would let me see your bank-book.""My bank-book!" said Kate, starting back. "Why?""Because it was the arrangement that I was to overlook it monthly
so that all your affairs may be in absolute order. You have no head
for business. If you have it with you I will take it to the bank to be
made up.""Just as you please," said Kate. She had absolutely forgotten all
about the thousand pounds she had drawn that day."I am getting your affairs into order, Kate, and must have a talk with you when this fearful crisis is
past, as I trust it will, happily. Ah, that is the book; thank you, my
dear."Mr. Hume opened it. There might be the greatest catastrophe in the
house, but he never could lose his lawyer-like instinct."It has not been made up for three or four months," he
said--"dreadful, dreadful! My dear girl, with property like yours this
will never do. Suppose you had the management of your own
affairs--where would you be?""Where, indeed?" said Kate with a wan smile. Suddenly the colour
flushed in her cheeks; she remembered all of a sudden the thousand
pounds which she had drawn that day."I know little or nothing about money," she said. "In father's
lifetime I had nothing whatever to do with it. But what do you want
the bank-book for?""In order to ascertain what your balance now is. Just before your
marriage I put six thousand pounds to your credit. Doubtless it is
still there intact.""You want to know how much money I have in the bank? But surely
that is my own affair?""Quite so, my dear, quite so; you may have spent the whole six
thousand and it can scarcely matter to me, but I wish to know how
things stand. But how roused you look!--I am glad to find you
interested in anything.""I would rather you did not worry about my money affairs at
present," said Kate. "We can talk over things when Ralph is out of
danger.""Time enough, certainly.""Then give me the bank-book.""No, now that I have it I will keep it."Mr. Hume nodded to Kate, and before she could say another word left
the room. She stood for a moment holding her head between her
hands. She was lost in perplexed and terrible thought.If he finds out that yesterday I drew a thousand pounds from the
bank he will certainly suspect something," she said to herself. "Oh,
how the coils are tightening round me; what shall I do? I wonder if I
can keep my senses. Mother was right. My crime has brought me no
happiness. Oh, is there on God's earth a more miserable woman?"She stood trying hard to think for a few moments; a hand was laid
on her shoulder, she turned round. Marryat had come in with a little
tray on which was a cup of strong and delicious soup."You must drink this, my dear," she said in a kindly motherly
way. The tone of the woman's voice awoke a feeling in the wretched
girl's breast which could not be restrained. She held out her hand for
the soup."Oh, give it to me, Marryat," she said; "sit down and feed
me. Treat me as if I were a baby. Marryat, I am so miserable.""Poor child, poor child! but we must hope for the best.""Marryat, do you really think he will die?""Dear heart, how can I tell? But they do say that a magpie came
three times to the window of his room to-day, and that is a bad sign,
as you know, and a white pigeon flew into the room when we opened the
window wide--that's another bad sign, and--"" Marryat, if you say any more I shall scream.""We must hope for the best," said Marryat in a grave voice, "but
it's a very bad case. But there, I
have heard of as had before and the patient has got well. It don't
seem as if everything ought to crush you, Mrs. Henley, such love as
you feel for your husband. Perhaps God Almighty will be merciful.""Do you think He will? Do you think God will really spare him?
Would it be any good if you, Marryat, prayed for him?""Could not you pray yourself, my dear young lady?""I cannot.""Well, drink your soup." Marryat was watching her with curious
eyes."She is desperate," she said to herself; " if I play my cards well
to-night she will tell me everything. She shall, she must confide in
me. I am sorry for her, but the time has come when I must know all,
and then I will decide how best to act."Kate drank the soup and was slightly refreshed."What a mess your hair is in!" said Marryat; "you must let me brush
it for you, and what in the name of fortune have you put on that black
dress for? It don't suit you a bit, Mrs. Henley.""I like it," said Kate; " it is soft and it makes no noise. It is
the sort of dress that a poor woman would wear, is it not,
Marryat?""Well, my dear, you are not a poor woman, so why should you wear
it? You are one of the richest and most spoiled young ladies I have
ever come across, but wear black to-night you shan't, and off this
must come!""What shall I wear?" said the girl, submitting to Marryat's
ministrations as she would submit to no one else at that moment."Here's a pretty blue dress, soft and clinging. It will make no noise, and will be a bit of brightness,
should your husband want to see you. Now we will put it on, and I'll
get you some hot water, and after you have washed, and have got on
this dress, you will feel much refreshed."So Marryat ministered to Kate. She took off the ugly black dress
and brushed the long, lovely hair, put on the blue dress, and then
made her mistress lie on the sofa."Now, then, perhaps you can sleep," said the woman, "but first of
all, I will go and ask Nurse Bryan what the news is."The news from the sick-room was not reassuring. The two nurses did
not go to bed that night, and Dr. Thornton had already taken his place
in the ante-room."How is Mrs. Henley?" he asked, as Marryat was tripping back to her
mistress."Very bad indeed, sir; quite distracted.""Ah, poor young lady! Is she likely to come to see your master
during the night?""It is impossible for me to say, sir, what whim my mistress will
take. She is a young lady with curious impulses; I don't know whether
she will, or not.""I wish you could get her to bed, and to sleep.""It would be rather awful, sir, if she woke up and heard that her
husband was dead.""Whether she wakes or not makes very little difference. I cannot
conceal the truth from you. Mr. Henley is not likely to see the night
out."Marryat went back to Kate with a very grave face."You must get into bed, my dear," she said; " I shall not treat you, at a time like the present, as if
you were my mistress. You just want some one to order you a bit, and
you have got to obey me. Whether you like it or not, you are in my
power, for I know too many things about you, but I ain't going to be
hard. I'll cling to you through thick and thin, but get into bed you
must.""How--how is he?" said Kate."Well, there is no change at present. Everything is being done that
can be done, Dr. Thornton is there, and both the nurses are sitting
up. Now then, Mrs. Henley, you cannot keep your eyes open another
moment. I will undress you, and put you to bed.""As you please," said Kate. It was true she could not hold out much
longer. Marryat undressed her and put her into bed."Now then, I will sit by you until you sleep. Oh yes, you will drop
off soon enough. You're fair dead with fatigue."Kate shook her head. Like many another, she thought that sleep
would not visit her. In reality she had dropped into profound slumber
in less than five minutes. When she awoke again, she had a curious,
puzzled sensation. She raised her head, then full consciousness
returned to her. Marryat was lying on the sofa, sound asleep. There
was a night-light in a corner of the room. Kate struck a match, and
looked at the hour. It was between three and four in the morning. What
a long, long sleep she had had! She felt quite refreshed, and her
brain cleared, but the tortures of her mental state became so acute,
that she could not lie still another moment. She rose very softly. She
did not want to awaken Marryat, but she must find out somehow how her husband was. She put on a
dressing-gown, and stole from the room. There was a light in the
passage. Kate crossed the landing, and entered the ante-room which led
into her husband's bedroom, and softly stood on the threshold of the
sick-room itself. Was it a death-room? Was there a living man still
feebly struggling with death, or had he already succumbed in the dire
conflict?Kate approached the bedside, a hand was laid on her arm, she did
not scream but she turned swiftly round. Dr. Thornton was looking at
her."You must go away," he said. He led her out of the room."What is the matter?" she asked, "is he worse?""There is not the slightest hope, Mrs. Henley.""No hope?" said Kate. The words dropped slowly, her lips seemed to
freeze. She thought her heart would stop heating, then suddenly there
came over her a strange coolness, and a curious knowledge of her own
imminent danger. Instead of thinking only of her husband at this
crucial and awful moment she thought first of herself."He will die?" she said.The doctor bowed his head."We have done all that man can do," he said, "the crisis is very
near.""The crisis, you mean his death is very near?""He may die at any moment.""Is he still alive?""Yes.""I must see him while he lives. I never could bear to look at a
dead person; I must see him while he lives," said Kate; "may I look at
him while he still breathes?""If you will promise to make no sound, not that it greatly matters,
but still one must give every chance." " I will make no sound, I
promise."They re-entered the sick-room together, they stood close by the
bed."I cannot see his face," whispered poor Kate.The doctor calmly lit a candle and brought it over to the
bedside. He let the light fall full upon the sunken features. Kate
could scarcely recognise her own husband. There was an immense change
in him."Would he--would he wake if I kissed him once again?" she
asked."No, no, he is past that," said the man of science.Kate bent forwards. Her lips touched the clammy forehead of the
dying man. She kissed him once, twice."It is Kitty saying good-bye," she whispered to the ear that could
not hearken to her words, and then she left the room. She went
straight back to Marryat. Marryat was sound asleep. Kate shook her
forcibly."Get up, Marryat," she said, "get up, I want you.""What is it, Mrs. Henley? oh what is the matter? is Mr. Henley
worse?""I have said good-bye to him, I shall never see him again. I cannot
be in the house when he is dead. I am going, Marryat; will you come
with me?""Where?" asked the maid."Away, away from here. Come with me, Marryat; we will go to
Australia. Thursday has dawned, and the Hydra
sails to-day. I have got the tickets, I kept them back on purpose; you
and I will take the berths, and we will go away over the waters. Come
quickly, Marryat."Kate laughed in her intense feverish excitement. Marryat
paused."Shall I go?" she said to herself. "Poor child, she will soon be
traced and found, but after all I must get her secret from her. Yes, I
will go away with her, I will take her to London, to a place I know,
and then she will confide in me fully.""Yes, Mrs. Henley," she said aloud, "I will come. Sit down, my
dear, do not exhaust yourself overmuch. Try and keep calm, we will
slip away together.""Quickly, quickly," said Kate, clasping and unclasping her
hands. "I cannot be in the house with one who is dead. I have said
good-bye, and I cannot wait."CHAPTER
XXXIIIMRS. HENLEY and Marryat stole softly from the Grange under shadow
of the darkness. Kate felt as if she were fleeing from Death himself;
she might even meet his grim form on the threshold--even now he might
be entering the house to carry her husband away. She was possessed by
a mad fear in which all natural feeling was forgotten, or
overcome. Her terror was so great that she was doing unconsciously the
very worst thing for herself; she was drawing down suspicion upon her
own actions in a way she had never done before; she was letting the
reins loose, she was letting herself go.Marryat, however, had no intention of allowing herself to go; she
had all her wits about her; she knew a house where she could take
Kate, and as soon as they reached London Marryat conveyed her mistress
in a cab to the house of a friend of hers in Great Marlborough
Street. This woman, a Mrs. Cunliffe, let lodgings. She had known
Marryat for a long time, and a few hurried words which the maid spoke
put her sufficiently into possession of facts to cause her to bustle
about and make herself agreeable."Poor young lady!" she said, "I quite understand; there's no one
occupying the drawing-room floor now, Miss Marryat.""Have a fire lighted," said Marryat in a determined voice: "the
lady is very tired and will wantsome
breakfast." She took Kate upstairs. The drawing-room floor was well
furnished in the true lodging-house style. There were two rooms, one
opening with folding doors into the other. Marryat conducted her
mistress into the front drawing-room, shut the folding doors, and then
proceeded to take off Kate's boots and to warm her frozen feet."Now, my love, you shall have your tea, and afterwards you will lie
down and I will hold your hands," said Marryat; "you must confide in
me now, my dear, I am all you have left. You have given up everybody
else, but your Marryat will be faithful to you. Now, shut your weary
eyes and go off into a bit of a sleep."Kate was so dazed that she was glad even to be guided by
Marryat. All her old spirit and defiance had left her. She felt like a
hunted thing torn by hundreds of furies."Is it to-day the Hydra sails?" she asked,
and she raised herself on her elbow and fixed her eyes on Marryat's
face."At two o'clock," said Marryat--"between two and three to-day the
Hydra sails--at least so I am told.""You and I will go in her, our berths are taken," said the
girl."Just as you please, dear madam. Now, here is your tea. Thank you,
Mrs. Cunliffe, this is just what we wanted."Curious Mrs. Cunliffe had brought up the tea herself and stared
full at Kate, who, notwithstanding her sorrow, her disarranged locks,
and her untidy dress, still bore traces of some of the most remarkable
beauty the good woman had ever seen."Well, to be sure, she's quite a picter," she exclaimed, throwing up her hands and apostrophising Kate's
recumbent figure.Marryat motioned to her to leave the room."I have no notion of Cunliffe sharing in this thing," she
thought. "It will be me and my mistress against the world from this
out. Well, I believe we can defy the world, that I do."Accordingly, when her mistress had taken what tea she could, and
even had tried to swallow a spoonful of some Brand's Essence which the
landlady happened to have in the house, the maid sat down and made a
hearty breakfast herself. She drank a couple of cups of tea and ate
some poached eggs and bacon. This meal made Marryat feel quite
refreshed. She then went and faced her mistress."And now, my dear," she said, "the time has come for full
confidence.""For what?" said Kate. She was lying on the sofa with her eyes half
closed, "for full what?""Confidence, dearie--the reposing of that secret, which worrits and
frets you almost past enduring, in the breast of your faithful
Marryat. Ah, my dear, there's no one will be truer to you than I'll
be, but you must tell me all, that you must, my love."Kate gazed at her at first vacantly, then her eyes brightened--a
gleam even of her old sunshiny, cheerful humour twinkled in the depths
of her dark eyes. She sat up on her elbow."And you really think--" she began."I think, dear, that either you or Miss Mary Hume is to be my
mistress in the future, and the one who pays me best is to be
chosen. I have got the choice. Remember, I can tell things about you,
Mrs. Henley, which, joined to Miss Hume's suspicions, will make uncertainty certainty. There is a secret
beyond doubt. You can confide in me or you need not; it all rests with
yourself.""And suppose I do confide in you," said Kate; "supposing I do, what
will you expect?""I will expect, my love, that you will provide for me handsomely
out of that fortune which doubtless, darling, you have no right to
possess.""Now, what can you mean?" said Kate, taken off her guard by
Marryat's words. In truth the woman had shot a bow at a venture."Ah," thought Marryat, "that went home. I was right so far. I think
I will name a big sum--in for a penny, in for a pound.""Well, darling, if I can see you through this I'll expect to be a
rich woman. You don't object, do you?""I will make you comfortable, but I am too distracted and wretched
to think out any plans at present," said Kate. "It is impossible that
I should really confide in you, Marryat.""Nonsense, my love, you don't stir from this room until I know
all. I have but to telegraph to Mr. Hume to the Grange and he will
come here, and I have but to telegraph to Miss Mary Hume in Russell
Square and she will come here, and it is only to say what I have
observed with my own eyes, that funny little woman who came to see you
yesterday, and all the rest. There are a few things I have got to say,
and I will say them, love. You have but to choose, I will be faithful
to you if you are faithful to me, but not otherwise.""You have said that very often," said Kate, "but what does
faithfulness to you mean?""It means that I am to know everything, my darling.""I wish you would not call me your darling. Why you treat me as
if--as if we were in the same walk of life.""Which we very much are, surely, dear, only I don't hold any
disgraceful secret, and have done nothing that I could be ashamed
of. If you were not ashamed of something you had done you would not
act in the queer way you are now doing, and with your poor husband, so
to speak, on the brink of the grave, if indeed he has not crossed the
gulf; it is certain sure that he can do nothing for you now.""Oh, my Ralph, my Ralph!" said the miserable girl. "Oh, I have left
you, left you when you were so ill. Oh, Marryat, what must they think
of me at the Grange? I think I will go back.""Too late now; you have got to tell," said Marryat. She stood in
front of Kate, her eyes grew large and big. It seemed to the tired
excited girl that Marryat's whole frame developed and strengthened in
power."Oh, what shall I do?" she said with a little gasp."Just do what I tell you and all will be well," said Marryat. "Now,
that's right, lie back and you'll whisper it to me.""But I cannot, I cannot. If you told again I--I should be
ruined.""I will never tell while you pay me enough," said Marryat.Kate hesitated. After all, should she tell? It would be a relief to
impart that secret to another, and Marryat of all people under the sun
was the least likely to betray her. Kate was sure to be a better mistress to her, to pay her more
than Mary Hume would.Mary Hume was all for justice being done. If Marryat helped her to
discover her secret she would pay her something, but not a great deal,
not more than she could possibly help. Kate lay and thought. The words
were almost trembling on her lips. Suddenly, however, a complete
revulsion of feeling came over her, she started suddenly to her
feet."I cannot and will not tell you at present," she said. "But I will
do this. When we are safe on board the Hydra,
far away from England on our way to Australia, then I will tell you,
but not before. You may do your worst, you may telegraph to my uncle
and Mary Hume, I can scarcely be more wretched than I am, but I will
not tell you that which troubles me until we are safe on board and out
at sea."Marryat looked at her mistress for some time."And you'll faithfully promise to tell me then?""Yes, I will faithfully promise.""And you'll give me something to make it worth my while to go with
you?""Oh, what do you mean?""A hundred pounds will do," said Marryat, "a hundred pounds in my
pocket and all expenses paid, and I to make my own special terms when
I know your secret.""Very well.""Then we had best go straight to the bank," said Marryat, "that is,
as soon as it opens. You'll want to draw money to take away with you,
my dear, and you'll want me to help you. I thought of your cheque-book
when you were in such a state yesterday, and I have brought it with
me. If you like I'll go straightto
the bank and draw the money for you. How much will you want?""Oh, I scarcely dare to draw very much, for I took a big sum
yesterday.""But you will want at least a thousand pounds," say Marryat in a
determined voice, "and for that matter you might as well have two or
three thousand, if you are going to Australia. You will want your
money; don't you see that you will?""I suppose I shall. Oh, I don't know what to do. I suppose they
would send it to me afterwards.""I will manage it," said Marryat. "You just give me a cheque for
three thousand pounds--that will leave a fair balance, and then if the
worst comes to the worst you and I can enjoy ourselves in
Australia. It strikes me, my pretty lady, that secret of yours will
get out whether you wish it or not before long, and you and I may as
well be away with our three thousand pounds.""Oh, I wish I might die, I wish my miserable life might end," said
poor Kate."It's no good your wishing, dear. As you made your bed so you must
lie on it. Now then, just fill in a cheque for the money, and I'll go
and fetch it and come back to take you to Tilbury."CHAPTER
XXXIVAs Marryat spoke she approached the centre table and opening a bag
produced Kate's cheque-book. She tore a cheque away from its
counterfoil and brought it to her mistress with pen, ink, and
blotting-paper."Now then, dear," she said, "fill in. Why, poor love, you are not
fit for anything. I never saw any one so washed out and worn."Kate indeed was almost past listening to Marryat. All this talk
about money, money, cheques, cheques, seemed to go in at one ear and
out at the other. What was happening to her? What was the matter?
Where was she? Back again at Mentone with the girl whom she loved, and
who was dying--the girl whose name she took, whose fortune she took,
whose personality she took? Or was she at Mentone before she had ever
heard of that girl, and her mother was poor and in trouble, and the
handsome, badly fed, badly dressed girl scarcely knew what to do with
herself? Or was she in the first blush of her success in London and
Ralph by her side--he was telling her how very much he loved her? Or
was she at his house at Castellis and the first grey fears were
beginning to assail her, or was she by his death-bed leaning over him,
listening to his hurried breathing, terrified at the thought that at
any moment that breathing would stop? She uttered a sharp cry."What is it, Mrs. Henley, what is it?""Nothing, nothing, only for God's sake tell me what I am to do, and
leave me alone.""Write your name here, dear, and I won't trouble you further."Kate took up a pen and filled in the cheque, writing her name,
"Kate Henley," in large characters at the foot.Marryat took the cheque tenderly, blotted it with skill, and
slipped it into her own purse."Now, my dear," she said, "you will go to sleep. I will draw down
the blinds. Rest assured that nothing can happen to you here. I will
tell the land-lady that you are not going to see a soul, and I will be
back as soon as possible. There's not much time to lose if we are to
be on board the Hydra to-day at two
o'clock."Kate made no response. Already she was back in that queer
dream-world where things were cloudy and unreal and phantom-like. She
heard Marryat bustling about the room, and was glad when she finally
departed, closing the door softly after her.Meanwhile, Marryat in her own room took the signed cheque, looked
at it with covetous eyes, and went off to the bank. She arrived there
soon after it was opened; the place was not very full, and the clerks
were sufficiently unemployed to stare at her. She went up to one of
them and asked him to cash the cheque."I want it in notes and gold," she said--"not too much gold, for it
would be heavy to carry, and be as quick as you can, for I must hurry
back to my mistress."The cheque being for such a large sum the man went away and
consulted one of his chiefs. No difficulty was made. Marryat's story
was perfectly straightforward, and the
money was handed to her. She put it into a small bag, clasped it
tightly to her side, and was about to leave the bank when she suddenly
found herself face to face with no less a person than Mary Hume."Well, Marryat?" said Miss Mary Hume. She was entering the bank
just as Marryat was going out."Yes, Miss, I hope I find you well," said Marryat, by no means
disconcerted, although the colour had come into her cheeks for a
moment and then faded."You find me quite well," replied Mary. "Don't waste time talking
about my appearance. I want to cash five pounds; come back with me
while I am doing my business, I have one or two questions to ask
you.""Oh, Miss, you'll excuse me, but I really cannot wait. I have got
to go back to my mistress at once.""It is impossible that Mrs. Henley can be in a hurry for you just
now. I will not let you go--I shall make a fuss. Here, come back with
me." Mary laid her hand authoritatively on Marryat's arm. She drew her
back into the bank.It did not take long to get her five pounds cashed. She went out
again into the street with the five sovereigns in her purse."You also have been drawing money," she said, "and doubtless for a
larger sum.""A slightly larger sum," replied Marryat in a dubious, carefully
modulated voice."You are still altogether on the side of Mrs. Henley?""Of course I am on the side of that dear, wronged, and innocent
lady.""And how is Mr. Henley--is he still alive?""When I left home he was very ill indeed," replied Marryat. "I
won't tell her any more," thought the
woman. "I have got three thousand pounds of Mrs. Henley's, and it will
be a long time before Miss Mary Hume could supply me with an equal sum
of money. For the present I am altogether on the side of
Mrs. Henley--altogether on her side. I must get rid of Miss Hume, and
as quickly as possible.""Well, Miss," she said,"what else have you to say?""I am going in a hansom as far as Russell Square," said
Mary. "After attending to one or two small matters there I am going
down to the Grange, as I want to see Ethel and my father. You may as
well come back with me by the same train.""No, Miss, I could not possibly do that. I must return to the
Grange by the very next train.""There won't be a train until half-past eleven, and it is half-past
ten now," said Mary. "You do no good by not coming with me. I insist
upon your doing so.""And I insist upon having my own way, Miss. I am not your servant
and I won't be ordered by you. There, Miss, that will do, I'm in a
hurry. I have different things to transact for my mistress."Marryat suddenly slipped her hand from Mary's arm, and the next
moment had turned down a side street and disappeared."Now what does this mean?" thought the angry girl. "She was drawing
a large sum from the bank, she had a packet in her hand, and she
certainly looked confused when she saw me. She was here on Kate's
business. I wonder what I shall discover when I go back to the
Grange. I wish I had not let her go. Well, anyhow, I shall take the
half-past eleven home. I told Aunt Maud to expect me back when she saw
me. I am more certain than ever that we are on the eve of a terrible dénouement, and I cannot rest until I learn
myself the tidings at the Grange. It is very odd Marryat being in
London, and at so early an hour in the morning. It seems like a sort
of Providence my meeting her."Accordingly, Mary, pleased at being able to act, and act quickly,
got into her hansom and drove straight to Russell Square."Well," said her aunt when she saw her, "have you heard from the
Grange yet?""No, and I am so anxious at not hearing that I am going down there
at once," said Mary."I would not do that if I were you, dear," said the good lady. "You
will find yourself rather in the way.""In the way or not it is my home, Aunt Maud, and I am going back
just to see how things are," replied Mary. "I may or may not return to
dinner. Don't wait meals for me. I can have a cup of tea whenever I
come in, I suppose?""Certainly," was Mrs. Stirling's reply.Mary took another hansom and drove to the railway station. She was
just in time to catch her train, but there was no sign of Marryat at
the station."So she has not taken this train. How queer it all is!" thought
Mary. She sat back in her carriage. She was not filled with sorrow
with regard to Ralph, although she had known him all her life. Every
faculty of her mind, every power within her, was absorbed in one
thing. Was she or was she not on the eve of a discovery which would
prove Kate Henley to be an adventuress--an impostor? If so, she and
Ethel were rich beyond their wildest dreams. The thought of all the money that might be hers, that in
all probability was hers, filled Mary's soul with the most curious,
terrible, overweening sense of avarice. She was an affectionate girl
by nature, she could love well and truly those who really happened to
suit her or took her fancy. At school she had been a good girl,
working industriously, striving to get to the head of her class, but
now everything was altered, all her nature seemed turned upside
down. She was in the mood to be cruel, to be hard, to be unjust.The train drew up at the wayside station nearest to the Grange, and
Mary got out. There was no cab waiting and no carriage from the
Grange, as she had not announced her intended visit, but it did not
take her long to walk the two miles from the station, and she arrived
at the house just before lunch. Mrs. Hume was crossing the wide hall
when she was suddenly startled by feeling Mary's hand on her arm. She
turned round in some perplexity. When she saw her daughter, and caught
a glimpse of her face, she started and changed colour."What is it, Mary? Oh, I beseech of you, don't talk too
loudly.""How is he?" said Mary. "Is he still alive?""He is, and the strange thing is he is a little better," said
Mrs. Hume."Why should not he be better?""Oh, my dear, if you had been here last night and this morning you
would not ask that question. The doctor gave him up; he thought there
was not the ghost of a chance for him. All last night he sat up with
him expecting him to breathe his last every moment, but between five
and six o'clock the crisis came. He fell asleep and slept for a couple
of hours;he is, of course, still in
great danger, but certainly slightly on the mend. If nothing adverse
occurs, nothing to worry him, he may revive.""What should worry him? He has every care. This whole house has
been turned topsy-turvy for his benefit," said Mary in a bitter
tone."Mary, I cannot understand you. Don't you even love our poor dear
Ralph?""Oh yes, I am fond enough of Ralph, but when I see a man making
such an arrant, absolute fool of himself I cannot quite admire him,"
said Mary. "But that is neither here nor there. He has every
comfort. Why do you speak in that despairing tone?""I am in great trouble, and so is your uncle--and so for that
matter is the doctor. We do not know what to think.""What about?" asked Mary."It is Kate.""Kate, what of her?" Mary grasped her mother's arm so tightly that
Mrs. Hume pulled herself away."Don't, child, don't," she said. "Mary, you hurt me.""Oh, mother, you know I don't mean to do that," said Mary in a
softer tone. "But come in here and tell me. Kate--what about her?""Well, Ralph is asleep now, but he has been asking for her. She
ought to be present. The slightest agitation just now may have a fatal
effect. We don't know where Kate is.""You--don't--know--where--Kate--is?" repeated Mary slowly, pausing
between each word, her dark eyes lit up with a fierce light. "You
don't know where Kate is--but surely she is here?""That's just it; she is not here. She must have left here early this morning, but we know nothing about
her. She and Marryat have both gone.""Gone! Oh, surely they will be back any moment. I thought Marryat
was coming back by this train with me. Perhaps she has already
arrived.""I fear not, child, but I will ring and inquire."Mrs. Hume approached the bell, rang it, and when the servant
appeared inquired if Marryat had come back."No, ma'am," was the reply. "Neither Mrs. Henley nor Marryat have
yet returned.""Then they will come by the next train," said Mary. "There is no
use worrying about them.""Yes, but there is, for they have evidently gone away with some
sort of design, and Ralph's chance of life depends on his wife being
with him. He has asked for her twice already, and only that he is so
overpowered by the effects of his illness, mischief might have already
ensued."CHAPTER
XXXVMARRYAT went straight back to Kate."I have got the money," she said. "I have got it here; it is a
small parcel to mean so much wealth, is it not?" And as Marryat spoke
she laid the neatly folded paper parcel on the table.Kate had been dozing. She had gone through so much that,
notwithstanding her present misery, sleep had overpowered her. But she
started up now with a wild light in her eyes."Yes," she said, "the money! What about it?""Don't you remember, dear madam. Now rouse yourself, poor dear; we
can talk over things quietly when we get on board.""On board? Where?" asked Kate."Where, child? On board the Hydra, of
course. Are you dreaming? What is it, Mrs. Henley?""I do not know, I feel confused," said Kate. "I do not seem to
remember anything. Where is Ralph? If we are going on board the Hydra Ralph ought to be here. Where is he?""But don't you know anything?" said Marryat. She went straight up
to the bewildered-looking girl and taking her by her two shoulders
shook her. "Can't you remember? Do pull yourself together.""Yes, yes," said Kate. She passed her hand across her eyes. "I am
dazed," she said. "Things are beginning to come back. I am running
away; that's it, is it not, Marryat?""Yes, dear, that is just it, but only say those words to me.""Yes, Marryat, only to you, I am running away.""And I am going with you, dear, and we have three thousand pounds
in that little parcel. You had best let me manage things for the
present, that is until we have steamed out of the Channel. Now then,
dear, now then, do rouse yourself. We will take a cab and go to
Fenchurch Street, and take the train for Tilbury at once. That will be
our best course. There is no use in delaying, and mischief might
follow.""What mischief? Is there any danger?" asked Kate, still in that
vacant stunned sort of voice."Well," answered Marryat briskly, trying to control her temper, for
Kate's present mood exasperated the poor woman almost beyond her
endurance. "I strikes me there's a deal of mischief; there's Miss Mary
Hume watching and spying, and thinking, and suspecting, and I met her
at the bank, my dear--at your bank--and she wanted me to go back to
the Grange with her. What is it now, Mrs. Henley? How queer you
are--white as death one minute, red as a rose the next. I declare, I
declare, the trouble this affair is giving me, the palpitations, the
uneasiness, make it scarcely worth going on with. The game isn't worth
the candle. Now then, dear, what is it?""Only that I remember," said Kate. "Yes, we will go as fast as
possible to the Hydra. And Ralph is dead, quite
dead, is he not, Marryat?""That I do not know, love. I have not heard.""Oh, but he must be, I saw him. I looked at him last night; he was
breathing so fast, and his face was so white, I should scarcely have
known him. And he did not know me--he didn't know anybody--he was going back to his God. In one
way, Marryat, you know it is a relief. He will never reproach me now,
never, but in another way it is a horror beyond all endurance, so I
shall go, and you will come with me. Yes, I will go at once.""That is right, my dear, that is right. I bought a bottle of brandy
on my way back, a small bottle, and you shall have a little mixed in
water before you start.""No, I could not touch it," said Kate. She turned away
shuddering. Marryat, however, insisted. She made some weak brandy and
water, and held it before her mistress's lips."Now drink it up, dear. I know you hate all intoxicants, but the
more reason you should have this now. It will pull you together
wonderfully.""Hark!" said Kate, holding up her hand, "are not those bells
tolling. Are the bells near the Grange tolling on account of my
Ralph?""Dear heart, how fanciful you are! as if you could hear the bells
of the Grange Church here! Dear, dear heart, the sooner you are out of
this the better."Kate drank off the brandy and water, and put down the glass with a
hand which trembled. The next moment, however, the spirit had taken
effect, and she walked across the room. Marryat followed her."You will put on your hat now, love. Here, let me arrange it for
you. What is the good of being maid, faithful, fond, devoted maid to a
dear young lady, if I cannot do what she wants? I am going to wash
your face and hands, and you'll feel much more chirpy. There's a
bedroom here; we'll go in. Yes, and I'll dress your hair over again;
you don't know howrefreshed you'll
be. Then, if we go to the Hydra, we'll just be
in time to take possession of that very pleasant four-berth cabin
before anybody comes looking for us.""Oh, could anybody come and look for us? If so--?""No, love, they could not; I have managed that; not time enough,
dear. Otherwise Miss Mary Hume would have her finger in this pie as
well as all the other pies where you are concerned. That's all right,
dear, now then."Kate allowed herself to be led into the adjoining room. She came
out again in a quarter of an hour considerably refreshed. Her glossy
beautiful hair was well arranged, her hat was put on straight, her
veil was tied, she was drawing on a pair of new gloves which Marryat
had provided.A moment later the two young women had left the lodgings and were
driving in a hansom to Fenchurch Street. When they got there they took
the next train to Tilbury, and about one o'clock that day Kate and
Marryat were on board the Hydra."She will sail in an hour?" said Marryat, turning to one of the
sailors who stood near."Yes," he answered, "sharp at two. Are you expecting any friends on
board?""No and yes," said Marryat. "I will just stand near the gangway and
watch.""And will that pretty young lady, your mistress, like to watch,
too?" asked the Jack Tar, surveying Marryat with a curious
expression--half of wonder, half of admiration."No, no, my pretty young lady is going to lie down. She is not very
well," said Marryat. She had already conducted Kate to her cabin; Kate
stoodthere with clasped hands. She
gazed out at the little porthole window. She could see the shore--she
could see the people hurrying towards the great liner. She could hear
voices, troubled voices, melancholy voices, and business-like voices
on deck. There was the tramp of feet, there was the hurry which is
always incidental to the start of a steamer on one of its long
voyages. Kate felt apart from it all, and yet there was a curious
sense of relief."When we leave England the danger must be past," she thought, "and
I shall never, never see Ralph's dead face. That is the thing that I
cannot bear--that is the last, last straw." Then she sank down on the
side of her berth. The cabin was a very roomy one; only the two lower
berths were arranged for occupation, the upper berths not being
required. Kate gazed vacantly round her. A few days ago she had
thought that she and Ralph would be here; now Ralph was gone from her
for ever. She wondered she felt it so little, and yet she knew that it
was breaking her heart, and that nothing else really mattered. The
knowledge of all that discovery meant no longer troubled her.Marryat came down once or twice to look at her mistress."It's all going splendidly," she said. "We'll be off in no time,
and then, my dear, you can cast your care from you like a mantle."Kate looked at her."I hear those bells still," she said. "They haunt me.""What bells, dear, what bells?""The church bells, they're tolling. Ralph was very young to die,
was he not, Marryat?""Oh, my love, it is most bitter sorrowful, but you must keep up
your courage for the present. There are no bells, dear, it is all
imagination. Now I must go back again to my watching, for there's no
saying what that Miss Mary Hume might do, but I do truly think she has
no time."Kate scarcely responded. She rose restlessly. Again her eyes sought
the narrow view which she alone could see from the porthole.The stewardess bustled in to know if she could do anything for the
new passenger. Marryat turned round sharply."Thank you, Mrs. Seymour," she said--she had already discovered the
woman's name--"I am lady's-maid to this dear lady, and will look after
her during the voyage.""Then my services won't be specially required," said Mrs. Seymour,
"but if you do want anything, madam--" she looked from Kate to Marryat
and from Marryat to Kate again--"This lady's name is Mrs. Henley, and I am Miss Marryat," replied
the maid with a toss of her head. "Now then, Mrs. Henley, I will leave
you."She turned once more to her post by the gangway. The stewardess
lingered for a moment."You don't look well, madam," she said to Kate."It is the noise in my head," replied Kate. She put up her hand to
her forehead."Dear, dear, you are very poorly," said Mrs. Seymour, gazing at the
lovely face with undisguised admiration and a certain sense of
pity."It's the bells," continued Kate, "they keep on ringing, ringing,
ringing.""What bells, madam? There are no bells ringing near here.""Oh no, they are not these bells, they come from a good way off,
from my home; it is the bells that ring because my husband is
dead.""Dear heart, queer in the head," thought Mrs. Seymour. She said
something soothing and presently left Kate.Sharp at two o'clock the Hydra weighed anchor and steamed slowly
down the river.CHAPTER
XXXVIMARY determined not to return to her aunt, Mrs. Stirling. She felt
more assured than ever that things were coming to a real crisis. She
was very proud of her discrimination. A fiendish sense of cruelty
possessed her. When Kate returned she would accuse her openly. In the
meantime, she must not desert her post, she must watch.The day passed away slowly. Kate did not come back. Mary knew all
about the trains. When passengers from any train might be expected to
arrive she walked down the avenue, but no Kate returned.Meanwhile the sick man was better. The doctor and the nurse
scarcely left him. Hour by hour the heavy pall of awful illness began
to be lifted. Hour by hour the chance of recovery became more
assured. He opened his eyes restlessly several times, and on each of
these occasions he asked for his wife.Mary went upstairs and met Nurse Bryan."How is Mr. Henley?" she asked, in her somewhat careless off-hand
tone."Oh, better," replied the woman, "decidedly better, but I do wish
Mrs. Henley would return.""Has he been asking for her?" said Mary."Asking for her! He never asks for any one else, but he is almost
too weak to speak, poor dear; it's his eyes that ask for her, his eyes
keep looking at the door. It's a pity that beautiful young lady is so
cold-hearted as to leave him in a crisis of this kind.""But is it bad for him her being away?" asked Mary."It is decidedly very bad.""You think that it may imperil his life?""Well, of course he is not out of danger yet," said Nurse Bryan,
"nor anything like. We had no hopes at all last night, and we have
some hopes now, that's about the difference. Whether he pulls through
depends altogether on whether he does not get any shock and whether he
has nothing to worry him. He is too weak yet to be seriously worried,
but when his strength returns Mrs. Henley ought to be here.""Thank you," replied Mary. She turned away. On the stairs she met
Dr. Thornton."How is your patient?" she said, stopping for a moment as she was
going downstairs."I have not seen him for the last hour," replied the doctor; "he
was doing better then, much better than I dared to hope.""Then you think he will get over this?""There is a possibility.""Last night you had no hope," said Mary."I had no hope," replied Dr. Thornton, "but in these fever cases,"
he added, "no physician ought to say that. The old saying that while
there is life there is hope invariably applies to fever cases.""Then now you have hope?""I have said so.""I have just seen Nurse Bryan," continued Mary after a pause. "She
says Mr. Henley is fretting for his wife.""Has not Mrs. Henley come back yet?" asked Dr. Thornton, raising
his brows; "it is very extra-ordinary.""It is extraordinary," said Mary, "that is exactly what I
think. You want her back, do you not?""She ought to be here," said Dr. Thornton."You think we ought to try and find her and bring her back?""I do, undoubtedly.""Will you say so, if necessary, to my mother and father?""I will certainly say so, but I am going up to see the patient
now.""As in all probability there is not a moment to lose," continued
Mary, "may I say it for you?""If you will be so kind."Mary ran downstairs. Her mother was in the morning room. The relief
from the terrible strain of the day before had made the good lady more
tired than usual. She was lying down."You will be knocked up, as well as everybody else, on account of
that wretched, miserable girl," said Mary, when she came into the
room."Oh don't, Mary, don't abuse poor Kate now," said Ethel, who was
seated near her mother."I don't want to listen to you, Ethel; you are a perfect goose,"
exclaimed Mary. "Mother, it is my opinion--of course, I know exactly
what you and Ethel think of my opinion, but, nevertheless, I shall
state it. It is my opinion that Kate has gone, never to return.""You are talking absolute nonsense," said Mrs. Hume. "Why should
not Kate come back?""She is afraid to come back; she feels that her game is up. Now I
have not the slightest idea of allowing her to escape the consequences
of her crime; she must return in order to face it. I have got the doctor's orders that we are to
send for her immediately, as otherwise her husband cannot recover. I
mean to go and look for her.""Where do you mean to go?" said Mrs. Hume. "Oh, Mary, Mary dear,
that chimera in your brain gets worse and worse.""Never mind about my brain at present," said Mary, "when I bring
Kate back you will cease to think that I have got a chimera in my
brain; you will turn your attention to the real culprit, you will not
waste your pity on me. Meanwhile, I want to go and look for Kate.""Where are you going to look for her?""She will return of course by the next train," said Ethel. "I have
been talking to Nurse Bryan and she says that Kate was in a very
nervous over-strained condition last night, and it is my opinion the
poor darling just went away because she could not stand the terrible
strain of seeing her husband die.""Very wrong of her," interrupted Mrs. Hume, "very wrong and
selfish. I have a high opinion of Kate. I do not believe my dear Kitty
would do such a heartless thing for a minute.""Nevertheless, mother," said Mary, "your dear Kitty, as you call
her, has done it, for in the house she is not. Marryat has also
gone. I intend to follow them.""Where?" said Mrs. Hume."To Plymouth.""Plymouth, my dear child! What would take Kate to Plymouth?""She goes on board the Hydra to
Plymouth. She is on board the Hydra now, I feel
certain of it. If I take the next train to Plymouth I shall overtake
the boat. I shall go on board when the Hydra
stops atPlymouth to-morrow, and face
Kate. I want father to come with me. Anyhow, she must be brought
back."Just at that moment Mr. Hume came into the room."Father," said Mary, turning to him, "can you come to Plymouth with
me immediately?""Why so?" asked Hume. "What is the matter with you, Mary? I thought
you were staying with your Aunt Maud.""My place is here," said Mary, "or rather, my place is at
Plymouth. If we catch the night train we shall get there early
to-morrow morning before the Hydra arrives. I
want to go on board in order to confront Kate Henley."Mr. Hume asked for an explanation. Mary gave it in terse tones."You shall do nothing of the kind; you would not be so mad. I
forbid you to do it," he said. "Kate will come back at any moment, of
course she will come back.""Very well," said Mary, "if she returns by the last train, the
seven o'clock this evening, well and good, but if she does not return,
you and I will take the night train to Plymouth. Either you and I,
father, or I by myself, for confront Kate I will.""There can be nothing whatever in this," said Mrs. Hume."It is very odd," said Mr. Hume, "where can those tickets have
gone? I certainly left them in the study and they have completely
vanished."Mary gave a little laugh."Of course Kate had them," she said; "you are finely deceived in
that girl, but your eyes will be opened yet."She went out of the room. Her parents' and Ethel's attitude of unbelief tried her almost beyond
endurance."It is a very painful part I have got to play," she said to
herself, "but nevertheless I shall go on to the bitter end. That
adventuress shall be exposed, she shall be seen in her true
colours."Mary consulted her watch, and remembering that another train was
about due at the little station, once more walked up the avenue. She
looked along the dusty road. If she could see two figures, the figure
of Marryat and the figure of Kate coming back, she would go to meet
them. She would confront Kate face to face, confront this impostor she
would, and soon, the sooner the better. Her heart was burning with
rage. She felt as she had never thought to feel in the days of her
happy and innocent girlhood."I am wicked over this," she said to herself, "but wicked or not I
am going on straight to the bitter end."Her eyes travelled along the road--the figures of two women
resembling Kate and Marryat did not appear, but a man was coming down
the road. He was walking slowly, uncertainly. He paused now and then
to look around him. Presently he drew up outside the gates of the
Grange and looked full at Mary. The man was shabby in appearance, with
a flushed face and rough hair, but notwithstanding his dusty and
patched boots, his ill-fitting trousers, his general get-up, there was
something about him which showed that long, long ago, in a dim
far-away age, he must have posed as a gentleman. Those days were over,
but the shadow of them still remained.He drew up in front of Mary. Mary said--"Do you want anything? Have you lost your way? You seem to be a
stranger in these parts.""All the same I have come here before," said the man. "My name is
Rogers. I have come to see a young lady of the name of Marryat. I saw
her here once before--a nice young lady. I should be very pleased to
see her again. Can you tell me, Miss--?""Hume is my name," said Mary, "Miss Hume.""Can you tell me, Miss Hume, if Miss Marryat is at the Grange?""Miss Marryat, as you are pleased to call her," said Mary, "is maid
to Mrs. Henley. She is not at the Grange at present.""And Mrs. Henley is not at the Grange?" said the man, raising his
brows with a gesture of despair."Nor is Mrs. Henley at the Grange. Do you want to see Miss Marryat
very badly?""Very badly indeed," said the man, and he closed his hand and then
opened it, and looked down at his empty palm."What do you want to see her for?"The man raised his furtive eyes and fixed them on Mary's
face. Mary's heart began to beat hard."I want to see Miss Marryat," he said then, slowly, "because--well
I have got no money. Miss Marryat can give me money.""Are you a relation of hers?""No, Miss.""Then why do you expect that Miss Marryat, who is only a poor
woman--a servant--should give you money?""That is my secret," said the man. He laughed and turned his face
aside.Mary got more excited than ever."You may as well come in," she said, then. "If you go down to the kitchen they will give you something
to eat and drink.""Miss, I am afraid; you keep dogs.""Then I will walk with you," said Mary. "I will take you as far as
the kitchen premises and ask the cook to be kind to you. You can sit
in the servants' hall until Miss Marryat returns.""Oh, then she is likely to come back?""I do not know; I am quite in the dark. We are expecting her and
Mrs. Henley at any moment. They may come or they may not. Will you
come to the house or will you go away?"The man looked again at Mary."I will come to the house, Miss, and I am very much obliged to
you," he said.Mary opened the gate and he passed through. She closed it
again."We will take this short cut," she said, "across the fields." The
man followed her. She waited until he came up to her side."You say you have been here before?" she said."Yes, Miss.""And yet I do not remember your face.""I did not see you that time, Miss, but I remember the date
well.""How long ago was it?""A good bit ago, Miss, in the spring of this year. It was the day
before Mrs. Henley's wedding.""Did you come to see Mrs. Henley or Miss Marryat?""It doesn't matter," said the man, "that's my secret.""I see," answered Mary. "Then you and Miss Marryat and Mrs. Henley
have a secret between you.""That's about it," said Rogers. He moistened his lips with his
tongue. He began to see daylight. He looked attentively at Mary."Secrets are often of value," said Mary. "I presume yours is?""It is of the greatest possible value," answered the man."Indeed? Shall I guess what you want to see Miss Marryat
about?""Just as you like, Miss. Of course I'm not bound to tell you if
your guess is correct.""Come round this way, through the plantation," said Mary. "We won't
meet the dogs this way, and we can go in by the side entrance. You
want to see Miss Marryat because you expect her to give you
money?""Ah, Miss, I hinted that a moment ago.""She gives you money which she gets from Mrs. Henley," pursued
Mary. "Mrs. Henley has a secret which you know something about, and
she pays you not to reveal it; is not that so? You are one of those
who levy blackmail; is not that so?""Blackmail is an ugly word," said the man, flushing deeply. "It
does not sound very pretty from the lips of a young lady like
yourself, Miss Hume, and you have no right to say that I levy
blackmail. Miss Marryat is a friend of mine.""Don't talk nonsense," answered Mary. She suddenly turned and faced
the man. "I presume from your appearance that you want money?""Ay," he said, "I want money as the penniless want it. You don't
know what that means.""I don't, but I can guess. Suppose I were to give you money instead
of Miss Marryat? Suppose I paid more for your secret than Miss Marryat
does?""In that case," said Rogers very briskly, "we can do business.""I understand; I shall not ask you much now, but I want you to stay
here. I will arrange with the cook to give you some dinner and some
supper, and I will give you the price of your bed at the village
inn. I want you to remain here for the next couple of days and when
you have done what I wish, you shall have--" Mary paused for a moment;
she quickly thought over her account at the bank. How much had she to
her credit? "You shall have a hundred pounds," she said briefly. "Do
you follow me?""I think so, Miss.""Will you stay here, and when the time comes will you be my friend
instead of Miss Marryat's?"The man thought again. After all, Miss Marryat had only given him
doles--three pounds here, and five pounds there. Once, indeed, he had
extracted as much as fifteen pounds from her--but a hundred pounds,
never! Never even in moments of the keenest danger to Kate Henley had
he received as large a sum of money as that, and, after all, he only
knew a little of Kate's secret, only a little."Done, Miss," he said, turning to Mary. "I will do what you want
for a hundred pounds, and I will stay at the inn as long as you wish
me to stay."CHAPTER
XXXVIITHERE was no sign of Kate by the train due at half-past eight, and
when Mary had ascertained that fact she went straight into her
father's study. He was seated there looking somewhat perplexed. He did
not know what to make of the aspect of affairs. Why had Kate gone
away? Why was Mary so very queer--and the sick man upstairs, would he
recover or would he die?It was not very long since Mr. Hume had crept up on tiptoe and
entered the sick-room, and stood close to the man whom a few days
before he had seen in the perfection of health and happiness. He was
lying on his bed now, looking more like a grey shadow than a living
man. Occasionally faint words came from his lips; his delirium had
left him; the nurse and the doctors all thought that he might recover,
that in all probability he would recover, and yet Mr. Hume as he
looked down at him felt that it was almost impossible, that nothing so
changed, so withered, could once again revive and bloom forth into
youth and strength. The only words which came from the sick man's lips
were "Kate! Kitty, little Kitty, darling Kitty! Where is she? Where is
my wife?"Those were the sounds he uttered from time to time; he spoke of
nothing else; he asked for no one else. Occasionally he gave a piteous
glance towards the door, and then with a shuddering sigh would close
his eyes.Dr. Thornton said to Mr. Hume as he was leaving the room,
"Mrs. Henley ought to be here. Where can she have gone?"And Hume had gone softly downstairs and said to himself also that
Mrs. Henley ought to be here. He had a great admiration for his pretty
niece. Where was she? Her husband was ill, at death's door, and
calling for her. Where had she gone? Where was Marryat also? What did
it all mean?He was seated thinking these thoughts, glad to be alone for a few
moments, much bewildered, much puzzled, when Mary swiftly opened the
study door, closed it behind her, and came in."Now, father," she said, "if you don't mean to act, I do.""What do you want to do, Mary?" replied her father."I want you to rouse yourself, to be a man--oh, I don't mind what
you think, I will speak out. I want you to come with me to Plymouth by
the twelve o'clock train. We can easily get to Plymouth if we take the
next train to town. We can pack what things are necessary in a few
moments. We shall reach Plymouth at seven in the morning. I have
looked up the time-table and know exactly what I am saying, and we
shall be there two or three hours before the arrival of the Hydra.""But why should we be in Plymouth, and why should we catch the Hydra? My place is here, Mary. My dear child, what
is the matter? Sit down, my dear, and try to compose yourself.""Oh, folly, father," said Mary, stamping her foot impatiently,
"when every moment is of importance that adventuress is slipping out
of our very grasp, and you let her go.""What adventuress, my dear?""The woman you call your niece--Kate Henley. She is Kate Henley,
but she is not your niece; she is no relation to you, and I am
prepared to prove it.""I cannot listen to you when you get upon that mad craze,
Mary.""That's just it; you call me mad, but I have excellent proof, only
you must catch her first. What became of those tickets you meant to
return yesterday? Why were they not left on your table? Who took them?
Who would have taken any interest in them but the one woman to whom
they were all important? I tell you what it is, father, Kate is an
impostor, and I mean to prove it."Mr. Hume shook his head sadly."I don't agree with you, Mary," he said, "nor can I encourage you
in this feeling. You ought to fight against it, my dear child, you
really ought."Mary sat quite still, a despairing look came into her eyes."It would do little or no good if I went alone," she said, "but if
you came you would bring her back. Will you go by yourself? Will you
do that? That is all I ask. I will stay quietly here if you, father,
will go to Plymouth to-night, and bring Kate Henley back.""But I am going on a wild-goose chase; she is not on board the Hydra.""Go and find out. If she is not on board I will cease to worry you
any longer with regard to her; but I know she is, I have a firm
conviction on that point. In the meantime I will stay here and
wait. Her husband wants her--don't think of me--think of him. If she
is indeed on board leaving the
country, ought we not to fetch her back? Is it right that he should
die pining for her?""It is not right, Mary. To tell you the truth I would give the
world to find her at the present moment. I am extremely anxious about
Henley, so is the doctor; there is nothing I would not do, Mary, to
get Kate back at this moment.""Then take my advice, go yourself to Plymouth and bring her
back. When the sick man knows that she is certainly returning he will
have courage to wait for her. Bring her back, bring her back!"Mr. Hume looked anxiously at Mary for a longtime."You certainly impel me by your earnestness," he said, "I can do
nothing here. If I do this, if I yield to your wishes, will you make
me a promise on your own account?""If I can, father, I will.""My request is this, that if Kate is not on board the Hydra you will cease to persecute her, you will
return to your normal state of health, you will believe that she is,
what in truth she is, your cousin who was Kate Bouverie.""Even that I will try to do," said Mary, the queerest smile crossed
her face--it was more like a spasm than a smile."Then you will go?" she said."On this condition I will go; of course it is a wild-goose
chase.""Time will prove," replied the daughter. She slowly left the
room.Mr. Hume thought for a moment, then he took out his watch, he
looked at it and went upstairs again. He met Dr. Thornton in the
hastily prepared sitting-room in the west wing."You think your patient will recover," he said."He is better; he has passed the crisis; I cannot say the danger is
past; the great danger now is the state of anxiety he is kept in. He
wants his wife; if his wife would return he would get well.""She may come back at any moment," said Mr. Hume, "at the same time
I cannot understand why she went.""I believe she went because she could not bear to see him die,"
replied the doctor; "she was very strange in her behaviour.""Very strange; I cannot account for it; thank God there are few
women like her," replied Hume. He paused for a moment, then he said,
"It is possible, just possible, that I may bring her back by this time
to-morrow night. Can you keep him alive until then?""If I can give him any sort of hope I can keep him alive," said the
doctor."Then I will go to a place where I think it possible my niece may
be, and if I find her I will bring her back," said Mr. Hume. He left
the room, packed a few things in a Gladstone bag, and sought his
wife."Susannah," he said, "I am off to Plymouth by the, midnight train
and must catch the next to town. Don't mind about dinner, my dear, I
cannot wait to dine.""But you must have something before you go, and why do you go at
all, Robert?" said his wife.Then he told her in a few words something of his strange interview
with Mary."Keep her well in view," he said, "poor child, I go more on her
account than anything else. She has got a strange craze, she has
indeed inherited her aunt's madness.""Oh, it is fearful, fearful!" said the mother."Well, she has promised to be reasonable if I do not bring Kate
back; I have little expectation of doing so. If Kate returns during my
absence let Thornton know at once. Don't on any account allow her to
rush suddenly into the sick-room. And now good-bye, my dear, I have
not a moment to lose."Mr. Hume kissed his wife and left the house. A he was walking down
the avenue carrying his Glad-stone bag Ethel ran after him."What is the matter, father? Where are you going?""To Plymouth, my dear, by Mary's orders.""Dear me, father," said Ethel, "Mary seems to rule every one.""She is possessed by a mania, child; be patient with her," said the
good man, heaving a heavy sigh as he spoke."There is such a queer man in the housekeeper's room, father. I
went in there just now and he bowed to me and said that he was Mary's
guest; he said his name was Rogers; he is to sleep at the Inn. While I
was talking to him Mary came in and turned me out of the room. She
said that he was one of her witnesses, and that she was gradually
getting everything in train for a grand denouncement. What can she
mean?""Poor child," said Mr. Hume, "it is part of her strange malady. We
must humour her. But, Ethel dear, you must speak to your
mother. Whoever that strange person is he must not sleep in the house
to-night.""Oh, he won't, father; he said he was going to the Inn in the
village.""Very well, only see that he does go," said Mr. Hume. "And now I
must really be off."CHAPTER
XXXVIIITHE Hydra did not reach Plymouth until
between eight and nine on the following morning. Mr. Hume had arrived
by train some hours previously, but supposing that there vas no
special need to hurry, as he was well aware that the great liner would
remain for several hours, he went first to his hotel, ordered a good
breakfast, and having partaken of it lay down to sleep until between
ten and eleven o'clock.Meanwhile things that he little guessed were happening on board
theHydra. Half-an-hour before she reached her
destination, Kate Henley, who had been lying perfectly still in her
berth all night, her face turned away from Marryat, slowly opened her
eyes and rose. Marryat, worn out with much watching, had dropped into
a deep sleep. Kate glanced at the sleeping woman: she herself was
absolutely quiet and collected. Just for a moment, however, a queer
expression came into her eyes. She dressed swiftly, putting on an old
waterproof cloak and a black felt hat. She tied a thick veil over her
face, and then softly took up a little bag which Marryat had laid on
the table at the foot of her berth. Kate opened the bag. She removed
from it the bundle of notes and gold which Marryat had got from the
bank the day before. Opening this, she softly removed about two
hundred pounds' worth of money, slipped a few sovereigns into her
purse, and put the rest into a little bag, which she wore round her neck. She then returned the
remainder of the money to Marryat's bag."They will make up to her, she sins for gold alone," thought the
girl. She looked steadily, as the thought came to her, at the sleeping
woman, and then turning left her state cabin. She ran up the companion
and found herself on deck. Some other passengers who were to meet
friends at Plymouth were at the same time making their appearance, and
just as Kate arrived on the scene a tender was swiftly running up
alongside the Hydra. A weather-beaten sailor
appeared, and Kate asked him an eager question."Can I go ashore in that boat?" she said, "I want to do so for a
little, I have some things to buy that I forgot before I started. How
long will the Hydra remain in Plymouth?""Until six o'clock this evening, ma'am," replied the man.Kate thanked him and hurried towards the tender; some other
passengers were also going ashore. No one specially remarked her in
her quiet dress, and her thick veil disguised her face. She took her
seat, and in ten minutes time had landed on one of the quays. She then
walked quickly in a direction where a vast lot of shipping was lying
at anchor. As she got rapidly over the ground she came face to face
with a sailor, looked full at him, and suddenly stopped."I am in great trouble," said Kate, "can you help me? I want help
very badly; I can pay for anything you are willing to do.""The man looked her all over. Even in the midst of her trouble and
in her plain dress she looked dainty and graceful."I'll do anything in my power for you, Miss," he answered, and a look of sympathy filled his blue
eyes.Kate hastily opened her purse."Here are a couple of sovereigns," she said; she slipped the money
into his palm as she spoke. "Now this is what I want you to do. I am
anxious to get to France with as little delay as possible; I have not
a moment to lose. Do you happen to know of any vessel going to France
to-day--going at once, I mean?"The sailor scratched his head in perplexity, and looked along the
line of shipping, then he glanced again at Kate, and suddenly a
sparkle of intelligence came into his eyes."I don't know much about the vessels along here, Miss, but
doubtless some of them will be putting out to sea; but I wonder, Miss,
if--""What?" asked Kate; she almost stamped her foot in her
eagerness."I belong to Mr. Johnson's yacht, Miss, the Sea
Fowl. I wonder if he would let me take you on board. I might say,
for instance, Miss, you was my young woman; you wouldn't mind, would
you? We are going straight to Cherbourg.""Oh, I don't mind what you call me," replied Kate; "do ask him, I
won't trouble him in any way. I'll make it worth your while," she
added."Very well, Miss, then I'll have a try. I have a young woman of my
own, and I can pass you off for her as easy as possible. You won't
betray me, Miss, that's all I ask?""Of course not."The man and Kate walked quickly together; they found themselves on
a certain quay. The sailorpointed to
a bench, told her to sit there and wait for him, and went away. He
returned in a quarter of an hour; his eyes were now sparkling."It's all right, Miss; I said that you was my sweetheart; you
didn't mind.""I mind nothing," answered Kate."Mr. Johnson says you can certainly come on board, Miss, and that I
may look after you during the voyage. I said you were going to see
your sick mother at Cherbourg. It's all right, it's as trim and neat
as ever it can be.""Thank you," answered Kate, "you shall have five pounds to give to
your real sweetheart when you land me at Cherbourg.""That's very generous of you, Miss, and will hurry on our wedding
day. Now will you come this minute? The Sea
Fowl is to start in half-an-hour, the wind being favourable."Kate eagerly followed the sailor. In a short time she found herself
on board the Sea Fowl, the man secured a
sheltered nook for her where she could remain quite unnoticed, and in
half-an-hour the gay little yacht was under full white sail towards
Cherbourg.There was a large party on board, and Kate, from the retirement of
her sheltered corner, could hear their merry laughter floating on the
breeze. No one molested her, no one noticed her. The sailor, James
Harris by name, came constantly to ask her if she required
anything."I must be attentive to you, Miss, in case any one should suspect,"
he said, and Kate faintly smiled through her thick veil and told him
that he was treating her as a gentleman should.In the afternoon the yacht reached Cherbourg. Kate landed, paid the
good-natured sailor his money, who thanked her heartily and said he
wished he could do something for her. Finally he added, "If I hadn't a
sweetheart of my own I'd like well to have you, Miss; but there, I'm
glad I've done you a service."Kate held out her slim hand which he wrung, but she had no words
for him; indeed she had few words for any one just then. Her whole
condition can only be described as that of a stunned person. She had
just sufficient presence of mind to inquire for the necessary trains
which would take her to the South of France, and when she finally
found herself in an empty compartment she sat with her eyes closed,
not eating, not even sleeping, only enduring.In process of time, at the end of many dreary hours--how many she
could never remember--Kate found herself once more in the old familiar
places. There was not a stone of the old half-French, half-Italian
town which she did not remember with a sort of passionate mingling of
love and longing. She walked rapidly through the streets of Mentone,
and at last entered the hotel which she had helped her mother to
start.Mrs. Mildmay had made a very good thiag out of her Hotel
Pension. The winter season would presently begin, and already the
pension was filling with guests.Kate entered the outer hall and inquired for Mrs. Mildmay. She
asked to be shown immediately into her presence. The concierge
hesitated, but presently yielded to her entreaties, and took her into
a small parlour at the end of a long passage. Mrs. Mildmay was sitting
with her back to the door. She was
busily engaged summing up accounts. Kate watched her for half a moment
without speaking. She saw very little change in her mother. Her slim
figure looked just as it always did. There was a half mournful, half
piteous, shrug of the shoulders, which the widow had always been in
the habit of indulging in. She shrugged her shoulders now, then,
seeming to realise that there was another presence in the room, turned
her head. She saw Kate, and her face grew white as death."Child!" she said, "child, you have come back. What is it?" Then
she suddenly recovered herself. "Oh, Mrs. Henley, ma'am, I am pleased
to see you," she cried, and she let both her hands drop to her sides,
looking like one who has got her death-blow.Kate ran quickly up to her."I have come back, mother; you need not speak of me as any other
but what I really am. It is all up, everything is a dismal failure,
and he is dead. If you listen hard you will hear the church bells;
they are tolling for him; they ring in my ears all the time. I have
come back to you; I want you to hold your hands tightly over my ears;
I want you to shut out the sound of the bells. I have come back to
you, to you."Mrs. Mildmay stared at Kate for a moment without speaking, then she
flung her arms round her, pressed her down into a chair, and clasped
her tightly to her bosom."Oh, my child," she said, "oh, thank God, thank God!" She clasped
the girl tighter and tighter to her, and the slow tears filled her
eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "Oh, my child, oh, my darling!" she
kept repeating.Kate did not utter a sound. She enjoyed for a full moment the joy
of this close embrace; she pressed her face against her mother's
bosom, but her lips were shut as tightly as if they would never open
again."What is it, what is it?" began Mrs. Mildmay. She was in raptures
at first, but rapture was quickly followed by anxiety."Shut and lock the door first, mother," answered poor Kate. She
flung off her hat and pressed her hands to her eyes."Don't you hear the bells, mother?""No, no, my darling, but you look ill; you are dreadfully ill; what
is it, Kitty?" she said."I am glad I look ill, mother, for I want so terribly to die; it is
the only good thing that can happen to me now. I am a failure,
everything else a failure, and he--he is dead. I never, never, when I thought of all
possible horrors, imagined that he could die. I
loved him, oh, how much, how much! I loved him desperately, but God
has punished me, and mother, I have come back to you.""And you are really Kate Mildmay once more?" said the elder
woman."No, I am Kate Henley, but I was Kate Mildmay. Let Kate Bouverie
lie in her grave; we will put a fresh headstone up with her real
name.""But Kitty, Kitty," said the elder woman in alarm, "they will
punish you; the arm of the law will arrest you; they will put you in
prison!""I don't care," answered Kate, "where they put me; for to-night at
least I am safe, and I shall rest in your dear arms, that is the only
thing I want for to-night. After all, you are my mother, and in
timeof great trial there is no one,
no one like a mother. I have been so starved, so hunted, so wretched,
and now it seems as if I were going to be rested. Oh, mother, it was
not worth while, it is never, never, never worth while to do wrong,
mother."Mrs. Mildmay rose softly. She unpinned Kate's hat and took off her
travelling cloak, then she went into the kitchen near by and presently
returned with hot water, and towels and soap, and she washed the tired
dusty face of the worn-out girl, and brushed out her long, thick hair,
and finally made her lie down on the little sofa in the tiny
sitting-room."Nobody will guess that you are here," she said. "When you have got
over this, if you still wish to go on acting the part you have acted
for so long, you can do so, but to-night you can relieve yourself by
not acting at all, you can just be your own self to-night.""That is so nice, mother," answered Kate. She looked at her mother
with half-closed eyes. "How have you got on, mother?""Very well indeed," answered Mrs. Mildmay; the place flourishes, I
have put by money. I will tell you all presently.""Yes, thank you, mother, I'd like to hear.""Now I am going to get you a cup of tea.""That would be nice," replied Kate. To each remark of her mother's
during the rest of the evening she always made the same answer, "That
would be nice." Everything seemed nice to her at that moment. She had
been tossing about so long, but at last she had entered into the best
haven of all, the haven of her mother's faithful love.Mrs. Mildmay made toast and English tea, and brought them to her
daughter."Now you are to sleep," said the widow."I could sleep, oh, so soundly, mother, if those bells would stop
ringing.""Let me hold your hand, and you won't listen to the bells any
more," said Mrs. Mildmay."Yes, I must listen to them; I hear them in my dreams; they have
followed me all the way from the Grange, near London. I thought when I
left the Grange that, of course, I should not hear them, but I heard
them in the London lodgings, and on board the ship. Oh, that awful
night on board the Hydra! and when I was
running away from Mary Hume, and from the rest of the family, and from
his dead body, mother,his dead body--I heard those bells ringing. They
rung slowly, they rung out his life, they measured his
age--one--two--three--four--the years of his life, mother, up to
twenty-eight they rung, then they stopped. I heard them ringing out
his age on board the yacht that brought me to Cherbourg, and I heard
them in the many trains I took to come to you, and I hear them now
that I am with you. Mother, do listen; can't you hear? They're so
distinct. He is dead--dead--and I don't care for anything else.""My poor child, my poor child, it is your mind that is
disturbed. Your nerves have given way. I will give you a little
bromide; that will quiet you."Do, mother, but I don't think anything will quiet me; only I will
take whatever you give me. It is nice to have you close to me
again. Oh, mother, mother, it was not worth while. All the time I
havehad no pleasure, no happiness; I
have been flying, flying from one danger to another, and I have had no
rest and no joy. It was the way of the transgressor, and it was hard,
bitter hard. But kiss me, mother, kiss me once again."CHAPTER
XXXIXALL during that night Mrs. Mildmay sat up with her daughter. She
did not know what to make of Kate's return, but she never thought that
Kate absolutely meant to give herself away. For the present,
therefore, it was her duty to hide her daughter. She made up as
comfortable a bed as she could on the small sofa, and then lowering
the light sat down by the tired girl.Early in the morning Kate awoke. At first she did not quite know
where she was, then she saw her mother's well-known figure; she
stretched out her hand and took her mother's."I have had a dream," she said, "a strange dream; it has comforted
me.""What was it, darling?" asked Mrs. Mildmay."God came to me. He told me that I must be quiet and listen to His
words. He said that I had done very wrong and that now the time of
chastening had come, but He said also that if I repented there was
forgiveness of sins. He seemed a long, long way off, quite away up in
the clouds, and yet He was close; I saw His face; I didn't quite know
whether it was the face of God Himself or the face of His Son Jesus,
but I saw one face, and it was all Divine, and He said there was
forgiveness of sins.""Yes, child, yes, that is true enough," answered
Mrs. Mildmay. "There is forgiveness of sins for those who
repent.""Yes, that is it," answered Kate, "I must repent--there is only one
way.""What do you mean, dearie? Oh, go to sleep now. Don't worry your
poor head; go to sleep and rest.""I can't rest until I come within a measurable distance of the
forgiveness of sins," answered Kate. "There is only one way to get
it--by perfect and full confession. Mother, I must confess
everything."Mrs. Mildmay turned pale when Kate said these words. She had not
been seriously alarmed the night before; she had been disturbed but
not really frightened. Now she was terrified. She saw that Kate was in
earnest."Do you know what that will mean?" she said. "You cannot understand
what you are saying. If you confess they--they will lock you up.""As if that mattered," answered Kate. "You mean that they will try
me and send me to prison. But even in prison, with forgiveness of
sins, I can rest, and I cannot rest outside prison without it.""But they will put me in prison, too," continued Mrs. Mildmay, "for
I have been your--your confederate as they call it, and I have taken
your money--the money, I mean, that was never yours. I took it; you
gave it to me, you know, to furnish this house, and to live as I have
done. They will put me in prison also, Kate--your poor old
mother. Will you consent to that? And it was your scheme, Kate, it was
your scheme. Must I go to prison now when I am an old woman--now with
my grey hairs?""Never mind, never mind," said Kate softly. "We had better both go
than stay outside without forgiveness of sins. Mother, if I am strong
enough Iwill go back to England
to-day, but, if--if I am too ill to go, you will go for me?""Good heavens, child, I!""You must go if I am too ill, and my head too queer. Oh, those
bells, those bells, how they torture me! But if I am ill you must go,
and you must tell them everything.""I daren't, I daren't," said Mrs. Mildmay. She wrung her hands
together now; her face looked white and piteous."But, mother, you must. I know the path is dark and dreary, but the
end is peace and forgiveness. Mother, you must do this for your only
child. If I am too ill to go, you must go."Still Mrs. Mildmay hesitated. Kate kept watching her."You will go?" she said."I cannot make up my mind," said the poor woman.Kate kept on looking at her."Hark!" she said suddenly, "don't you hear the bells?""No, dear, no; go to sleep; go to sleep.""Sleep!" said Kate, "as if I could sleep. I don't think I shall
ever sleep again." She raised her hand. "Hark! now don't you hear
them--one--two--three--they're ringing out his age; twenty-eight, only
twenty-eight; too young to die. Oh, he is dead, he is dead. I wish--I
wish I did not hear those bells. Oh, they madden me, they madden
me!"She spoke with greater and greater excitement, and in less than an
hour's time was quite delirious. Mrs. Miildmay sent for the doctor. He
came; hewas a foreign doctor and a
good one. He had never seen Kate before, and the mother did not think
it necessary to tell him her name. She simply said that an English
lady, who seemed in great trouble, had come to the hotel on the
previous evening, and was taken ill the moment she arrived. The doctor
prescribed for her, and said that he would send in a French
nurse. Presently he left the room.Kate, who had not taken the slightest notice during his visit, now
looked full up at her mother."I heard what he said. He knows that I am going to be very ill. He
is going to send in a French nurse to look after me. You can go,
mother; you can go to England and tell them the truth. I shall die
raving mad, raving mad, and be lost in hell for evermore if you do not
go. Oh, you must go and tell them the truth.""Close your eyes, go to sleep," said Mrs. Mildmay, "rest assured I
have made up my mind. I will go."CHAPTER
XLWHEN Marryat awoke and found that her mistress had really gone, her
first anxiety was to examine the little bag which was lying half open
on the table of her state-room. To the woman's great relief she
discovered that the bulk of the money was still there. She immediately
hid the bag in her cabin trunk, and going upstairs began to look
around for Kate. All of a sudden she saw, coming across the gangway
from a small tender, the well-known figure of Mr. Hume. In one instant
Marryat had hidden herself. She went, without a moment's hesitation,
down amongst the steerage passengers. A woman came and spoke to
her."What do you want?" she said. "You belong to the first class; you
have nothing to do down here.""But will you let me stay near you for a bit," answered Marryat,
"for the whole of to-day, until we weigh anchor again? I will give you
two sovereigns if you'll let me."Two sovereigns were most valuable to this woman. She did not
hesitate for a moment. She took Marryat in the direction of the large
cabin, where all the steerage passengers slept, and even lent her a
bonnet and shawl."For I expect you must be hiding from somebody who is coming on
board," said the woman. She looked sharply into the excited face of
the lady's-maid as she spoke. "Well,
he ain't likely to look for you amongst the steerage passengers, and
you can wear my bonnet and shawl and look after my baby Nancy, and
then no one will suspect you.""Thank you," answered Marryat. She adopted the role provided for
her by the steerage passenger without an instant's hesitation. She
spent the long day pretending to nurse Nancy--a fractious baby of
sixteen months. From where she sat she could hear the usual bustle on
board--people coming and going, the eager voices of friends saying
good-bye to friends.At six in the evening the vessel weighed anchor and steamed
away. Then Marryat, paying the good woman who had helped her to hide,
returned to her more comfortable place amongst the first-class
passengers. She was suddenly met by Captain Staines, the skipper. He
raised his brows in astonishment when he saw her."You are Miss Marryat, are you not?" he said. Marryat nodded."We have been looking for you all day; you are Mrs. Henley's
maid?""I am, sir.""Well, Mr. Hume, Mrs. Henley's uncle, has been to see her; he was
in a dreadful state and wanted to find her at once, but she was not on
board. Was she with you?""No, sir; I was down with a friend of mine amongst the
steerage.""Very odd, very odd," said the captain, "where can she be? you are
quite certain she is not on board?""I think not, sir," replied Marryat demurely, "but I'll go and have
a look round.""Do so. Mr. Hume was in a terrible state, he wished to bring
Mrs. Henley back at once to her husband.""What! is Mr. Henley alive?" asked Marryat, thrown off her guard
for a moment."Yes, and likely to live. Where can your mistress be? It was very
careless of you to let the whole day go by without endeavouring to
find her. You must know more about what she intended to do than any
one else.""I know nothing, I assure you, sir. When I awoke this morning,
Mrs. Henley was not in the cabin. I thought she had gone ashore and
would be back at any moment. In the meantime I stayed with my friend
in the steerage. Perhaps," continued Marryat, after thinking for a
moment, "Mrs. Henley will come overland and meet us at Naples.""Perhaps," answered the captain, "or perhaps," he added, with a
look of relief, "she has gone back already to her husband. Mr. Hume
has been telling me some of her story; it was strange of her to leave
home."Marryat made no answer to that. The Captain looked at her as if he
expected her to say something. She met his eyes for a moment, then
remarked in a dubious voice--"Did it not strike you, sir, that my mistress was a little queer in
the head?""I cannot say; I did not see enough of your mistress.""Well, sir, there is no doubt that she was. She was passionately
attached to her husband, and when she found that poor Mr. Henley could
not recover she got a mania that she must leave the house--it was all most strange. I wish I could
land, sir, and try and look for her now, but it is quite too late,
isn't it?""You can land at Naples if you like," answered the captain, "not
before." He gave Marryat a glance of no small disapproval, and turned
to attend to his other duties.With a sigh of relief she entered her cabin. Yes, this state cabin,
one of the best on board, was hers now, hers for the entire
voyage. She had played her game well, she could act the fine lady
until she reached Melbourne. Yes, she could do more than that, she
could act the fine lady for the remainder of her life, for Kate had
left nearly three thousand pounds in that little bag which was now
locked away in Marryat's trunk. That money Marryat would keep. With it
she could live luxuriously for the rest of her days, for, to a woman
in her position, such a sum seemed wealth unlimited. She rubbed her
hands softly together."I am sorry for Mrs. Henley, poor young lady," she said to herself,
"but there, when we do wicked things we must expect to be punished. I
should not be a bit surprised if she had gone and drowned
herself. It's a rare comfort that I have feathered my own nest though,
yes, it's a rare comfort, and there is only one thing now I hate about
the whole business, and that is Miss Mary Hume coming into the
fortune, for I do loathe and detest Miss Mary Hume right
cordially."CHAPTER
XLITHE sick man was getting slowly better. Day after day he made
progress, very slow progress, it is true, but still undoubted progress
towards recovery."If his wife were only with him he would get well fast enough,"
said the doctor, "but this terrible anxiety about her is weighing on
his mind and retarding his recovery very much. We have all connived
together to tell him lies with regard to Mrs. Henley, but in the long
run he must know the truth. What will he do when he hears that she is
lost, that no one has the slightest idea where she is?"It was now a terrible fear in all hearts that Kate in a pang of
despair had taken her life. Meanwhile, Mary kept Rogers, as he chose
to call himself, staying on at the little Inn. She paid him a small
sum weekly to induce him to stay, and she also met his hotel expenses;
these were slight enough, for he was not inclined to be
extravagant.She did not care to speak to Rogers, she told him that she was
biding her time, that she might require him or she might not. For the
present he was to regard himself as her guest. The man was very glad
indeed to do so. He had no money whatever, and for the present he was
living in what he considered the height of comfort.Meanwhile, Ethel avoided her sister. Mrs. Hume said when she saw
Mary's thin, anxious, overwrought
face, "My poor child, try to turn your thoughts to healthier
subjects."Mary looked at her mother, opened her lips, tried to speak, and
then restrained herself. No one would listen to her now, no one would
believe her; the general feeling about Kate was that she had taken her
own life in a fit of overweening anxiety. Every one mourned for Kate
as if she were already dead. Impostor as Mary was certain she was, she
was loved by all who knew her, whereas even her own people had turned
against Mary. Shut up by every one, the girl at last resolved to leave
the Grange. She would go back to her aunt in Russell Square. She had
never told Mrs. Stirling what she really suspected, but in that house
she would not be watched, and would be in consequence, more at
ease. She went away, therefore, and as the days wore on and there were
no tidings whatever of the missing wife, and the husband asked for her
oftener and oftener, even Mary began to have pangs of remorse. She
began to see Kate in her dreams; if she, Mary, had driven her to some
extreme step, she would be unhappy to her dying day. Even the fortune
which she felt was almost at her door, scarcely consoled her.Ethel mourned and wept in secret. Mrs. Hume spent long and anxious
nights. Mr. Hume set several of the most able detectives in Scotland
Yard on the track, but nowhere were there tidings of Kate Henley;
where had she vanished? Was she indeed now amongst the living?There came a beautiful evening towards the end of October. There
was even a breath of summer in it. The air was balmy, there was little
to betoken the near approach of winter but the rapidly shortening
day.Rogers, who had spent the whole of his day mooning about, smoking,
sitting in the porch of the Inn, and eating his meals, took a walk. As
he did so, he thought over the queer state of things. What had become
of Mrs. Henley? He knew far less of her secret than she imagined he
did. It is true that on that memorable night--how long ago it seemed
now!--he had stolen softly up into the garden of the villa Beau
Séjour, and had overheard Kate make use of the following
words:--"Beyond that two thousand pounds which I am giving you, I mean to
wash my hands of you. You can clear all your debts and take a good
house and start on your own account. Now are you satisfied? for if
not--""If not, what will happen?" Merriman as he there called himself,
heard Mrs. Mildmay saying in a timid voice."You had better not ask me what will happen," answered the other
voice, the young, strong, determined voice, "only, remember that I am
desperate, I am resolved. Do you accept? Are you satisfied?""Yes, yes," Mrs. Mildmay had replied, "I am satisfied.""That is right," replied Kate the heiress.How earnestly the listening man had longed that he had been a
little sooner on the scene. One thing at least he was certain of. Kate
Bouverie would not give Mrs. Mildmay two thousand pounds for
nothing. He had discovered that there was a secret. Often and often in
the days that followed he remembered the words he had overheard. Often
and often he repeated them to himself--"beyond this two thousand
pounds I wash my hands of you." Surely no ordinary heiress would speak in such a tone to a woman in
Mrs. Mildmay's position. Then he had not failed to recognise the
terror in the woman's voice as she had replied to the determined voice
of the girl, and after this she suddenly became rich and paid back the
money she had stolen from Madam Argot, and had quite got out of his,
Henry Merriman's, power. He had made great capital on these words
since he had overheard them, but did he really know what they
meant?All this time he was walking along the dusty road. Twilight was
deepening into night. Suddenly he saw coming to meet him, walking
feebly and uncertainly, the thin and almost shadowy figure of
Mrs. Mildmay. He could not mistake it. He knew Mrs. Mildmay too well,
he had seen her too often. Not a month ago he had held a conversation
with her at Mentone. She was well dressed and was the owner of a
flourishing house, and had been inclined to be quite snubby to him,
her old friend Henry Merriman. He longed often to taunt her with the
fact that he could upset, he was certain he could, all her fine
speculations, and deprive her of all her savings, but he had
considered discretion the better part of valour, and had taken care
never to betray what little he knew of Kate's secret except to Kate
herself. But what was Mrs. Mildmay doing here? Why had she left
Mentone? The woman never stirred from home, and how bad she looked,
how shadowy, and shabby too in her dress! Well, at any rate, it was
she beyond doubt. He hurried to meet her."Well," he said, "who would have supposed that you would be
here?""And who would have guessed that you would be here, Henry
Merriman?" retorted the widow. She
stopped, he held out his hand, she did not offer hers in
response. Both were silent for a moment, then Mrs. Mildmay said
quietly--"Can you tell me the way to a place called the Grange?"Henry Merriman gave a long, significant whistle."Well, this beats all!" he cried; "why, the Grange is where
Mr. Henley, the rich Mrs. Henley's uncle, lives, the lady that was
Kate Bouverie, you know. Now may I ask what you want; what have you to
do with the people at the Grange?""That is my own affair," replied Mrs. Mildmay. She was deadly tired
and terribly frightened, but Kate had insisted on her undertaking this
journey. It was a miserable journey, with awful confession at the end,
but she was doing it for her child's sake--she was the sort of woman
who would undergo any torture for her child."I am going for a walk," said Merriman, "I may as well go there as
anywhere else. I will take you to the Grange.""Thank you," answered Mrs. Mildmay.The man turned and walked by her side."You look bad, madam," said Merriman, "not so blooming, not so
flourishing as when I met you a month ago in Mentone.""I have had a shock since then," answered the widow in a low
tone."A shock!" said Merriman; "I am sorry. Is there anything I can
do?""No, I thank you."They reached the gates of the Grange."I am obliged to you," said Mrs. Mildmay; "you say the house is at
the other end of this avenue. I will wish you good-evening
now.""I would walk down with you if it were not for the dogs," said
Merriman, "but two of the dogs have taken a dislike to me; last week
one of them fastened his teeth in my leg just above the knee, I
dislike snappy dogs.""Oh, I am not afraid," replied Mrs. Mildmay."You are very courageous, Madam. Well, perhaps I'll see you at the
Inn presently. I am staying there at the expense of a very nice young
lady, a Miss Mary Hume."Mrs. Mildmay did not reply at all to this; it is to be doubted if
she even heard Merriman's words. She began to walk slowly down the
avenue. As it happened she did not meet any dogs, and in less than a
quarter of an hour was standing in the porch inquiring for
Mr. Hume. It was late and the Hume family were at dinner.Henley had been rather worse that day, very fretful, very
depressed, refusing to eat, sunk in gloom. His nurse did not like his
condition. She had spoken to the doctor about it."He had better know the truth; it is the state of suspense which is
worrying him so," said the woman.And the doctor, too, had made up his mind that Henley must know the
truth. He would not tell him that night, but early in the morning he
would tell him what had really happened."It will break him down terribly," thought the medical man, "but he
ought to know, he must know. When he has got over the first severity
of the blow he will begin to recover. Suspense, the most wearying
thing of all, will at least be at an end."Now Mrs. Mildmay stood in the porch, her sorrowful eyes looked into
the luxuriously furnishedhouse. She
saw a girl flit across the hall, a girl in a light evening dress with
flowers in her hair. She called out suddenly, "Oh, I wonder if you are
Miss Hume?"The girl came up to her."I am Ethel Hume," she said, "what is the matter?" She looked into
Mrs. Mildinay's face and it seemed to Ethel that there was a likeness
there, a likeness to somebody she knew, but she could not tell who
that somebody was."I have come to see your father, Miss Hume, your father and your
mother, on a matter of very great importance.""Indeed!" said Ethel. She did not seem excited about this. The
worn, sad-looking widow was not a person to excite her curiosity in
any way, but the next words uttered by that same woman caused Ethel's
heart to beat with double its usual force, the colour to rush into her
cheeks, and her very hands to tremble."I have come with news of a young lady, Mrs. Henley, I have come to
speak about her.""Oh! oh!" said Ethel. She took the widow's hands and dragged her
into the hall."Oh, come quickly and at once," she said, "it may save his
life.""Whose life, my dear?""Ralph Henley's life, Ralph, the husband of Kate.""Then he is not dead?" said the widow."No, no, no, he is not dead, but he will die soon if relief is not
coming. Oh, come quickly; Kate must have sent you.""I have bad, very bad news, my dear young lady.""She is not dead, is she?""No, she is alive.""Alive? then everything is all right. Oh, come at once, at
once."Ethel dragged Mrs. Mildmay across the hall. She flung open the door
of the dining-room, where her father and mother were still lingering
over their dessert. Mrs. Hume was lying in her usual easy-chair; her
face looked very worn and sad. Hume was helping himself absently to
another glass of wine.On this scene burst Ethel, her face aflame, her voice shaking,
dragging in a very shabby, pale, worn-looking woman."Father, mother, this woman has come--she has not given me her
name.""Mildmay, Miss Hume, Mrs. Mildmay.""Mrs. Mildmay has come. I think from her appearance she must have
come a long way. She has come with news of Kate, Kitty, our Kitty; oh,
the joy, the joy!""But it is all most painful, it is all most terrible," said
Mrs. Mildmay.Mr. Hume now came forward."Sit down," he said; "if you bring news of Mrs. Henley you are
indeed welcome. Sit down."The widow sat down. The room seemed to swim before her eyes."Oh, poor thing, she is quite overcome," said Mrs. Hume. She looked
anxiously into the worn woman's face; she, too, was disturbed by an
intangible likeness."What is it?" she said. "Oh, you are going to faint. Give her a
glass of wine, Robert."Mr. Hume poured out some brandy, mixed it with a little water, and
handed it to the trembling woman."You are overcome," he said, "but take your own time.""May I go and tell Ralph?" said Ethel."No, no," said her father, "have patience for a little."Ethel stood behind her father's chair.Mrs. Mildmay drank her brandy and water. Just at that moment there
came a rustling in the hall; quick steps were heard; the door was
burst open, and Mary Hume came in.The moment she saw her Mrs. Mildmay turned whiter than ever. She
had not felt any peculiar sensation when she saw Ethel, but Mary
seemed to disturb her in the most unaccountable way."I have heard that you have come," she said. "I wonder what
about. I was coming to spend a night at home. I have had no tidings
for some time. Am I very unwelcome, mothe ? am I very unwelcome,
father?""If you choose to behave yourself, Mary, you are always welcome,"
said her father in a constrained voice. "And now, my poor woman," he
said, turning to Mrs. Mildmay, "will you tell us all you know about
Mrs. Henley."Still Mrs. Mildmay was silent. It was so difficult to begin. How
much they loved Mrs. Henley, her girl, her bonny, bonny, beautiful,
wild, eccentric Kate! They all loved her; all, that is, with the
exception of the young lady who had come in late. Mrs. Mildmay was
shrewd enough to guess that there was not much love for anybody in
that girl's heart."Perhaps you would rather speak to us alone," said Mr. Hume,
wondering at her agitation, and why the words did not come from her
lips."No, no," said the widow then, "all the world has got to know--and
you four, yes, there are four of you, you must know first of all."Mary drew herself up. She did not quite know what she expected, but
somehow it came over her that suspense was at an end."Speak," she said, in a peremptory voice, and something in her
tone, indignant as it was, seemed to give Mrs. Mildmay heart and
courage. It was straight at Mary Hume herself she looked as she told
her story."Kate wished me to come, and Kate wished me to tell," she
began. "She feels that concealment is no longer possible. She would
have come herself, but she was too ill. I should have been here a week
ago, but she was at death's door. She was very ill, very ill, and we
thought she would die. If she died, it--well, I did think, that in her
grave, her secret might be buried, poor Kate, poor Kate.""You are speaking very strange words, but we are listening," said
Mr. Hume; "pray go on."Mrs. Mildmay seemed to swallow something in her throat. She stood
up now, and her attitude was very stiff. There was a chair near her,
but she did not support herself by it; she stood as stiff as if she
were made of iron. All her words came out slowly in a mechanical sort
of way."There was a great sin done," she said, "a great wrong was
committed. I will tell you; please listen, and don't interrupt me
while I am telling you. You can do exactly what you like
afterwards."A year ago, or nearly a year ago, a young lady came to
Mentone. She took a house called the Beau Séjour up one of the
valleys which led out ofMentone. She
was a very handsome young lady, but very delicate. Her name was Miss
Bouverie.""Our Kate, our dear Kitty," murmured Mrs. Hume."She had come from India and she was more delicate than she herself
knew. She wanted some one to be with her to cheer her up. A girl went
to stay with her as a sort of companion--the girl's name was Kate
Mildmay. The girl was bonny to look at and strong, and--and--" here
the widow swayed very slightly, then she recovered herself, "she had a
great look of Kate Bouverie, she was like her, so very like that apart
these two girls would be mistaken each for the other, with the one
great exception that one was strong and the other weak. Perhaps you
can guess what is coming. Kate Mildmay was very poor, miserably poor,
and her mother was poor as poor could be, and in debt and
difficulties, and soon it was quite plain that there was no hope at
all of Kate Bouverie, that she was going to die, and then Kate
Mildmay, the other Kate, so like the one who was ill, conceived the
idea of changing places with her.""Ah," said Mary, "I--I thought as much."Mrs. Mildmay raised a warning hand."You can speak afterwards, Miss," she said, "let me finish now. She
conceived the idea and she carried it out. Kate Bouverie died, and she
was buried as Kate Mildmay, and Kate Mildmay, my daughter, madam, my
daughter, young ladies, she assumed the part of Kate Bouverie and she
deceived you all.""Not me, at least not for long," said Mary."She almost deceived you, Miss, and she deceived all the rest of you, and she married the rich young
gentleman, who was to have married Kate Bouverie had she lived, and
that is the truth, Miss, that is the story. She was an adventuress
from first to last."Nobody spoke. Even Mary herself was too stunned to speak. The widow
did not tremble now, she looked firmly round."She married the rich young gentleman, and the unfortunate thing is
she loved him; she never reckoned on that when she made her mad and
wicked scheme--the scheme in which I helped her--she never reckoned on
that. She loved the young gentleman, and she became his wife, and
since then her days were one long torture, and she felt that God was
pursuing her on account of her sins, and when her husband got ill and
nearly died, she broke down utterly; her nerve gave way; it was that
which finished her. She felt she could not look on his dead face, and
she came away, and always and always she heard the bells ringing,
ringing out the number of his years. She was pursued by those bells
and she fled from the house. She came back to me, for when a girl is
in awful, awful trouble, she thinks then of her mother. She thought
she would come to me, and she came, and she said she was going to
tell. She was quite certain that Mr. Henley was dead, and she was
going to tell, and she begged and implored of me to go for her, to go
to you ladies and to you, sir, and to tell the whole story. At first I
refused, but then I said I would, but I waited till she was out of
danger. She is out of danger of dying now, so I came. That is all. She
knows and I know that there is nothing but prison before us, both. She
does not mind that. The only one thing she wants is to get rid of those bells in her ears, and to secure
the forgiveness of God for her sin. That is all, sir and ladies, I
thought I would tell you. I am going back now. I shall sleep to-night
at the Inn; you can do what you please with me."CHAPTER
XLIIIT was a dreadful story, and to speak of the consternation, the
amaze, the sorrow of those who listened to it, would be to attempt the
impossible. Kate's secret was discovered--Mary was sane, not mad. Mary
had suspected the whole thing long ago. Her father and mother looked
at her now with cold wonder."You were right, and we must both ask you to forgive us," they
said; "only we would rather, we would rather--" and then they turned
away with tears in their eyes.Mary did not ask them what they were going to do, nor did they
quite know. That evening Mrs. Hume stole softly up to the room where
the sick man was lying. He was lying there very weak, sunk in a sort
of stupor which prevented the return of strength or of appetite, or in
any sense of recovery. Mrs. Hume sat down close to him and took his
hand."When are you going to get better, Ralph?" she said after a long
time."Better!" said Ralph, "I don't know, I don't seem to care about
anything, I don't mind whether I am better or not. Is there any news
of Kate?"Mrs. Hume hesitated for a moment; she looked at the nurse who was
standing near. It seemed to the nurse that in Mrs. Hume's eyes there
was a request to her to leave the room. She slowly withdrew and went into the ante-room, leaving the door
between her and the sick man slightly ajar, but from where she sat she
could not hear the low tones of Mrs. Hume's voice."If you really get better, Ralph, if you think you can be well
enough to travel in a week, a fortnight, in three weeks, I will go
with you to--""Yes, to do what?" he asked."To find your lost Kate.""Will you?" he said, "will you? Is she alive then? Where has she
been all this time? Have you tidings of her? speak, I want to
know.""I have tidings of her, very sad tidings. She is alive, but
everything is altered. She is not the Kate you love; everything is
changed.""She is the Kate I love, if she is alive," answered the young
man. "I want her, and her only. I will get well, if you are quite
certain you can take me to her.""I am quite certain," answered Mrs. Hume, "and I cannot tell you
any more to-night."Henley gave a long sigh. He looked keenly at Mrs. Hume."Is Kitty likely to die? is her life in danger?" he asked."She was ill, but she is better now; she is quite out of
danger.""And so am I out of danger," he said, and he gave another sigh, and
then said faintly, "I am hungry. A load has been lifted from me, I
shall get well now."Mrs. Hume rose and called the nurse."His mind is relieved, and he is better," she said. Mrs. Hume went
downstairs. She could not bear that look of joy in Henley's
face.From that moment the sick man did get better. He got better by
leaps and bounds. Each morning as he awoke he said to himself, "Kitty
is alive." Each night as he fell asleep her sweet and blooming face
seemed once again to be close to his, he seemed to feel her soft kiss
on his lips, and to look into the radiant, lovely eyes."She loves me, she loves me, she is alive and she loves me," he
kept saying to himself, and he never thought of her in any other way
whatever, and never reproached her for having left him, but guessing
that there was some sad story to tell, he did not ask to have it told,
for he wanted to get well very fast in order to go to her again. In
the course of a few weeks he was well, well enough, the doctor said,
to travel. He said the South of France would be as good a place for
him as any other, and accordingly he and Mrs. Hume went there
alone. It is true that Mrs. Mildmay accompanied them in the same
train, but not in the same carriage, and on the way there Mrs. Hume
told Henley the true story."She was an impostor from first to last, the girl we loved so
much. She committed a great, great sin," said Mrs. Hume. "It is
doubtful, Ralph, whether you can ever forgive her."Henley did not speak at all at the time, he did not even utter an
exclamation. After an hour or so he said, bending forward and touching
Mrs. Hume on her sleeve, "And the property now belongs to Mary and
Ethel.""That is not the question," said Mrs. Hume. "Ethel and I think Mary
also would rather not have the property if they might keep the Kate
they used to love.""I have money enough for Kate; it does not matter," said Ralph. He
leant back again in his seat."Then you love her in spite of this?""Don't ask me any questions," said the young man; "I want to see
her, that's all."At last they reached Mentone. Mrs. Mildmay now came forward. She
was still quite uncertain what the Humes meant to do. She vaguely
wondered if the punishment of the law would fall upon Kate and herself
when she returned to the place where their great sin had been
committed. She knew nothing and she feared much. Her face was white as
a sheet as she handed the travellers into a carriage. They asked her
to step in with them, but she refused."I will go in another fly," she said, "I will go first and prepare
Kate for this."When Mrs. Hume and Henley arrived at the boarding-house,
Mrs. Mildmay was standing on the steps to receive them."Kate knows you have come," she said. "She is in my private
sitting-room. She is much better in health, but it is only right to
tell you that she is much changed.""Take me to her at once," said Henley. There was a hoarse note in
his voice, and his face was white as death. He followed Mrs. Hume and
Mrs. Mildmay down the corridor. The widow went first and opened the
door."Here they are, Kate. Kate, they have both come," she cried.Kate Henley was standing by the window with her back to them
all. Her slim, young figure, the abundance of her rich hair, the
delicate bloom onher cheeks seemed to
Henley to betoken no change whatever. He forgot the sin she had
committed in the joy of seeing her again. He was rushing forward to
clasp her to his heart, when she slowly turned. She looked first at
Mrs. Hume and then at him. Her face was beautiful as of old, perhaps
even more beautiful, but there was not the slightest gleam of
recognition in her glance. She advanced slowly towards Mrs. Hume."Are you a boarder?" she said; "have you come to spend the winter
here?"Mrs. Hume started back and her face wore an expression of
horror."Don't you know me?" she said, "I am--" she was about to add, "I am
your aunt," but she stopped, for of course she was not this false
Kate's aunt, she was no relation to her at all. The real Kate whom she
loved was lying in her grave not far away."Oh Kitty," said poor Mrs. Hume, "how could you have deceived us
like this?" and she dropped on the nearest chair and burst into bitter
weeping.An annoyed expression passed over Kate's face. She glanced from
Mrs. Hume to Henley."It hurts me to see people cry," she said; "have you also come to
spend the winter here?""I have come for you," said Henley. "Don't you know me? I am Ralph
Henley, your husband, you must know me, Kate!"Kate put up her hand to her forehead, a bewildered look dimmed the
brightness of her eyes for a moment, then she said gently--"I wish you would not talk in that silly way, it is unkind of you,
for I am a sorrowful woman and my
husband is dead. I don't mind telling you--I don't mind the whole
world knowing-that I have committed a great sin, and that God has
punished me by taking my husband from me. He was twenty-eight when he
died. Hark!" She raised her hand. "Don't you hear the bells. They are
tolling his age. One--two--three--four. Listen! You must hear them!
They toll his age, twenty-eight, many times a day, and then they
stop. They toll his age day and night, day and night, about every five
minutes, always and always. My dear, dear husband, against whom I
sinned, is dead. That is God's punishment to me.""But God has forgiven you, Kate," cried Henley. "See, look, I am
alive; look at me; touch my hand. I am your husband, Ralph Henley, the
man you love."She smiled very faintly. It was doubtful even if she heard his
words."Listen!" she said, "if you listen hard and if you do not speak you
will hear the bells tolling his age."Henley glanced from Kate to Mrs. Hume in despair."She is always like that, poor dear," said Mrs. Mildmay, "she has
been like you see her now ever since the fever left her. Her mind, the
doctor says, is gone; it may come back again, he is not sure. She got
a terrible shock and her mind went.""Mother, I wish you would not talk so much," interrupted Kate,
"when you do you disturb me. I can't count the bells as they toll out
his age." Then she suddenly went close up to Henley and looked him
full in the face."You have the same expression as my Ralph," she said, "are you a
relation?"Henley swallowed something in his throat, then he said abruptly,
"His nearest relation.""Are you, indeed? that is interesting. I never knew he had a
brother. Are you his brother?""You can call me so if you like," said Henley.Kate held out her hand. Henley clasped it. The moment he felt the
little hand in his it seemed to him that half of his terrible grief
fell away."Kate," he said, "you must know me. It is impossible for you not to
know me. I am not Ralph Henley's brother; I am Ralph Henley himself,
himself; your husband, darling, your husband."A spasm of pain crossed Kate's forehead, she put up her hand as if
she would brush something away."There are the bells," she said gravely, "Ralph Henley is quite
dead, there they go, one--two--three--four. Oh, they hurt, they madden
me. I wish I could get away somewhere where they would not ring.""Then come with me," said Henley eagerly. "I will take you to a
place where you will not hear them.""Do you know a place where they won't sound? But they penetrate
everywhere, you know we are at Mentone and these bells are ringing in
the little church close to the Grange in old England, and yet I hear
them, oh so plainly. Is there a place where, where they will not
sound?""Yes, yes; a place over the sea, far away. Come with me to that
place.""Are you indeed my Ralph's brother?""You can call me so. Will you come where you won't hear those
bells?""I will," answered Kate. She put both her hands now into Ralph
Henley's; his closed over them."I will come with you," she repeated, "and soon, soon, for the
bells madden me."Two days afterwards Henley took his wife away. The Humes hushed up
as much of the story as they could, and Mrs. Mildmay was not
prosecuted for her part in the great sin, for even Mary no longer
wished for vengeance. God himself had stepped in and avenged Kate's
sin. Henley gave up his life to her, but she never got back her lost
memory. The old Kate was as good as dead. Travel where Henley and Kate
would, they never reached a spot where she did not hear the bells
tolling out the years of the man she loved, and whom she supposed was
dead. But in other ways she was gentle and submissive, and loved
Henley as much as she could love Ralph's brother.But Ralph was dead, she said. God had chosen to punish her in this
way for her great sin.THE ENDPrinted by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
Edinburgh & London