Catherine and her aunt’s lawyer were sitting together in the vast
drawing-room with the big bay windows. He was an elderly man, with
daughters of his own, and felt sorry for this girl, who had apparently
no relations to look after her interests. And he shrank, too, from
telling her the state of affairs. She had every reason to suppose that
she was an heiress; if her aunt had died a day sooner that anticipation
would have been realised; but now she had to be informed that she was
left with only a small income, while the bulk of the property had gone
to an entire stranger.
“Your aunt,” said Mr. Cheadle, “was—er—a lady of some eccentricity. On
your father’s death she made a will in your favour, and this remained
unaltered till the day before her decease. But last Wednesday she
called on me and made another in favour of this strange gentleman. Your
legacy consists of various investments, which altogether produce an
annual income of £150, enough to ensure your comfort, but a mere trifle
compared to what you might have expected.”
Catherine brought her mind with an effort to the business before her.
“It is very good of you—of her, I mean,” she answered. “The last time
my aunt spoke about the matter, she threatened to leave me without
anything. I had displeased her, and this is far more than I had any
right to expect.”
Mr. Cheadle rose. “I am glad that you are satisfied,” he said, with an
air of relief. “You will let me know your further movements, and if I
can do anything for you?”
“Thank you,” she answered. “I am quite undecided at present, but I am
sure that I shall settle down quite well. But I will let you know.”
The lawyer departed, and Catherine, putting on her hat and cape, went
out to walk along the shore. The autumn evening, with its chilly
wind, and the grey sea, flecked with white patches of foam, seemed
to harmonise curiously with her sad thoughts. The shore was quite
deserted, and she hurried on, striving to overpower by physical fatigue
the restless pain at her heart.
All at once, amidst the sighing of the wind and waves, she heard
footsteps behind her; the smooth track that led over the beach was only
wide enough for one, and standing aside to let this other pedestrian
pass, she found herself face to face with Granville Gray.
She uttered a little involuntary exclamation of joy, which she
instantly smothered. His face was worn and grey, and reflected none of
her own pleasure.
“I have come to see you on business,” he said. “May I walk a little way
with you?”
Catherine turned, and led the way from the beach to the carriage road
that ran above it.
“It is connected with your aunt’s will,” he said. “The whole affair is
preposterous.”
“Preposterous?” said Catherine. “How do you mean? She has left me what
seems almost a fortune, and I certainly had no right to expect more.”
“You were her natural heiress, and she has robbed you to give the money
to me—me, whom she only saw once in her life—practically an utter
stranger to her.”
“To you!” cried Catherine in delight. “Oh, I am so glad!”
“Please do not congratulate me. I have no intention of keeping it. The
money is yours by right, and shall be yours in fact.”
“But I do not want it!” exclaimed Catherine. “Do you know how rich I am
already? £150 a year! £30 more than my salary used to be!”
“A fortune, indeed,” he replied. “But I beg of you to listen to me.
Last Wednesday your aunt called on me and told me definitely that she
had left all her property to you. She even asked me to act as her
executor. Yet immediately afterwards she went to her lawyer and made
this absurd will. Does it not show that she was not quite responsible?”
“But she also distinctly told me that she would leave me nothing. I am
perfectly certain that she realised what she was doing. Why will you
refuse the good fortune at your hand?”
“Because it is not mine, but yours.” Then suddenly lowering his tone,
he added, “Catherine, why did she come to me that day?”
The girl’s pulses leapt at his voice, and then a flood of shame swept
over her, as enlightenment came to her in a flash. Aunt Cicely had
taken this means of forcing him into a proposal!
“I cannot tell,” she said impatiently. “But the money is yours. I do
not want to hear anything more about it.”
“I will not touch a farthing of it,” he answered. “If you will not have
it, neither will I.”
Thus they argued, neither of them showing any sign of yielding in the
conflict of generous intention. In their excitement they had stood
still; the wind raged round them, blowing Catherine’s hair and cape
about her; but she did not heed it.
“I cannot help it,” she said at length. “It is nothing to do with
me. But,” she added, “it is time for me to go in. I suppose you are
returning to London this evening?”
“Stop!” he cried. “You shall not go yet. For a month I have had no
thought unconnected with you. I have searched for you everywhere, and
have I found you only to lose you? Why should this wretched money come
between us? It is yours, but Heaven knows I have not sought you for it.
Catherine, do you believe me?”
“Yes,” she answered simply, while his arm went round her. “But the
money is yours. Take it, but take me too.”
[THE END.]
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.