Catherine's Appeal
When Catherine Carmichael reached Carm Hall she found that a groom was
leading the squire's horse up and down the carriage drive. Her uncle
appeared at the hall door, booted for riding, just as she arrived at it;
but he smilingly welcomed her, and gave orders that the spirited bay
should be taken back to the stable.
'I do not receive visits from you so often that I can afford to cut them
short, my dear,' he replied to her promise that she would not detain him
long.
'Don't take me into the drawing-room,' she petitioned. 'I have a great
deal to say to you, uncle, and the library is so much more cosy. If you
treat me as a stranger, my courage will fail me, and I shall not be able
to find words in which to explain my reason for coming to-day.'
He smiled.
'Your wish is, of course, a command to me. I trust that nothing is
troubling you? Mr. North is not ill?'
'No; the trouble does not concern Brian.'
He wheeled the largest arm-chair near to the fire for her, and stood
beside her, looking down into her face.
His figure was upright, his eyes keen, but the lines in his brow were
deeply cut, and his beard and hair were quite white. A fine old man, a
typical squire, with an autocrat's expression.
Even while admiring her uncle, Catherine was remembering the secret
wrong he had done--the dishonouring small sins of which he had been
guilty. His proud air and haughty manner hid remorse and
self-condemnation; surely this must be so!
'Your friend, Mrs. Arderne, is not ill either? The children cannot be
unwell, or you would not have left them.'
'The troubles all concern Uncle Jack and--and you.'
There was a great fear in her heart, and her voice trembled. Oh, if this
dread, this mastering weakness of will, were to continue, there would be
no chance of influencing this stern, self-possessed man by her words! In
that moment Catherine both despised and detested herself.
But she had sought powerful aid; she had put her case into the hands of
her Heavenly Father, beseeching Him to plead her cause for her through
her own lips; and the remembrance of His mercy and goodness came back to
her mind just as she needed it most. With God's help, wonders and
miracles might be accomplished!
At the mention of Uncle Jack the squire's frown had appeared. It was a
visible effort to him to show the unvarying courtesy he deemed due to a
woman when Catherine would speak of his enemy.
'Forgive me if I say that you had better have chosen a different
confidant, if you wish to discuss affairs concerning my brother.'
'No other confidant would do, and I knew you would not refuse to listen
to me.'
'I am powerless to refuse a lady's request, when it is in my power to
grant it, when the lady is my niece, to whom I am attached, and when she
proffers the request under my own roof. I can only request her to desist
from making it.'
'Uncle, I have such strong motives that I cannot yield my will to yours
this time!'
He smiled cynically.
'My dear Catherine, you have not exhibited any willingness ever to
consider my desires rather than your own!'
A hot retort was just springing from her lips, but she restrained the
wrong impulse.
'I am sorry, truly sorry, that I have not been able to please you. Had I
been in your favour, my task to-day would have been so much easier.
Uncle, let me stand beside you; I can talk better when I stand, and I am
tall enough to look right into your eyes! Don't be angry with me, dear!
You were never vexed with "little Catherine" in the old days. Do you
recollect one great argument we had about the necessity for men, as well
as women, to lead religious lives? I was only a child; it was not easy
for me to bear my part in that argument. I lost my temper, and behaved
very impertinently to you, I'm afraid, yet you were not angry--certainly
not the least bit sarcastic! When I apologised afterwards, you told me
you "liked my spirited defence of that which I believed right!"'
The squire's expression softened, and he laid his hand on that small but
firm one which had stolen through his arm.
'Are you preparing to lose your temper again, Catherine?'
'No, I will try not to do so; I don't think I shall want to. Uncle Ross,
you have not the least idea how unhappy this family quarrel is making
your brother. He longs for your friendship, for the old affection
between you. He told me, only a little while ago, that he would gladly
give the remainder of his life in exchange for the reconciliation; only
God does not let His creatures bargain with Him in that way. I have come
here to-day to plead for Uncle Jack, not to begin by defending him. I
appeal to your sense of generosity first, to your memory of the love
that united you brothers in your childhood, youth, and young manhood.'
'There is an insuperable obstacle against the proposed reconciliation.'
Catherine watched his face as he spoke this quiet sentence. Yes, there
was the obstacle of his false pride. He would not confess himself in the
wrong; he could not endure the thought of humbling himself. The harsh
tone of voice, the fixed tension of the brows, the weary, cynical
smile--all these betokened the squire's sacrifice to his idol, Self.
That he still cared for his brother Catherine felt certain. A warm
regard, the growth of years and years of intimacy, does not melt away in
a short time, nor can it be entirely obliterated by any quarrel. The
seeds of affection were springing ever fresh in a heart which would not
let love blossom and bear fruit.
There was sadness in the words 'an insuperable obstacle.'
'You wish that obstacle did not exist?'
For a few minutes Ross Carmichael hesitated. He was reading his own
mind. Did he not regret that unworthy attempt to secretly bribe Loring
to reject Uncle Jack's influence? Did he not repent of the impulsive
hiding away of that last letter of Loring's--the deception of an instant
which had obliged him to practise deceit ever since?
'Yes, Catherine, I regret the obstacle.'
'And is it not in your power to overcome it?'
Yes, it was, in two ways. Either the squire could confess the injury he
had done his brother, or he might make overtures of friendship without
ever owning the secret wrong. The first method was too distasteful to
his false pride; the second was impossible to a man whose honour had
been twice denied, but had never succumbed beneath the treatment.
Call Jack brother, welcome him home, press his hand, live in his
company day after day, and all the while deceive him? No; the squire's
nature rebelled fiercely against this idea.
'You will find me a--tolerably patient listener, my dear; but I refuse
to be "heckled,"' was his answer.
'Forgive me, uncle! I am so much in earnest that maybe I am imprudent!
You know that I care very truly for you; that I care also for Uncle
Jack; and while I _know_ that he grieves for your friendship, I believe
you miss his presence here more than you will own. God gave you to one
another; let your warm affection be a joy to you; and now that you are
estranged you both are sorry for the loss of one another. Uncle Jack
tells me, "I long for Ross more than ever, now that I am growing old."'
'Catherine, Catherine, for Heaven's sake desist from these appeals and
arguments, which have no respect for my feelings, but which are totally
useless!'
'It is those feelings to which I wish to appeal. They have slept too
long; it is well for them to be roused!' cried the girl, clasping his
arm with both her hands. 'You will feel remorse and sorrow all the years
of your life, if Uncle Jack dies before you have made all the amends in
your power!'
'_Dies!_'
The squire's face had become ashen; his repetition of the word Catherine
had used betrayed the shock it had caused him.
'_Dies!_' he repeated. 'John is my junior. The chance is that I die
before him.'
'No, uncle; for his life is threatened; it might end any minute, so the
doctors tell him.'
There was silence in the library for a while, only the fire flickered
and spluttered fiercely, and the heavy drops of a rain-storm dashed
against the windows.
The squire stood erect, gazing straight before him, with not a change
of one muscle of his face. Yet no one, least of all Catherine, could
have seen that face without learning that a struggle and a grief were
tearing his heart. While he was silent he was looking into the far past,
to the childish days when Jack had been all-in-all to him, when his
affection for him had been of the loyal protecting order of the elder
for the younger; looking back to the youth of mutual aspirations after
higher things than worldly ambition, to the confidences of young
manhood, to the devotion for one woman, which had never separated them,
because for each it had been equally hopeless. How Jack had proposed,
after that sorrow, 'Let us keep together through life, you and I, Ross.
We shall always understand and respect one another's memories'! How the
promise had been kept, even when absence made letter-writing the only
method of communication! How nothing but the elder's change of
disposition had weakened the old tie! Money, money, money,--this had
become Ross's idol; in serving it he had lost touch with the finer
nature of his soldier brother, whose loyal, pure heart had remained
faithful. Then the episode of Loring Carmichael's adoption; their mutual
pride in the prospects of the clever lad who was to carry the old name
honourably into another generation, and keep the home and estate in
order. Then Loring's favouritism for Uncle Jack; the squire's growing
jealousy, and attempt to purchase his allegiance secretly. Later,
Loring's choice, Loring's departure; lastly, Loring's death, and the
concealed letter!
No, not lastly, for years of estrangement had followed, beginning with a
mere quarrel which could easily have been made up, but which had been
sealed, as it were, by the squire's act of deception, that dishonouring
wrong to which he would not own.
He saw himself in his true colours now, and was bitterly shamed by the
vision.
But to be ashamed, and to own to the shame, were two different things.
He contrived to hide his emotion.
'I am exceedingly sorry to hear of my brother's ill-health, Catherine.
Still, that does not efface the wrong he did me.'
'What if I can prove to you that Loring was not influenced in his final
choice by Uncle Jack?'
'I fail to understand how that could be. You never met--my nephew.'
'No, uncle, but you have another nephew, who was his friend, who was
with him before his death, who wrote for him two letters of
farewell--one to you, one to Uncle Jack--my Cousin George in Melbourne.'
The squire's expression changed again. He glanced anxiously into
Catherine's face. How much did she know? Was his wrong-doing to be
exposed, brought home to him by this penniless niece, who had refused to
sacrifice her sense of duty for the gain of a fortune?--this girl, whose
spirit he had admired in times past?
It was too strange that she should humble him! Could he not think of any
way in which to make sure of her silence?
No; for she was absolutely unselfish and honest.
There was admiration for her in his mind, even while she was so calmly
defying him. Her truthful brown eyes did not falter beneath his glance;
her temper was not aroused. She was simply in earnest--doing battle for
Uncle Jack.
He could not think how to answer her, until she spoke again, quietly:
'I know _all_ about the quarrel, Uncle Ross. George has written to me.
The only thing I do not know is what became of Loring's letter to Uncle
Jack, for it was not delivered to him.'
If Catherine had expected to break down the reserve of his manner, she
was disappointed. Ross Carmichael was bent upon enduring his position as
well as possible.
'The letter came here after my brother's departure, and I omitted to
forward it. Had he sent for it at any time, he could have had it. It
lies in the locked drawer of a bureau in the hall.'
'Will you let me take it to him?'
'Certainly.'
'Oh, uncle, George told me one sentence that is in it. Loring declared,
"It is entirely owing to Uncle Ross's secret persuasion that I left home
to enlist." Now that you know that Uncle Jack did not do you the injury
of influencing Loring to leave you, won't you forgive and be friends
with him again?'
Catherine's voice was no longer calm. Her appeal was made in impassioned
tones, and her eyes were full of tears.
The squire unclasped her hands from his arm and turned away.
'If I am not mistaken, the--the position is changed between my brother
and myself. John will probably be indignant because I--did not trouble
to--to forward the letter. There was no absolute necessity for me to do
so; it was his affair that he left me and went to live by himself.'
'Since you have wronged him, do you not wish to make amends to him?'
'That will be done--at least, the wrong will be ended when you have
taken him the letter.'
'No, uncle, for he cares far more for you than he ever cared for Loring.
He longs for your love again--your confidence. Will you not make some
advance to him, as he has made so many which you have ignored? Think--it
is in your power to make these later years of his life happy instead of
sad! Can you be so hard-hearted as not to do it?'
The squire walked away to the window, where he stood, turning his back
upon his niece,--silently fighting with his feelings.
Catherine watched him, and prayed.
At last the answer came, in a voice unlike the squire's usual harsh
accents.
'You shall take the letter, and you may tell John I--am sorry. I shall
be in Beverbridge this evening, at the club quite near you. You can send
for me if--if John wants me.'