FRUITS MEET FOR REPENTANCE
THE four years which followed Kathleen's first quarrel with her husband
were far from happy ones. When a mask has fallen off, the wearer seldom
cares to replace it. In like manner, when a certain character has been
assumed to gain a selfish end, if the counterfeit is discovered, the
pretender ceases to act an unnatural part.
John Torrance became in time less anxious to hide from Kathleen that
he differed widely, both from her ideal and what he had determined to
become after marriage. He was more than ever from home, and she knew
less and less of the places and persons amongst which and whom he spent
his time apart from her.
Some young wives might have yielded, and gone to places which in
girlish days they had been taught to shun.
"Come with me, Kitty," John would say. "I want some one to keep me out
of mischief."
She knew this, but was well aware that she would be helpless. Such
influence as she possessed in their early married days had long
vanished. She strove to make home attractive, she studied her husband's
wishes and obeyed him in all that was right. She possessed her soul in
patience amidst many provocations. She knew nothing of money matters,
but hitherto Mr. Torrance had kept her purse well supplied, and often
complimented her on her modest expenditure, saying, "You are really
economical, Kitty, but you are always well dressed."
She would smile with pleasure, rewarded by the words for the trouble
she had given to externals. She often said to herself, "John shall not
find me indifferent in little things."
Aylmer Matheson was only too well informed as to Mr. Torrance's
position, and often asked himself, "How many years will pass before he
is as much embarrassed as he was when poor Kathleen's splendid, but
mistaken generosity saved him from ruin and made him rich?"
Aylmer had again tried to induce Mr. Torrance to make a will, but in
vain, and he desisted from any further effort, at Kathleen's request.
She had been resolute in one respect. The income of the little property
which could not be alienated had been invested year by year, to
accumulate in trust for her child.
"Nothing shall induce me to touch a penny of this," said Kathleen.
"This shall be secured to my boy. It may be his only heritage."
In seven years and a half, the annual three hundred and fifty pounds,
with interest added, made no unimportant sum, and Kathleen rejoiced
that it had not been disturbed.
One evening Mr. Torrance alluded to this "separate fortune," as he
called it, and said—
"If I want to borrow a few hundreds, Kitty, you will let me have them."
"Surely you have no need to borrow, least of all from me," she said.
"Why, is it not natural that married people should mutually accommodate
each other?"
Kathleen was silent, but thought was busy. If her husband was in want
of money, what had become of the great sum placed in his hands together
with the income from the estate? She had kept household expenses within
proper bounds, and since their first two years of married life there
had been nothing to account for any present scarcity of money.
"Do you mean that you will not lend me a few hundreds?" said Mr.
Torrance.
"You cannot be in earnest in asking," replied Kathleen.
"You will soon find out that I am if you refuse!" was the angry
response.
Mr. Torrance looked furious and menacing, and Kathleen was determined
not to yield.
"The sum you allude to is equally out of my power and yours. When,
after I had given you all else, you refused to secure to my boy
his rightful heritage, I resolved the trifle left should never be
alienated. I put it out of my own power, and placed it in trust for
Kenneth."
"Do you dare to tell me this?" shouted Mr. Torrance.
"I do. I rejoice to think that this money cannot be touched even by you
or me. Kenneth will not be penniless, though it is dreadful to think
that what came from my dear father has been squandered in a few years
by a—"
"You had better finish your sentence, madam."
The pause gave Kathleen time to overcome her first anger, and to
substitute other words for those which might, without it, have been
spoken.
"By a man whom experience has failed to teach or improve. A man who
having twice trod the road to ruin, finds it more attractive than any
other, whose promises were uttered only to be forgotten, on whose
honour I relied, to find it but a broken reed."
Kathleen rose from the breakfast-table and left the room, feeling
nearly broken-hearted. She had borne much, but the attempt to get
possession of the last fragment of her fortune tried her beyond
endurance.
As the door closed behind Kathleen, an evil smile came on her husband's
face. He did not follow her, but he said aloud—
"Before you are many hours older you will be glad to change your tone,
my fair Kathleen."
An hour later, Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine were startled by Kathleen's
appearance at Monk's How. Her coming suggested some new trouble, and
into their sympathetic ears she poured the story, not only of this last
trial, but of many preceding ones hitherto unsuspected.
"I blame myself," said Kathleen, humbly, "because I sinned against
conscience and knowledge by marrying one in whose life the fear and
the love of God had no part. I indulged my self-will at the cost of
pain to my best friends. I trusted fortune, my hope of happiness, the
future of my child—all that marriage might bring—to one whose past
life proved him unworthy of trust. Even John said it would be better
for him if he were not so trusted, and oh! how truly he knew this! You
know, dear aunty, how I used to chafe at little contradictions and
crave after forbidden things, just because they were forbidden. Yet
that night when you told me my mother's story, my longing after one
prohibited amusement was quenched for ever. Things that I thought I
should enjoy when I became my own mistress, lost their relish as soon
as I tasted them, and I would have given the world to live with John
the old peaceful life such as ours was, when we were together at the
Hall before my marriage."
"It is an awful thing to pass the years with one to whom you are joined
by the closest and most sacred ties, and yet to be as far as possible
asunder in all that concerns the soul and eternity. I doubt if John and
I ever joined in real prayer in our lives, for even when we went to
church together, he always said it is 'only for the look of the thing
and to please you, Kitty, that I go.' Even that poor concession soon
ceased, as you know."
Tears stopped Kathleen's utterance for a while. She had begged her aunt
and cousin just to let her tell her tale uninterrupted.
"For," she said, "if you begin to pity me and speak lovingly, it will
never be told. I shall break down, and cannot begin again."
"You have had one great blessing out of the trouble, one light that has
pierced the darkness, Kathleen," said Mrs. Ellicott. "You have been
brought nearer to God, and realized, as you never did before, the love
that never faileth."
"Oh yes. This is now my one great joy. Silent to others, even to you,
how could I have lived without the comfort and strength He gave me,
though I felt so unworthy even to ask for it? I was—I am so lonely,
though I am a wife and a mother. Yet my very loneliness has drawn and
driven me to God. I have needed much discipline, and it has taken
a long time for me to learn the truth about myself. I started on
my married life with the idea that I—weak, sinful, and to a great
extent ignorant of my own need—should prove a source of strength to
my husband, and be his helper and safeguard on the path we were to
tread together until life ended for one of us. It is true that I soon
began to regret the sorrow I had caused to dear earthly friends by my
wilfulness; but I placed them first. Now, by the enlightening power
of the Holy Spirit, I see my sinfulness and ingratitude towards my
Heavenly Father. In all my wilful words and acts I rebelled against
Him, and in paining the dear earthly friends whom He had graciously
given to watch over me I showed the basest ingratitude for His goodness
to me."
"When I first realized all this, and felt that nothing I could do would
make amends for the past, all seemed dark and hopeless around me. But
God had another message for me and it was one of love which I had often
heard, though it never reached my heart before, and of forgiveness for
the sake of Jesus, 'who loved us and gave Himself for us' when He died
on Calvary. I can now say, 'He gave Himself for me,' for I believe it
with all my heart, and I 'rejoice with joy unspeakable.'"
Despite her recent sorrow and present anxiety, there was a light
in Kathleen's face which betokened the peace which passeth all
understanding, a light which her aunt and cousin had never seen there
before. Needless to say, she had their rejoicing sympathy.
There was a brief silence; then Kathleen said—
"If only John could feel as I do in these things, what a happy life
might yet be before us! but I dare not hope for it, though I keep on
praying always. I am now sorely in need of guidance, and after earnest
prayer I have come to the conclusion that I should be wrong not to seek
the help of my three best earthly friends. It would be neglecting the
means placed within my reach. I must care for my boy. I will be firm in
defending the little that is left for him, and I beg that you will tell
Aylmer all I have told you, and ask him to join you in standing by me
and strengthening my hands."
"I have other troubles which I must tell you before I go. One is about
Ralph. He is greatly improved, for John has, in most things, allowed
others to influence him for good—Aylmer especially—and not in vain. Of
late he has taken an opposite course, to punish me for having wished
him to make a will and secure the rights of my boy, without leaving
Ralph's future unprovided for. You remember Ralph's foolish jealousy
of his little brother, which really arose out of his great affection
for me. John has been taking pains to revive this un-brotherly feeling,
when Ralph has been at home for the holidays. I could not tell you how
I suffered the last time."
"Poor Kitty, you have been wounded in your tenderest feelings!" said
Ger.
"It is not on that account only I grieve. It is for Ralph himself I do
so want him to grow up a good man. I have tried to make him look on the
little brother as one to whom he should act as a defender and guardian.
Often Ralph and I have been very happy. He is a fine youth, with many
noble aims and longings. I have tried to strengthen these, and I have
really opened my heart to him more than to older friends. I do not
mean in a complaining way, but about the best things of all. We have
read and prayed together many a time, and I am sure we have both been
happier for this."
"I do not know how it came about, but some one told Ralph of his
father's early career, and of the disgraceful ending to his military
life. It was an awful trouble to the boy, and he came to tell me, and
ask if it could be true."
"How sad for you and for the boy, dear Kitty!" said Ger.
"It was indeed, for what could I say? I had to own the truth; but I
said that people were often sorry for the faults of their early days,
and that it was possible for them to repent and, in God's strength, to
live noble after-lives."
"'You knew before you married father, didn't you?' he asked; and I
said, 'Yes, I did.'"
"Ralph was very thoughtful for a little while, and then with a burning
flush on his face he said, 'I don't think father has led a noble life
since, do you, mother?'"
"Perhaps I did the worst possible thing when I answered, 'Your father
has always told me he was sorry for the past. He never brought any of
the old visitors to the Hall, whom you used to dislike at Monk's How.'
I wanted to make the best of my husband in the eyes of his son."
"Ralph asked another question. 'Did father promise that he really would
keep away from those men?'"
"Fancy how hard it was to say 'Yes,' and then to hear Ralph reply,
indignantly, 'My father has not kept his word to you. He has acted
dishonourably, I know.'"
"I tried to speak hopefully, but Ralph was not to be easily cheered.
He is close upon eighteen now, thoughtful and manly. I am very anxious
about his future. He used to say he would be a soldier, as his father
had been, but after that miserable tale came to his ears he gave up
the idea. He thought that, no matter what his life might be, some one
would identify him as the son of that Captain Torrance who had perforce
to leave the service for dishonourable conduct. What to do for Ralph I
know not. I have spoken earnestly to John more than once, and the last
time—he was not quite himself, though that is a pitiful excuse to make
for him—he laughed in my face, and said, 'You forget that Ralph will be
master of the Hall.'"
The reminiscence was too much for Kathleen, and her tears could not be
restrained. Her aunt and Geraldine were most indignant at this insult.
They had not thought John Torrance could be so cowardly a tyrant. All
that love could suggest they said to comfort Kathleen, yet felt that
the task was an impossible one.
"I have one other trouble—a great one, I mean—the state of John's
health," said Kathleen. "He is far from well, though he looks strong,
and ridicules my anxiety. Some, perhaps, who bore such a burden as I
do, might be indifferent, or think it would be no misfortune were he to
die."
Kathleen shrank from uttering the last word, and it was followed by a
burst of passionate weeping, during which she sobbed out—
"I have loved him truly—my husband, the father of my little child. I
cannot bear to think of it, after all that I have had to endure at his
hands. Besides and above all comes the thought, John is living without
God and without hope in this world, and what is there beyond?"
Thus Kathleen ended her pitiful story, and left it with her aunt and
cousin to repeat to Aylmer. "Remember," she added, "whatever John says,
'I will not give in with regard to the little sum saved for Kenneth. I
must go back now; my child will want his mother.'"
Kathleen left immediately, and before the day was over Aylmer knew
all that had passed, and shared the indignation inspired in Mrs.
Ellicott and Ger by Kathleen's story. He owned that he was aware of Mr.
Torrance's unsatisfactory state of health, and that it did not surprise
him, and he replied gravely, "Kathleen has not yet seen his worst side,
and I trust she never will, though he puts less and less restraint on
himself. At first, I had some faint hope that the poor girl's unselfish
trust and generosity would influence him permanently. Time has proved
that I was wrong."
"Can Mr. Torrance have spent all Kitty's fortune?" asked Mrs. Ellicott.
"I fear so, since he is trying to wrest this little reserve sum from
her. He is in debt, I know. He may have mortgaged the property, for
he had full power. The income from the estate would about meet their
present home expenditure, but if there is interest to be paid, and
Torrance's outside extravagances to be met, he may easily be in
difficulties."
"He cannot seize Kitty's little fund," said Ger.
"Not the property which yields the income. As to her savings, I dare
say nothing. Torrance has stirred in her a spirit of resistance. He may
next appeal to her pity with success. It waits to be seen whether love
for her boy or his father will conquer in the end. If the worst come,
it will neither find Kathleen homeless nor friendless whilst we three
live," said Aylmer. On this thought alone could they all fall back for
comfort.
When Kathleen reached home she asked for her boy.
"Master has taken him for a drive in the pony-trap, ma'am," was the
nurse's answer.
The child had often gone with both parents, but his father had never
before driven with the boy alone. Further inquiry showed that Mr.
Torrance had got out at the station, and sent the trap back by a
tenant's son. It seemed absurd to suppose that harm could happen to the
child when in his father's care; but when Kathleen heard that the young
man had seen the London train move off with Mr. Torrance and his boy
in it, she turned sick with terror. "What could be John's motive for
carrying off Kenneth unknown to his mother?" she asked herself.
Perplexed and troubled, she sent for Aylmer and Geraldine, who came
immediately, and heard what had happened.
"You need not fear on your boy's account, Kathleen," said Aylmer,
"though you may have to endure some suspense. No doubt John intends to
extort your last available shilling. He has carried off the child that
he may force you to ransom him at the cost of the sum you have saved as
a provision for Kenneth. Do not yield. Trust to me, and be sure I will
not rest until I find your boy."
"God will reward you for your unfailing goodness, my best of friends,
my brother!" said Kathleen. "What should I do without you, my aunt, and
dear, kind Ger?"
Kathleen's words were few, but her heart was full of thankfulness to
the friends whom all her past wilfulness had failed to alienate.
Little has been said of late about Mountain, the faithful,
self-opinionated, crusty coachman, who, despite his old dislike to
Mr. Torrance, was still at the Hall. Kathleen had begged that she
might retain him, and John Torrance, knowing the value of honesty and
unimpeachable trustworthiness, had consented. The old man, however,
always insisted that he served "Miss Kathleen as was," not Mr.
Torrance. To him Aylmer would telegraph if needful, not to Kathleen,
during his search for Kenneth.
Aylmer found that Mr. Torrance had booked for St. Pancras, and he was
about to do the same, when a sudden inspiration stopped him.
Hollingsby was only two hours from London. Two trains left within a few
minutes of each other, one express, the other slow. Mr. Torrance hated
slow travelling, yet Aylmer easily ascertained that he had allowed the
express to pass, though he might have had it stopped, and gone by slow
train.
Aylmer at once decided that the London ticket was a mere blind, and
that father and child would be set down at Earlsford Junction, ten
miles away.
"I will make further inquiries," he thought. "Besides, there is no need
to fear for Kenneth, and I must not risk a meeting with his father yet."
At seven that evening Mr. Torrance returned flushed and excited, but
with an air of triumph. Kathleen schooled herself to meet him calmly,
and asked in a natural tone, "Where is Kenneth, John? Have you given
him to nurse? It is late for him to be out."
She trembled visibly, though she strove not to show her anxiety.
"You ask where our boy is. I will tell you after dinner, on certain
conditions. In the meanwhile, let me say he is with those who will
teach him to obey—a lesson he would hardly learn from you."
Without another word he passed her, and went to dress for dinner.
Kathleen easily divined what the conditions would be, and resolved not
to yield to them. She only thought, "John is proud of our boy, and
will not harm him. He only wants to coerce me through my fears for
the child. I must bear in mind that if I have to endure threats and
suspense during the child's absence, they will be for Kenneth's sake."
She went about preparing mechanically for the meal of which it would
be impossible for her to partake. She even took special pains with her
dress, and quietly told the nurse not to expect her charge before the
morrow, as Mr. Torrance had left him to spend the night elsewhere.
Her manner deceived the servants, who were wondering what this new
departure might mean. It also puzzled her husband, who expected
passionate reproaches, tears and entreaties—anything but calmness. He
could not imagine her capable of self-restraint where her child was
concerned, and he saw it with surprise. Kathleen's trial came as soon
as the servants left the room.
"You are not troubled at your darling's absence," said Mr. Torrance, in
a mocking tone.
"How can I fear, when you are responsible for his safety?" replied
Kathleen. "Still, it would have been kinder to tell me you were taking
him away for the night."
"Or, if I had not taken him at all, I suppose."
"It is unusual to take one so young from home without warning the
mother, that he might be fittingly clothed."
"It will do the boy good to rough it. He will have to do so, as a
younger son. You have spoiled him."
Kathleen could not answer, and her silence irritated her husband, and
disturbed his anticipation of an easy triumph, to be gained by the
removal of the child.
"You are indifferent about the youngster, then; perhaps you are tired
of both him and me. Why do you not speak?"
"You asked no question, and your remark called for no reply. You know
that it was equally unjust and undeserved," replied Kathleen.
Her quiet dignity rendered Mr. Torrance uneasy, and he began to ask
himself as to the source of her strength. There was something about
Kathleen to-night which he could not fathom. Surely this hitherto
yielding woman was not going to foil him when, as he would have
expressed it, he had played his strongest card.
At this moment a servant entered and said, "Mountain would be glad to
speak to you for a moment, ma'am."
"Excuse me for a moment, John," said Kathleen, "I will be back
directly."
Mr. Torrance was always guarded before his servants, and he remarked,
good-humouredly, "I suppose your favourite has been ailing. Mountain is
a fidget about his horses."
When Mountain saw his mistress he made a remark or two about Polly,
adding, "She is about well again now." Then in a low voice he said,
"I've got the message, Miss Kathleen—ma'am, I mean. The child is safe
at Monk's How."
An intelligent look from his mistress was enough for Mountain, and
though she only remarked, "I am glad my favourite is better," he knew
what his message had done for her.
Kathleen's heart beat wildly with the gladness Mountain's news had
brought, but she went back to her husband with an unmoved face.
"Polly had been ailing, but Mountain says she is well again," she
remarked.
"What do I care about the animal?" retorted Mr. Torrance. "You take
Kenneth's absence coolly enough, and I am not likely to trouble about
the mare. We have important business to talk about."
"I am ready to listen, John."
"You know what I mean well enough. You have only to recall to mind what
I said this morning about the money you have been hoarding. I must and
will have it, or a good portion of it, immediately."
"I do remember what you said. Surely you also remember my answer."
"You dare not repeat it, Kathleen."
"There is no need for me to do so; but oh, John! look back and think of
the past, I pray you. If you do, you cannot persist in such a request.
Remember this is all I have reserved for our child."
"I do not want the settled property. That is out of your power to give,
but the money you have hoarded I will have, or you shall not see the
boy again until he has forgotten that he ever knew his mother. I have
him in my power, at any rate."
Even this threat failed to move Kathleen. In the same firm but quiet
tone, she replied—
"I am sorry to deny you anything, John, but I must do what I feel to be
right."
And as Mr. Torrance listened he was more than ever convinced that some
secret influence was working against him, and that his final triumph
was doubtful. He laughed uneasily, as he answered with a yawn—
"I am tired with my double journey, and need rest I will give you until
to-morrow morning to come to your senses. By the way, I am glad the
mare is all right again. She will sell for something, and every little
helps."
The littleness displayed in this threat pained Kathleen more than the
threat itself. Every day of late had shown her more plainly to what
manner of man she had given herself. At this moment, however, the
thought, "My child is safe, in loving hands, and with those whose faces
and home are familiar to him," took the sting from the bitterest words
that Mr. Torrance could say to her.
In spite of herself, Kathleen felt troubled about her husband. The
complaint of weariness was no pretence. He walked unsteadily from the
room, as if suffering from giddiness, and she noticed the almost livid
colour on his face. He had of late frequently consulted a specialist
relative to attacks of the kind, and had been advised to live very
quietly and avoid excitement and stimulants. He would obey for then,
feeling better, would laugh resume his old habits. Before Kathleen
slept, she knew the story of her boy's recovery. It was told as briefly
as possible in a note which Mountain placed in her hands later still.