LIGHT AT EVENTIDE
IT had been easy for Aylmer to find out that Mr. Torrance had left
the train at Earlsford Junction, and Kenneth with him. The ex-captain
was too well-known through the county for any mistake in identity to
be possible. Besides, the carrying off of the child had been a sudden
inspiration, not the result of a carefully laid plan, and Mr. Torrance
had only counted that it would be needful to detain him for a night in
some place unknown to his mother, to ensure her complete subjugation.
At Earlsford, he had hired a conveyance and driven away with the child,
then returned alone, and taken train to another station thirty miles
distant, whence he would return to Hollingsby.
Aylmer discovered the driver employed by Mr. Torrance without any
trouble, and the man was willing to give any information, as Mr.
Matheson was no stranger to him.
"It was a new thing for the captain to be in charge of the little man,"
he said. "But he was in rare spirits, as if he were up to some trick.
Little master cried when his father left him, but Mrs. Munslow will
take good care of him. She was nurse at Monk's How once, and afterwards
she married a widower with two children, but comfortably off. She has
one of her own now, so little master won't be short of a playfellow,"
said the man.
Aylmer knew that Ralph's nurse, Sarah Swain, was married, but neither
remembered her present name nor her exact address—only that her home
was a couple of miles from Earlsford Junction. The idea that Mr.
Torrance would take the boy to Sarah had flashed across his mind, and
sent him in the right direction instead of to town. He accordingly
engaged the driver to convey him to her house. Under Sarah's charge he
found little Kenneth, making himself very much at home in the society
of the smallest Munslow.
Sarah beamed with delight at the sight of Mr. Matheson, and frankly
owned that she thought her old master was up to some trick to plague
his lady.
"I wouldn't have let him leave the child, sir," she said, "only I know
Captain Torrance, and I thought he might be left in worse hands, if I
refused. I knew I could make him comfortable, bless him! Isn't he like
his beautiful mother? He has her eyes to a bit."
Mr. Matheson assented, and replied, "I am very glad you did take the
poor child in. I can trust you to help me in restoring him to his
mother."
He did not hesitate to trust Sarah in more than this, for he knew how
grateful the woman had been to Kathleen, the Ellicotts, and himself, on
Ralph's account.
"I always knew what would come of that marriage, sir," said Mrs.
Munslow. "My old master might put on new ways for a bit, to get his own
way; but he'll never change, and be a real, new man. If anybody could
have altered him, Master Ralph's mother would have been the one, for
Mr. Torrance cared more for her than for any human being but himself."
"Poor Miss Kathleen! She was good to my nursling, and to me. My master
couldn't help being taken up with her beautiful face and pretty ways,
but what he wanted was the money. He hasn't had sense to keep it,
more's the pity. Eh dear! Miss Kathleen thought she could turn him
round her little finger, he was so meek for a while and when he was in
her sight, but out of it—"
Sarah shook her head to express what she did not put into words. In a
regretful way she added, "The master was wonderfully fine-looking. No
wonder a young lady thought such a handsome shell must cover a good
kernel. But he is different now—so coarsened, as one may say."
Aylmer could only assent. The stamp of an evil life was only too
visible, and Mr. Torrance's face to-day was in painful contrast to that
of the handsome cavalier who had so captivated Kathleen's girlish fancy
on the day of the meet a few years ago.
Mr. Matheson purposed taking the child back with him to Earlsford
Station, but Sarah's womanly wit suggested a better plan.
"Pay off the man, sir, and say you will not go back to the station, but
bid me good day before he starts, and set off walking to the station
further on. When he is well out of sight, come back. We have a nice
covered trap and a good horse here. Munslow can drive you to Hollingsby
by a shorter road than the train takes, and you can send a message to
Mountain from a post-office on the way. You will get nicely home when
it is dusk."
This plan was adopted. Kenneth, weary with so much journeying, slept on
the road, and was given into Geraldine's arms, too drowsy to be roused,
so was put to bed at Monk's How.
Mr. Torrance had never doubted that Kathleen would be like wax in his
hands, and said to himself, "I shall settle the business easily enough
over the breakfast-table. My lady may think she will beat me, but when
she has slept upon the matter she will listen to reason. When I have
secured the cash, the boy shall come back, and she will be so delighted
to have him that she will forget all else, as she has done many a time
before, after our quarrels were over."
Mr. Torrance had reached his dressing-room when he came to this mental
conclusion. He was feeling wretchedly ill, and unfit for anything but
rest. He caught sight of his face in the glass, and was startled by its
colour. He walked unsteadily across the floor, and was fain to sit down
before undressing.
"This dizziness again. The old doctor's warning will come true, if I go
on in the way I have done lately. I must turn over a fresh leaf, or—"
A servant passing the door heard a fall, and listened. There was no
further movement, but a sound of heavy, unnatural breathing reached
her, and she ran hastily downstairs to call for help. She met her
mistress at the foot of the stairs, and told her that she was afraid
Mr. Torrance must be ill.
Kathleen told the girl to follow her, hastened to the dressing-room,
and found her husband lying senseless and motionless on the floor. The
only sign of life was the stertorous breathing which had attracted the
girl's attention, and caused her to give the alarm.
The doctor was soon on the spot, and confirmed the fear which had taken
possession of Kathleen.
"Yes, it is apoplexy," he said. "Mr. Torrance's father died of it, but
later in life. He was careful of himself, and lived by strict rules,
which I could not induce your husband to do, though it was his only
chance, and he knew it."
Kathleen's distress can be better imagined than described. Trouble is
always intensified at such times by the knowledge that we have parted
on other than kindly terms with the one who now lies stricken and
helpless. If the sufferer ever held the dearest place in our hearts,
our own wrongs seem to vanish, and through the mist of past years of
trial we see him, not as the author of our sorrows, but as he was when
he won our girlish love. So it was with Kathleen, and sad indeed were
the few days which followed her husband's seizure. She was ever praying
for, and longing to see a look of recognition, to hear him whisper her
name, or give signs of possible restoration.
Only once came a gleam of consciousness, and the sufferer's eyes
wandered, as if in search of something. Kathleen bent over him, and
whispered, "Do you know me, John?—Kathleen." A slight murmur, and she
caught one word, "Adela." It was a last effort. Mr. Torrance relapsed
into unconsciousness, and a few hours later Kathleen was a widow. The
only thought of which he had been capable was not given to her who
had given him all, or to their child. It had gone back to his first
love—the only real affection of his life, and that a sadly selfish one.
"He never truly loved me," thought Kathleen. "He married my fortune,
and I married and almost worshipped an ideal being, the creature of my
own imagination, until the scales fell from my eyes, and I knew. Yet
how happy we might have been, with so many blessings to make life and
home bright and free from the anxious cares which spoil so many wedded
lives!"
Many particulars of her husband's past were mercifully hidden from
Kathleen, but his embarrassments could not be concealed. All the ready
money was gone, and ten thousand pounds obtained by mortgaging the
estates had followed, and arrangements were in progress for a similar
advance. The fact that some difficulty had occurred to retard their
completion had moved Mr. Torrance to try and extort from Kathleen the
sum saved for her boy. As her former guardian, Aylmer Matheson was
the fittest person to act on her behalf, and as far as possible he
saved her trouble and anxiety in business matters. Ralph also proved
a comfort in the first period of her sorrow. He was full of loving
thought, and all that was best in his character showed itself towards
her and the brother, of whom he had formerly been unreasonably jealous.
Kathleen's goodness to the once lonely boy bore fruit after many days,
and gave her a dutiful son in the manly youth, outwardly so like his
father, but happily unlike him in other respects. Ralph was now nearly
eighteen, and for several years past had improved greatly both in
character and appearance. That he grieved deeply for the loss of his
father goes without saying.
Mr. Torrance had left no valid will. One had been prepared by his
instructions in an hour of compunction, or, perhaps, when the doctor's
warnings, and the memory of Kathleen's unbounded trust, had moved him
to do what conscience told him was only just. But it had never been
signed. A superstitious feeling, a change of mood, or the determination
to hold his power as a sort of weapon over his wife's head, had kept
Mr. Torrance from completing his will, which, without his signature,
was only so much waste paper.
Ralph did not at first realize his position.
"Shall you stay at the Hall, mother?" he asked. "It will seem large
and lonely for you, and, from what Mr. Matheson says, the income will
be too small to keep the same establishment. Still, it has always been
your home."
"You forget, Ralph dear. It is not mine now, it is yours. The property
was not settled on me. It became your father's absolutely, by my deed
of conveyance, and you, his elder son, are his heir."
"You cannot be in earnest, mother. It would be horribly wicked in me
to allow it. I shall give it straight back to you, and after you it
ought to go to Kenneth, that is, if you wished him to have it, for the
property is yours, first of all, to keep or to give. I am sorry, so
sorry, mother dear, that it is sadly lessened, and you can only live
very plainly here."
"I should not wish to live here in any case, Ralph. I could not if I
would. And you, dear boy, have no power, however much you may wish it,
to give my old home back to me. You are barely eighteen, and until you
are of age you can do nothing. Three years hence—"
"I shall be of age, and I will do what is right by you and my brother,"
interposed Ralph, quickly.
He kissed her tenderly, and Kathleen smiled through glad tears, and
returned the caress. She would not say anything to cast a doubt on his
sincerity. Indeed, she fully believed in it; but who could tell whether
he would feel the same when the power to make restitution was really in
his hands?
"If I were to die in the meanwhile," said Ralph, after a pause, "I
suppose the property would come to Kenneth, as my heir?"
"I have never thought of such a possibility, and with all my heart I
pray that God will spare both my dear sons to be my comfort. I shall
hope for more than one staff for my old age. In the meanwhile, I am
thankful that matters have been so arranged that Mr. Matheson and I
will be joint guardians of you two infants. Your father had appointed
us in that unsigned will, and his wish has been carried out in this
respect by consent of the court."
When Kathleen used the word "infants" she stretched herself on tiptoe,
and smiled up in Ralph's face, for, though she was considerably above
middle height, she was much below that of her tall stepson.
"One of your infants looks down on you in stature, mother," said Ralph;
"but in all else he looks up to his guardian. How glad I am that you
and Mr. Matheson should be joined in this trust! With neither mother
nor father of my very own, I yet have both in you and him."
After Ralph's departure, Kathleen left the Hall with her little son. It
cost her something to turn her back on the home of a lifetime, but so
many sorrowful memories were now associated with it, that even had she
been able to remain, she would not have done so. She had arranged to
make her home with her aunt and Geraldine at Monk's How. Mrs. Ellicott
was in failing health, the house was large enough, little Kenneth would
help to brighten the place, and the elders would be mutually sources of
comfort to each other.
Kathleen's income would suffice for the modest wants of herself and her
boy. A tenant had offered to take the Hall furnished, on a three years'
lease, and was willing to engage such of the servants as chose to stay,
except the coachman.
"He needn't say, 'except the coachman,'" remarked Mountain. "I am too
old to begin under another master. I serve Miss Kathleen as was, or I
retire into private life, with a cottage and a cow or two. But, seeing
that Mrs. Ellicott's man is leaving to go to a livelier place, she has
offered me his, and I mean to take it. It's likely enough I shall drive
my own young lady as long as I can hold the reins, for, though I shall
be coachman to the old one, it's all in the family."
By some mysterious arrangement, the particulars of which no one seemed
to know, Polly was transferred to Monk's How along with Mountain.
Kathleen asked no curious questions, but as she patted the glossy
coat of her old favourite, she was contented to owe this pleasure to
the kind thought of a friend. She was not likely to mount the pretty
creature, but, as every one said, "Polly was equally good to ride or
drive, and looked just perfect always."
Kathleen was only twenty-nine when she took up her abode with the
Ellicotts, but a silver thread might be seen here and there, amidst the
soft masses of her abundant hair. She smiled as she called attention to
them.
"I have been growing old fast of late, aunty," she said to Mrs.
Ellicott. "Ger does not change a bit, unless it is to look younger and
fairer. I feel so staid and middle-aged beside her."
The trembling lip and a suspicious moisture in her eyes told that
Kathleen was looking back on the saddest period of her life.
"You will grow younger again here, Kitty," replied Ger. "In this quiet
home you will begin a new life, and in time it will be a bright and
happy one."
But the cloud did not soon pass away from Kathleen's spirit. She seldom
spoke of her husband, and her friends felt it to be the truest kindness
to allude to the past as little as possible. They knew that, far and
beyond all other causes of sorrow, the thought of Mr. Torrance's
condition when the last dread summons came was the most terrible of all.
In time, however, the widowed Mrs. Torrance became more like the
Kathleen Mountford of old, but there was no trace of the girlish
self-will that had led her astray. The lessons she had learned through
suffering had produced blessed and enduring results, which each day
made more manifest. Mrs. Ellicott only lived a year after Mr. Torrance,
and her gentle presence was greatly missed by all who knew her,
especially by her daughter and niece.
During the three years of Ralph's minority, the Hollingsby Hall estates
were well managed, and though not free from encumbrance when he came of
age, all debts and a portion of the mortgage had been paid off. There
were no special festivities on Ralph's twenty-first birthday, as every
one—none more than himself—felt that such would have been out of place.
Kathleen, however, laid aside her widow's dress, and wore a rich black
silk with soft white lace at the wrists and throat, in honour of the
occasion.
"Mother, how beautiful you look!" said Ralph, as he held her at arm's
length, and surveyed her from head to foot. "You have really grown
young again. I am so glad you have changed your style of dress."
"I did so in compliment to the heir's birthday," she replied. Then
clasping her arms round him she kissed him tenderly and said, "I pray
that God may abundantly bless you, my dear boy, and make you a useful,
happy man. A true soldier and follower of Christ."
"That is just what I want to be, mother dear," said Ralph, after
returning the embrace, and whilst still holding her in his strong arms.
"You know that I promised to tell you to-day what profession I meant
to follow, for I should dread the thought of an idle life. I used to
talk of being a soldier, and then I gave up the idea. I still wish to
be one, but to fight under the greatest of all Captains, and not with
weapons forged by the hands of men. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think I do, dear. You wish to be a true soldier of Christ, and you
think you can best serve Him by dedicating your life to the ministry."
"Yes. I have talked everything over with Mr. Matheson, and he approves,
and says he believes I have made a right choice. You, too, will ask
God's blessing upon it, I know."
Kathleen was delighted. She knew that Aylmer would not approve unless
fully convinced of Ralph's sincerity and fitness for such a vocation.
The two were interrupted at the moment by the entrance of little
Kenneth, who rushed to his brother, exclaiming, "See, Ralph. This is my
birthday present, and I wish you many happy returns."
It was a simple little gift, but it had cost the child some
self-denial, and Ralph praised and valued it accordingly, to the great
satisfaction of the donor.
"Now, Kenneth," he said, "you shall take a present that I have got here
and give it to mother."
"It's not mother's birthday," said the boy, taking the offered packet.
"It is tied up, so p'r'aps you want her to keep it till her birthday
comes."
"No, my boy. Mother must have it just now, and from your small hands.
After all, it is not a gift. It is something of mother's very own which
some one has taken care of, ready to be given back to her."
Kathleen guessed what the packet contained. It was a deed by which she
would be restored to full possession of the Hall and the estates that
had been her own before her marriage.
"I will not refuse your gift, Ralph," she said, "for a gift it is,
inasmuch as the law gave it absolutely to you. But I know your nature
too well to think that you could ever be happy if you kept it. You know
also that I can experience no greater pleasure than in using all I have
for the benefit of both my boys."
There was a little dinner-party at Mr. Matheson's that evening, that
the day might not pass quite unmarked by any social gathering, but the
guests were few. Amongst them, however, were two who were specially
welcome, namely, the new Dean of Woldcaster and his bride, formerly
Hetty Stapleton.
Hetty, staunch, generous and helpful always, and particularly where the
welfare of her own sex was involved, had spoken with equal plainness
and good sense at the meeting of a society formed to improve the
condition of working girls. The Very Rev. the Dean of Woldcaster had
been present on that occasion. He was a bachelor of forty-five, and
a friend of Aylmer Matheson. He had just decided that his handsome
residence, in the Close at Woldcaster, needed a fitting mistress, and
before long he came to the further conclusion that Miss Stapleton would
be the very person to fill that position, if she would accept it.
There was another good reason for the proposal, which followed after a
short interval. The dean was thoroughly in love, for the first time in
his life. He confessed to Hetty that such was the case with a sort of
apology, as if it were a thing to be ashamed of.
"The fact is," he exclaimed, "I have always lived such a busy life, and
I have had younger brothers and sisters to look after and help on in
the world, so that I have never had time until now."
Whereupon Hetty, with a laugh and a blush which became her exceedingly
well, owned that she was very glad to hear it.
After this all was smooth sailing, and as the dean's bride Hetty was an
important guest at Ralph's birthday dinner.
They made, all together, a very happy party, and every one rejoiced to
see the joyous light in Kathleen's eyes, and to hear something of the
old ring in her voice, which had been long missing.
The dean took a friend's privilege, and rallied his host on his
bachelor establishment, vaunted his own happily changed condition, and
advised Aylmer to follow his example. He was thinking how well that
nice Miss Ellicott would suit Matheson in every way.
His wife was a little uneasy, for she knew of the old wound, and could
gauge the faithfulness of the true heart that would never find room for
a second love. Only Kathleen could fill the void.
The party broke up fairly early, for the dean and his wife had a long
drive before them.
Aylmer walked back to Monk's How with Kathleen, for the night was
lovely, and the distance not great. Ralph was in advance of them with
Ger. Kathleen's hand rested on Aylmer's arm, and they walked some
little way without speaking. Then she broke the silence by saying, "How
well Ralph is turning out, and it is all through you. No words can tell
what a blessed influence you have exerted over his life, and mine too.
To think of the dear boy's choice, and his making over everything to me
again as soon as possible."
"That was only just and honest. As a true man, Ralph could have done
nothing else, and we can rejoice in the knowledge that he has a horror
of everything that is not true and upright."
"I seem to be always accepting benefits. Every one has been so good to
me, since—"
Kathleen paused. She could not bear to say what was in her mind, but
Aylmer knew that she would be thinking of Mr. Torrance's death.
"Better not to look back, dear Kathleen," he said. "The prospect ahead
is bright now, for you and yours, at any rate."
Kathleen noticed the sigh which followed.
"I must look back a long way, Aylmer, even to my childish days, and to
the time when you took such a thankless office as that of guardian to
so self-willed a girl as I was. On your part, I can see nothing but
patience, kindness, unselfishness, generosity and affection, to which
I was never worthy. You have always been giving, and I receiving, and
I suppose it will be the same to the end. Even now, I am a petitioner,
and must ask yet more at your hands. With the restoration of the
property, new responsibilities rest upon me. I long to do right, but I
mistrust my own judgment. I want my old guardian's help more than ever,
for my boys as well as myself. I cannot stand alone."
"You know, dear Kathleen, there is nothing you can ask that I shall be
unwilling to give or to do," replied Aylmer.
"I knew you would say so. You are always the same. How I wish I could
do something for you, or give you, in ever so little a way, a proof
that I am grateful for your goodness and—sorry for the past!"
"You can, dearest Kathleen, if you will. There is only one gift that
would make me rich indeed, and you know what it is. I asked for it once
before, but then—"
"I was blind and could not discern the difference. But I will not talk
of the past, Aylmer. If you can really care for such a gift, it is
yours, my good, faithful love. I only wish I were more worthy of you."
There was no mistaking Kathleen's sincerity, and as Aylmer drew her
towards him, he knew that he at last possessed the whole heart of the
only woman he had ever loved. She did not withdraw from his encircling
arm, but lifted her face to his, that he might seal the compact with
his lips.
It would be easy to draw a fair picture of after years, for these
events happened long ago. The child Kenneth is growing up to stalwart
manhood, and Ralph's name is known and honoured as that of a true
servant of Christ.
Kathleen's hair has more than mere silver threads in it now, though
many—her husband included—think her handsomer than ever. But the story
shall end here, for it only professed to be that of A Wilful Ward, and
the title no longer applies to Mrs. Matheson, wife of the senior Member
for Woldshire.
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.