Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Janet Blenkinship
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
A CROOKED PATH
_A NOVEL_
BY MRS. ALEXANDER,
_Author of "The Wooing O't," "A Life Interest," Etc._
NEW YORK THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY,
NOS. 72-76 WALKER STREET.
A CROOKED PATH.
CHAPTER I.
"GATHERING CLOUDS."
The London season had not yet reached its height, some years ago, before
the arch admitting to Constitution Hill had been swept back to make room
for the huge, ever-increasing stream of traffic, or the plebeian 'bus
had been permitted to penetrate the precincts of Hamilton Place. It was
the forenoon of a splendid day, one of the earliest of June, and at that
hour the roadway between the entrance to Hyde Park and the gate then
surmounted by the statue of the Duke of Wellington on his drooping steed
was comparatively free, when two gentlemen coming from opposite
directions recognized each other, and paused at the gate of Apsley
House--the elder, a stout, florid man of military aspect, middle age,
and average height, with large gray mustache and small, slightly
bloodshot eyes; the younger, who was tall and bony, might have been
thirty, or even forty, so grave and sedate was his bearing, although his
erect carriage, elastic step, and clear keen dark eyes suggested earlier
manhood.
Both had the indescribable well-groomed, freshly bathed look peculiar to
Englishmen of the "upper ten."
"Ha! Errington! I didn't know you were in town. I thought you were
cruising somewhere with Melford, or rusticating at Garston Hall. I think
your father expected you about this time."
"I don't think so. I was summoned by telegraph from Paris. My father was
seized with a paralysis last week. He had just come up to town, and for
a few days was dangerously ill, but is now slowly recovering."
"Very sorry to hear of it. A man of his stamp would have been of immense
value to the country. He had begun to take a very leading part in local
matters. I trust he will come round."
"I fear he will never be the same again. I doubt if he will be able to
direct his own affairs as he used."
"That's bad! You are not in the business, I believe?"
"No; I never took any part in it. I almost regret I did not. It would, I
imagine, be a relief to my father, now that his mind is less clear, to
know that I was at the helm. But we have a capital man as manager, quite
devoted to the house. I shall get my father down to the country as soon
as I can, and I trust he'll come round."
"No doubt he will. He was wonderfully hale and strong for his years."
"Ay! how d'ye do, Bertie?" interrupted the first speaker, holding out
his hand to a young man who came up from Hyde Park and seemed about to
pass with a smile and a nod. "Who would have thought of meeting you in
these godless regions? I hear you are busy 'slumming' from morning till
night."
"Well, Colonel," returned Bertie--a slight, fair, boyish-looking man--"I
am so far false to my new vocation as to have lost some irrevocable
moments looking at the horses and horsewomen in the Row."
"Aha! the old leaven, my dear boy! You are on the brink of
perdition.--Don't you know Bertie Payne?" he continued, to his newly met
friend. "He was one of my subs before he renounced the devil and all his
works. He was with us at Barrackbore when you were in India."
"I do not think we have met," the other was beginning, when a young
lady--toward whom the Colonel had already cast some sharp, admiring
glances as she stood on the curbstone holding a hand of the smaller of
two little boys in smart sailor suits--uttered a cry of dismay. The
elder child had rushed into the road, as if to stop a passing omnibus,
not seeing that a hansom was coming up at speed.
The young man called Bertie dashed forward, and barely succeeded in
snatching the child from under the wheel. A scramble of horses' feet, an
imprecation or two shouted by the irritated driver, a noisy declaration
from the "fare" that he should lose his train, and the scuffle was over.
The little man, held firmly by the shoulder, was marched back to his
young guardian.
"Thank you!--oh, thank you a thousand times! You have saved his life!"
she exclaimed, fervently, in unsteady tones. Then to the child: "How
could you break your promise to stay by me, Cecil? You would have been
killed but for this gentleman!"
"I wanted to catch the 'omlibus' for you, auntie!" he cried, with an
irrepressible sob, though he gallantly tried to hold back his tears.
"Hope the little fellow is none the worse of his fright," said the
Colonel, advancing and raising his hat. "Can I be of any use?--can I
call a cab?"
"No, thank you; I will take an omnibus and get home as soon as I can.
Cecil will soon forget his fright, I fear--"
"Sooner than you will," remarked Bertie. "There is a Royal Oak omnibus.
Will that do?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Come along, then, my young man; I will not let you go."
Bertie put the trio into the vehicle, and the lookers-on saw that he
shook hands with "auntie" as the conductor jumped on his perch and they
rolled on.
"Gad! there's a chance for you!" cried the Colonel as Bertie joined him.
"An uncommon fine girl, by George! What a coloring! and a splendid pair
of black eyes!"
"I suspect extreme fright did a good deal for both, poor girl. Her eyes
are brown, not black."
"Brown! Nonsense! Didn't _you_ think they were black?"
"I did not observe them," returned the grave personage he addressed,
indifferently. "The boy had a narrow escape. I must say good morning,"
he added.
"Stop a bit," cried the Colonel. "I must see you again before you leave
town. Dine with me to-morrow at the Junior. And, Bertie--"
"Thanks, no, I am engaged." He said good-by and walked on.
"Queer fellow that," said the Colonel, looking after him. "He got into
some money troubles in India, left the army, and got converted. Now he
is not exactly a Salvation soldier, but something of the kind. He'll be
at you one of the days for a subscription to convert the crossing
sweepers or some such undertaking. But you'll dine with me to-morrow.
I'll tell you all the Clayshire gossip."
"Thank you, I shall be very happy."
"Then good-by for the present, I am engaged to lunch to meet one of the
prettiest little widows you ever saw in your life, but she has no cash.
Here, hansom," calling to the driver of a cab which was passing slowly.
"I am a little late." He jumped in and drove off.
His friend, with a slight grave smile, continued his walk to the
Alexandria Hotel, the portals of which received him.
Meantime the hero of the cab incident sat very demurely by his young
aunt, as the omnibus rolled slowly up Park Lane, occasionally stealing
inquisitive glances at her face.
"You have been a _very_ naughty boy, Cecil!" she exclaimed as her eyes
met his. "How could I have gone home to mamma if I had been obliged to
leave you behind?"
"But you needn't, you know; you could have tied me up in a bundle and
taken me back. Mamma would have known it wasn't your fault."
"I am not so sure of that, and you have made poor Charlie cry,"--drawing
the younger boy to her side.
"Charlie is just a baby," contemptuously.
"He is a better boy than you are." Silence.
"Auntie, do you think the gentleman who pulled me back was the old
gentleman's son?"
"No, I do not think he was."
"Why don't you, auntie?"
"I can hardly say why."
"I have seen that gentleman--the old gentleman--in Kensington Gardens,"
said little Charlie, nestling up to his aunt. "He spoke to mammy the day
she took me to feed the ducks."
"I think that is only a fancy, dear."
"No; I am quite sure."
"Oh, you are always fancying things; you are a silly," cried Cecil, now
quite recovered, and turning to kneel upon the seat that he might look
out, thereby rubbing his feet on the very best "afternoon" dress of a
severely respectable female, whose rubicund face expressed "drat the
boy!" as strongly as a face could.
The rest of the journey was accomplished after the usual style of such
travels when the aunt and nephews went out together. Cecil was
constantly rebuked and made to sit down, and as constantly resumed his
favorite position; so that he ultimately reached home with beautifully
clean shoes, having wiped "the dust off his feet" effectually on the
garments of his fellow-passengers, while his little brother nestled to
his auntie's side and gazed observantly on his fellow-travellers,
arriving at curious conclusions respecting them, to be afterward set
forth to the amusement of his hearers.
Leaving the omnibus at the Royal Oak, the trio diverged to one of the
streets between that well-known establishment and the Bayswater Road--a
street which had still a few trees and small semi-detached villas, with
front gardens left at one end, the relics of a past when Penrhyn Place
was "quite the country"; while at the other, bricks, mortar,
scaffolding, and a deeply rutted roadway indicated the commencement of
mansions which would soon swallow up their humbler predecessors.
At one of these villas, the garden of which was tolerably neat, the
little boys and their aunt stopped, and were admitted by a smart but not
over-clean girl, who welcomed the children with a cheerful, "Well,
Master Cecil, you are just in nice time for dinner! Come, get your
things off; your gran'ma has a treat for you."
"Has she? Oh, what is it? Do tell, Lottie!"
"Don't mind, dear, if you are tired; your morning-gown will do very
well, as we are alone."
"No, no; I must honor Cecil's birthday with my best dress. These trifles
are important."
"I suppose so," returned her daughter, looking after her gravely, as she
left the room.
Mrs. Liddell was tall, and the lines of her figure considerably
enlarged. Yet she had not quite lost the grace for which she was once
remarkable. Her light brown hair had a pale look from the increasing
admixture of gray, and her blue eyes seemed faded by much use. It was a
kind, thoughtful, worn face from which they looked, yet it could still
smile brightly.
"She looks very, very tired," thought her daughter. "I must make her lie
down if I can; it is so hard to make her rest!" She too looked uneasily
at the mass of writing on the table, and then went away to remove her
out-door attire.
The birthday dinner gave great satisfaction. It was crowned by a
plum-pudding, terrible as such a compound must always be in June; but it
was a favorite "goody" with the young hero of the day. Grandmamma made
herself as agreeable as though she was one of a party of wits, and drank
her grandson's health in a bottle of choice gooseberry, proposing it in
a "neat and appropriate" speech, which gave rise to much uproarious
mirth and delight. At last the feast was over; the children retired to
amuse themselves with a horse and a wheelbarrow--some of the birthday
gifts--in the back garden (a wilderness resigned to their ravages), and
Mrs. Liddell and her daughter were left alone.
"Now, mother, _do_ come and lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room. I
see you are out of sorts. You hardly tasted food, and you are dreadfully
tired; come and rest. I will read you to sleep."
"No, Kate; there can be no rest for me, my darling," returned her
mother, rising, and beginning to put the plates and glasses together
with a nervous movement. "I _am_ out of sorts, for I have had a great
disappointment. _The Family Friend_ has refused my three-volume novel,
and I really have not the heart to try it anywhere else after such
repeated rejections. At the same time Skinner & Palm write to say they
cannot use my short story, 'On the Rack,' for five or six months, as
they have such a quantity of already accepted manuscripts."
"How provoking!" cried Katherine. "But come away; the drawing-room is
cooler; let us go there and talk things over."
Mrs. Liddell accepted the suggestion, and sank into an arm-chair, while
her daughter let down the blinds, and then placed herself on a low
ottoman opposite her.
There was a short silence; then Mrs. Liddell sighed and began: "I
counted so much on that short story for ready money! Skinner always pays
directly he has published. Now I do not know what to do. If I take it
back I may fail to dispose of it, yet I cannot wait. But the novel--that
is the worst disappointment of all. I suppose it was foolish, but I felt
_sure_ about that."
"Of course you did," cried Katherine, eagerly. "It is an excellent
story."
"It is not worse than many Santley brings out," resumed Mrs. Liddell;
"but one is no judge of one's own work. It was with reluctance I offered
it to _The Family Friend_, and you see--" her voice faltered, and she
stopped abruptly.
Katherine knew the tears were in her eyes and swelling her heart. She
restrained the impulse to throw her arms round her; she feared to
agitate her mother; rather she would help her self-control.
"Well, dear, I am no great judge, but I am quite sure that such a story
as yours must succeed sooner or later. So we will be patient."
"Ah! but, Katie, the landlord and the butcher will not wait, and, my
child, I have only about five pounds. I made too sure of success for I
did so well last year. Then Madame de Corset will soon be sending in her
bill for that famous dress of Ada's, and she will want the money she
lent me."
"Then Madame de Corset must wait," said Katherine, firmly. "Ada is
really your debtor. Where could she live at so small a cost as with you?
Where could she be so free to run about without a thought for the
children? What has become of her? Couldn't she stay with Cecil on his
birthday?"
"She is gone to luncheon with the Burnetts. It is as well to keep up
with them; their influence might be useful to the boys hereafter; but I
do wish I could pay her."
"I wish you could, for it would make you happier; but she really owes
you ten pounds and more."
"What shall I do about that novel? If I could get two hundred--even one
hundred--pounds for it, I should do well. I began to hope I might make
both ends meet with my pen. Oh, Katie dear, I am ashamed of myself, but
for the first time in my life I feel beaten. I feel as if I could not
come up to time again. It has been such a long, weary battle!" She
pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"I wish _I_ could give you rest, darling mother!" said Katherine, taking
her hand and fondling it. "I fear I have been too useless--too
thoughtless."
"You have done all you could, my child; one cannot expect much from
nineteen. But I wish--I wish I could think of any means of deliverance
from my present difficulty. A small sum would suffice. Where to find it
is the question. I counted too much on those unlucky manuscripts, and
now I do not know where to turn; I see a vista of debt." A sudden fit of
coughing interrupted her.
"You have taken cold, mother," cried Katherine. "I heard you coughing
this morning. I was sure you would suffer for sitting near the open
window in the study last night."
"It was so hot!" murmured Mrs. Liddell, lying back exhausted.
"Yes, but it was also frightfully damp. Tell me, mother, is there
anything we can sell?--anything--"
Mrs. Liddell interrupted her. "Nothing, dear. The few jewels I had
preserved went when I was trying to furnish this house. I fancied we
should do well in a house of our own, and I was so anxious to make a
home for my poor boy's widow!"
"When do you expect any more money?"
"Not for nearly two months, and then another quarter's rent will be
due."
"Mother," said Katherine, after a moment's silence, "would not my
father's brother, of whom I heard you speak, help you? It is dreadful to
ask, but he is so near a kinsman, and childless."
"It is useless to think of it. He and your father quarrelled about
money, and he is implacable. His only child, a son, opposed him, and he
drove him away. Poor fellow! he was killed in Australia."
"Why have hard-hearted wretches heaps of money, while kind, generous
souls like you never have a farthing?"
"That is a mystery of long standing," said Mrs. Liddell, with a faint
smile. "Katie, I cannot think or talk any more. I will go and lie down
in my own room. There neither Ada nor the children can disturb me. Oh,
my darling, how can I ever die in peace if I leave _you_ to do battle
with the bitter, bitter world unprovided for?" Her voice quivered, and
the hand she laid on her daughter's trembled.
"Do not fear for me, mother. I am tougher and more selfish than you are.
It is time I worked for you. How feverish you are! Come up to your own
room. You will see things differently when you have had a little sleep.
If the worst comes, _I_ will tell Ada that we must give up the house and
go back to lodgings. We never had difficulties before we came here."
"No, for we never had debts. Now I have, and I have this house for
nearly three years longer. It is not so easy to shake off engagements as
you would a cloak that had grown too heavy."
So saying, Mrs. Liddell rose and ascended to the room she shared with
her daughter, whom she allowed to take off her dress and put on her
wrapper, to arrange her pillows, to bathe her brow in eau-de-cologne and
water, and soothe her with those loving touches, those tender cares,
that the heart alone can prompt, till in spite of the cloud and thick
darkness that hid her future, Mrs. Liddell was calmed by the delicious
sense of her daughter's love and sympathy.
"I will make a list of editors," said Katherine--"I mean those whom you
have not tried--and go round to them myself. Perhaps I may bring you
luck."
"Yes; your young life is more likely to have fortune on its side: the
fickle jade has forsaken me."
Katherine made no reply beyond a gentle kiss. She sat silently by her
mother's side, till feeling the hand that held hers relax its hold, she
slowly and softly withdrew her own, comforted to perceive that balmy
sleep had stolen upon the weary woman.
Still she sat there thinking with all the force of her young brain,
partly remembering, partly anticipating.
Of her father she had scarce any knowledge. She was but four years old
when he died, and her only brother was nearly fourteen. The eldest and
youngest of Mrs. Liddell's children were the survivors of several.
Katherine's memory of her childish days presented the dim picture of a
quaint foreign town; of blue skies, bright sunshine, and abundant
vegetation; of large rooms and a smiling black-eyed attendant in a
peculiar head-dress; of some one lying back in a large chair, near whom
she must never make a noise. Then came a change; mother always in black,
with a white cap, and often weeping, and of colder winters, snow and
skating--a happy time, for she was always with mother both in lesson and
play time, whilst Fred used to go away early to school. Next, clear and
distinct, was the recollection of her first visit to London, and from
this time she was the companion and confidante of her mother. They were
poor--at least every outlay had to be carefully considered--but Katie
never knew the want of money. Then came the excitement and preparation
attending Fred's departure for India, the mixture of sorrow and
satisfaction with which her mother parted from him, of how bitterly she
had cried herself; for though somewhat tyrannical, Fred had been always
kind and generous.
How well she remembered the day he had left them never to return--how
her mother had clasped her to her heart and exclaimed: "You must be all
in all to me now, Katie. I have done but little for you yet, dear, Fred
needed so much."
A spell of happy, busy life in Germany followed, enlivened by long
letters from the young Indian officer, whose career seemed full of
promise. But when Katherine was a little more than thirteen sorrow fell
upon them. Fred's letters had become irregular; then came a confession
of weakness and debt, crowned by the supreme folly of marriage,
concluding with a prayer for help.
Mrs. Liddell was cruelly disappointed. She had hoped and expected much
from her boy. She believed he was doing so well! She told all to Katie,
who heartily agreed with her that Fred must be helped. Some of their
slender capital was sold out and sent to him, while mother and daughter
cheerfully accepted the loss of many trifling indulgences, drawing the
narrow limits of their expenditure closer still, content and free from
debt, though as time went on Katherine cast many a longing glance at the
world of social enjoyment in which their poverty forbade her to triumph.
Mrs. Liddell had always loved literature, and her husband had been an
accomplished though a reckless and self-indulgent man. She had wandered
a good deal with him, and had seen a great variety of people and places.
It occurred to her to try her pen as a means of adding to her income,
and after some failures she succeeded with one or two of the smaller
weekly periodicals. This induced her to return to London, hoping to do
better in that great centre of work. Here the tidings of her son's death
overwhelmed her. Next came an imploring letter from the young widow, who
had no near relatives, praying to be allowed to live with her and
Katherine--sharing expenses--as the pension to which an officer's widow
and orphans were entitled insured her a small provision.
So Mrs. Liddell again roused herself, and managed to furnish very
scantily the little home where Katherine sat thinking. But the addition
to their income was but meagre compared to the expenses which followed
in the train of Mrs Frederic Liddell and her two "little Indian boys."
All the efforts of the practical mother and daughter did not suffice to
keep within the limits they dreaded to overpass. Mrs. Liddell's pen
became more than ever essential to the maintenance of the household,
while the younger widow considered herself a martyr to the most sordid,
the most unnecessary stinginess.
A tapping at the door and suppressed childish laughter called Katherine
from her thoughts. She rose and opened the door quickly and softly.
"Hush, Cecil! be quiet, Charlie! poor grannie is asleep. Come with me
downstairs; I will read to you if you like."
"Oh yes, do," said Charlie.
"I don't care for reading," cried Cecil. "Can't you play bears?"
"It makes too much noise. I will play it to-morrow if grandmamma is
better. Shall I tell you a story?"
"No," said Cecil; "_I_ will tell _you_ one."
"Very well. I shall be delighted to hear it."
"I would rather have you read, auntie," said the little one.
"Never mind, Charlie; I will read to you after."
"Shall we sit in the garden? We have made it quite clean and tidy."
"No, dear; grannie would hear us there. Come into the dining-room."
Established there, the boys one on each side of her, Katherine listened
to the young story-teller, who began fluently: "There was once two
little boys called Jimmie and Frank. Frank was the biggest; he was very
strong and very courageous; and he learned his lessons very well when he
liked, but he did not always like. The two little boys had an aunt; she
was nice and pleasant sometimes, but more times she was cross and
disagreeable, and she spoiled Jimmie a great deal. One day they went out
to walk a long way, and saw lots of people riding, and Jimmmie grew
tired, and so did Frank, but Frank would not complain, and their aunt
was so unkind that she would not call a hansom; so when they came to a
great street Frank thought he would catch an omnibus, and he ran out
quick--quick. He would have caught it, but his aunt was so silly and
such a coward that she sent a man after him, who nearly dragged him
under the feet of a horse that was coming up, and they would both have
been killed if Frank had not called out to the cabman to stop."
"Oh, Cecil, that is you and I. _What_ a story! Auntie is not unkind, and
you did not call out," cried Charlie.
Katherine could not help laughing at the little monkey's version of the
incident.
"Cecil, Cecil, you must learn to tell the truth--" she was beginning,
when the door was opened, and a small, slight lady in black silk, with a
profusion of delicate gray ribbons, jet trimming, and foamy white tulle
ruching, stood in the doorway. She was very fair, with light eyes, a
soft pink color, and pale golden brown hair--altogether daintily pretty.
"Oh, mammy! mammy! where have you been all my birthday?" cried the elder
boy, rushing to her.
"My own precious darling, do not put your dear dirty little paws on my
dress!" she exclaimed, in alarm. "I was _obliged_ to go, my boy; but I
have brought you a bag of sweets; it is in the hall. Dear me! how stuffy
this room is! Mrs. Burnett's house is _so_ cool and fresh! It looks into
a charming garden at the back; and oh, how delightful it must be to be
rich!" She had advanced into the room as she spoke, and began to untie
and smooth out her bonnet strings.
"It must indeed," returned Katherine, with a deep sigh.
"I will go and put on an old dress; this one is too pretty to spoil, and
the house is _so_ dusty. Do you think it becoming, Katherine?"
"Yes, very"--with an indulgent smile. "You ought always to wear
half-mourning; it suits you admirably."
"I think it does; but I must put it off some day, you know. Cecil dear,
go and ask cook to make me a cup of tea. I will have it up in my room.
Charlie, don't cuddle up against your aunt in that way; it makes her too
hot, and you will grow crooked." Charlie jumped down from his chair and
held up his face.
"There, dear," giving a hasty kiss. "Don't worry."
"Mammy," said Cecil, with much solemnity, "I was nearly killed to-day."
"Nonsense, dear! This is one of your wonderful inventions. What does he
mean, Katherine?"
"He might have been. He darted from me at Hyde Park Corner, intending to
catch an omnibus, and would have been run over if a gentleman had not
snatched him from under the horses' feet."
"My precious boy!" laying her hand on his head, but keeping him at a
distance. "How wrong of you, Katherine, to let his hand go!"
"I did not let it go; I was not holding it," returned Katherine, dryly.
"At Hyde Park Corner?" pursued Mrs. Frederic Liddell, eagerly. "Was the
gentleman soldierly and stout, with gray mustaches?"
"No. He was young and slight and clean-shaved."
"That is curious; for Colonel Ormonde was saying at luncheon to-day that
he had saved, or helped to save, such a pretty little boy from being run
over. I don't exactly remember what he said. I was listening to Mrs. De
Vere Hopkins, and Mrs. Burnett's boy was making a noise. Colonel Ormonde
said he was just like a little fellow he had seen nearly run over that
morning. I am sure Tom Burnett is not half as handsome as my Cecil."
"I should not have been run over if auntie had left me alone."
"Go and get mother's tea, and you, Charlie, fetch her some nice bread
and butter," said Katherine, who, though six or seven years her
sister-in-law's junior, looked at first sight older. "There _was_ an
elderly gentleman such as you describe, talking with the young man who
rescued Cecil, and he was very polite and interested in Cecil, who broke
away from me, though he had promised to stay by my side."
"Promised," repeated Mrs. Frederic, lightly, and carefully dusting her
bonnet with her handkerchief. "What can you expect from a child's
promise? But poor Cecil rarely does right in your eyes."
"Nonsense, Ada!"
"Not at all. I am very observant. But tell me, did Colonel Ormonde take
much notice of Cecil?"
"I do not know. I was too much frightened to see anything but the dear
child himself."
Mrs. Frederic did not reply for a moment; she seemed to be thinking
deeply. "Where did you get those flowers--those you bought on Saturday
for sixpence?"
"Oh! at the little florist's on Queen's Road. It was late in the
evening, you know, or they would not have been so cheap."
"I should like some to-morrow to make the drawing-room look pretty, if
possible, for Colonel Ormonde said he would call. He wishes to see some
of my Otocammed photographs. Heigho! it is a miserable place to receive
any one in."
"Well, you see, it must do."
"Really, Katherine, you are very unsympathetic. If you have a fault,
dear, it is selfishness. You don't mind my saying so?"
"Oh, not at all. I am thankful for the 'if.'"
"Where is your mother?"
"Lying down. She is tired, and has a horrid headache."
"I'm sure I don't wonder at it, toiling from morning till night for
those wretched papers. I was telling Mrs. Burnett to-day that my
mother-in-law was an authoress, but when I mentioned that she wrote for
_The Family Friend_ and _The Cheerful Visitor_, Lady Everton, who writes
in _The Court Journal_ and various grand things of that kind, said they
were quite low publications, and never got higher than the servants'
hall."
"You need not have gone into particulars, Ada. Whether my mother writes
well or ill, the pressure on her is too great to allow of her picking or
choosing; she must catch at the quickest market."
"I'm sure it is a great pity. That is the reason I stay on here, and let
you teach Cis and Charlie, though Colonel Ormonde says the sooner boys
are out of a woman's hands the better."
"If Colonel Ormonde is the old man I saw this morning, he looks more
capable of judging a dinner than what is the best training for youth."
"Old!" screamed the pretty widow. "He is not old; he is only mature. He
is very well off, too. He has a place in the country. And as to
mentioning those papers, I know nothing of such things. _The Nineteenth
Century_, or _Bow Bells_, or _The Family Friend_, they are all the same
to me. Only I am sure such a nice lady-like woman as Mrs. Liddell should
not write for the servants' hall. She must have been so handsome, too!
Fred, poor fellow, was her image. You will never be so good-looking,
Kate."
"No, I don't suppose I shall," returned Katherine, with much equanimity.
"Are there any letters for me?" asked Mrs. Frederic, looking round as
she lifted her bonnet from the table.
"Here are two."
"Ah! this is from Harry Vigors. I suppose he is coming home. And oh!
this is Madame de Corset's bill"--putting down her bonnet and opening
it. "Eleven pounds seventeen and ninepence-half-penny. Why, this is
abominable! She promised it should not be much more than ten pounds.
There is five per cent off for ready money. Oh, I'll pay it immediately.
How much will that be altogether, Kate? Eleven shillings? Well, that is
worth saving. It will buy me two pairs of gloves. Now I'll go and rest.
Tell me when Mrs. Liddell is awake."