"A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS."
"Where in the world is Katherine going, and who is that man?" exclaimed
the younger widow, her light blue eyes wide open in amazement, when
Katherine had passed her with a smiling "Good-by for the present," and
walked down the road beside the precise lawyer.
"She is going-to her uncle, Mr. John Liddell, who expressed a wish to
see her to-day, and that gentleman is Mr. Liddell's solicitor," returned
the elder lady, smiling to think how soon she had been driven in upon
the reserved force of her daughter's suggestion.
"What! that terrible old miser poor Fred used to talk of? Why, he will
take a favorable turn, and leave everything to Katie! Oh, dear Mrs.
Liddell, that will not be fair. _Do_ contrive to let him see Cis and
Charlie. We will declare that Cecil is his very image. Old men like to
be considered like pretty young creatures. I always get on with crabbed
old men. Let _me_ see him too. Katherine must not keep the game all in
her own hands. Let me have a chance."
"I don't fancy Katie has much of a chance herself," returned Mrs.
Liddell, as she followed her daughter-in-law into the dining-room. "It
is an old man's whim, and he will probably never wish to see her again."
"Very likely. You know dear Katherine does not do herself justice; her
manners are so abrupt. You do not mind my saying so?"
"Not in the least." Mrs. Liddell had a fine temper, and also a keen
sense of humor. Though fond of and indulgent to her daughter-in-law, she
saw through her more clearly than Katherine did, as she gave full credit
for the good that was in her, in spite of her little foibles and
greediness. "Katherine is much more abrupt than you are."
"Exactly. She will never be quite up to her dear mother's mark. Few
step-mothers and daughters get on as we do, and I am sure you would look
after poor Fred's boys as if they were your own."
"So would Katherine. Of that you may be sure, my dear."
"Oh yes; she is very fond of them, especially Charlie. I do not think
she is really just to Cecil."
"Real justice is rare," returned Mrs. Liddell, calmly. "There is a note
for you, Ada, on the chimney-piece; it came just after you went out."
"Why, it is from Mrs. Burnett!"--pouncing on it and tearing it open.
"What shall I do?" she almost screamed as she read it. "I am afraid I
shall never get there in time. What o'clock is it?--my watch is never
right. Half-past twelve, and luncheon is at half-past one. Oh, I must
manage it! Read that, dear.--Jane! Jane! bring me some hot water
immediately, and come help me to dress.--What is the cab fare to Park
Terrace? Eighteenpence?--it can't be so much. Just lend me a shilling;
you can take it out of the ten pounds you are to pay me next week." And
she flew out of the room.
"Mrs. Liddell sat down with a sigh, and read the note which caused this
excitement:
"DEAR MRS. LIDDELL,--Do help me in a dilemma! We have a box for
Miss St. Germaine's benefit matinee to-morrow, and Lady Alice Mordaunt
wants to come with Fanny and Bea. You know she is not out yet. Now I am
engaged to go with Florence to Lady McLean's garden party at Twickenham.
So may I _depend_ on you to come and chaperon them? If it were my own
girls only, they could go with Ormonde or any one. But Lady Alice is to
be escorted to our house by that incarnation of propriety, Mr.
Errington; so they must have a chaperon. I therefore depend on you.
Luncheon at 1.30. Do not fail. Ever yours affectionately.
E. BURNETT."
Mrs. Liddell folded up the epistle and placed it in its envelope; then
she sat musing. How cruel it would be to break this butterfly on the
wheel of bitter circumstance! It would be irrational, she thought, "to
expect the strength that could submit to and endure the inevitable from
_her_. She will at once suffer more and less than my Katie. Small
exterior things will sting Ada and make her miserable. As long as
Katherine's heart is satisfied all else can be borne; but _her_
conditions are more difficult. Heigho! for material ills there is
nothing so intolerable as debt." She rose and went to her room with the
vague intention of doing some of the hundred and one things which needed
doing, one more than another, as was usual in her busy life, but somehow
the uncertainty and anxiety oppressing her heart made her incapable of
continued action; she was always breaking off to think--and the more she
thought, the more uneasy she grew. If she had worked out the thin vein
of invention and observation which gained her her humble literary
success, one source of income was gone--a source on which she had
reckoned too surely. Then she had not anticipated that her
daughter-in-law would be so expensive an inmate. Self-denial was a thing
incomprehensible to her. As long as she took care of her clothes, and
refrained from buying the very expensive garments her soul longed for,
she considered herself most exemplary. As for the smaller savings of
omnibus and cabs not absolutely needful, she rarely thought of such
matters, or, if she did, it made her frightfully cross, and urged her to
many spiteful and contemptuous remarks on girls who have the strength of
a horse, and do not care what horrid places they tramp through: so that
she never was able to lighten the household burdens by a farthing beyond
the very small amount she had originally agreed to contribute toward
them.
Her mother-in-law's meditations were interrupted by the young widow
skurrying in in desperate haste. "Jane has gone for a cab," she
exclaimed; "have you that shilling?"
"Here; you had better have eighteenpence, in case--"
"Oh yes, I had better; and do I look nice?"
"Very nice indeed. I think you are looking so much better than you did
last year--"
"That is because I go out a little; I delight in the theatre. Now I must
be off. There is the cab--oh! a horrid four-wheeler. Good-by, dear."
Mrs. Burnett was the wife of a civilian high up in the Indian service,
and was herself a woman of good family. She had come home in the
previous winter in order to introduce her eldest daughter to society,
and accidentally meeting Mrs. Frederic Liddell, whom she had known in
India, was graciously pleased to patronize her. She had taken a handsome
furnished house near Hyde Park, and kept it freely open during the
season. Admission to such an establishment was a sort of "open sesame"
to heaven for the little widow. She loved, she adored Mrs. Burnett and
her dear charming girls, to say nothing of two half-grown sons, "the
most delightful boys!" She was really fond of them for the time, and it
was this touch of temporary sincerity that gave her the unconscious
power to hold the hearts of Mrs. Burnett and her daughters.
She was quite the pet of the family, and always at their beck and call.
To keep this position she strained every means; she even denied herself
an occasional pair of gloves in order to tip the stately man-servant who
opened the door and opened her umbrella occasionally for her.
She found the whole party assembled in the dining-room, and her entrance
was hailed with acclamations.
"I had just begun to tremble lest you should not come," cried Mrs.
Burnett, stretching out her hand, but not rising from her seat at the
head of the table.
"I only had your note half an hour ago," said Mrs. Liddell, with
pardonable inaccuracy, feeling her spirits rise in the delightful
atmosphere, flower-scented, and stirred by the laughter and joyous
chatter of the "goodlie companie."
A long table set forth with all the paraphernalia of an excellent
luncheon was surrounded by a merry party, the girls in charming summer
toilettes, and as many men as women. Men, too, in the freshest possible
attire, all "on pleasure bent."
"Do you know us all?" asked Mrs. Burnett, looking round. "Yes, I think
all but Lady Alice Mordaunt and Mr. Kirby."
"I have never had the pleasure of meeting Lady Alice Mordaunt
before"--with a graceful little courtesy--"but Mr. Kirby, though _he_
has forgotten me, I remember meeting him at Rumchuddar, when I first
went out to my poor dear papa. Perhaps you remember _him_--Captain
Dunbar, at----?" Thus said Mrs. Liddell, as she glided into her seat
between one of the Burnetts and a tall, big, shapeless-looking man with
red hair, small sharp eyes, a yellow-ochreish complexion, and craggy
temples, who had risen courteously to make room for her.
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, turning red--a dull deep red. "I
remember perfectly--that is, I don't remember _you_; I remember your
father. I'm sure I do not know how I could have forgotten you," with a
shy, admiring glance.
"Nor I either," cried Colonel Ormonde, who sat opposite. "Though Mrs.
Liddell does not seem to remember _me_."
"Why, I only saw you yesterday, and I am sure I bowed to you as I came
in." So saying, Mrs. Liddell lifted her head with a sweet caressing
smile to the eldest of the Burnett boys, who himself brought her some
pigeon pie; and from that moment she devoted herself to her new
acquaintance, utterly regardless of the hitherto tenderly cultivated
Colonel.
Kirby, a newly arrived Indian magistrate, was not given to conversation,
but he was assiduous in attending to his fair neighbor's wants, and
seemed to like listening to her lively remarks.
Colonel Ormonde glanced at them from time to time; he was amazed and
indignant that Mrs. Liddell could attend to any one save himself. He was
rather unfortunately placed between Miss Burnett, whose attention was
taken up by Sir Ralph Brereton, a marriageable baronet, who sat on her
other side, and Lady Alice Mordaunt, a timid, colorless, but graceful
girl, still in the school-room, who scarcely spoke at all, and if she
did, always to her right-hand neighbor, a stately-looking man with grave
dark eyes, which saved him from being plain, and a clear colorless brown
complexion. He said very little, but his voice, though rather cold, was
pleasant and refined, conveying the impression that he was accustomed to
be heard with attention. He too was very attentive to Lady Alice, but in
a kind, fatherly way, as if she were a helpless creature under his care.
"I believe we are quite an Indian party," said Mrs. Burnett, looking
down the table. "Of course my children are Indian by inheritance; then
there are Mr. Kirby and Mr. Errington"--nodding to the dark man next
Lady Alice--"and Colonel Ormonde."
"I am not Indian, you know; I was only quartered in India for a few
years," returned Ormonde, contradictiously.
"And I was only a visitor for one season's tiger-shooting," said
Brereton.
"And I do not want to go," cried Tom Burnett; "I want to be an attache."
"Oh yes; you speak so many languages!" said his younger sister.
"I certainly do not consider myself an old Indian," said the man
addressed as Errington, "though I have visited it more than once."
"You an Indian!" cried Ormonde. "Why, you have just started as an
English country gentleman. We are to have Errington for a comrade on the
bench and in the field down in Clayshire. His father has bought Garston
Hall--quite close to Melford, Lady Alice. But I suppose you know all
about it."
"Yes," said Lady Alice, in a tone which might be affirmation or
interrogation. "There are such pretty walks in Garston Woods!"
"Errington was born with a silver spoon in his mouth," returned Ormonde.
"Garston dwarfs Castleford, I can tell you. It was a good deal out of
repair--the Hall I mean?"
"It is. We do not expect to get it into thorough repair till winter.
Then I hope, Mrs. Burnett, you will honor us by a visit," said
Errington.
"With the greatest pleasure," exclaimed the hostess.
"And oh, Mr. Errington, do give a ball!" cried Fanny, the second
daughter.
"I fear that is beyond my powers. I do not think I ever danced in my
life."
"Are you to be of the party on board Lord Melford's yacht?" asked
Ormonde, speaking to Lady Alice.
"Oh no. I am to stay with Aunt Harriet at the Rectory all the summer."
"Ah, that is too bad. You'd like sailing about, I dare say?"
"Oh, yachting must be the most delightful thing in the world," cried
Mrs. Liddell, from her place opposite. "If I were you I should coax my
father to let me go."
"Papa knows best. I am very fond of the Rectory," said Lady Alice,
blushing at being so publicly addressed.
"And _you_ understand the beauty of obedience," said Errington, with
grave approval.
"Now, if you intend to see the whole 'fun of the fair,'" said Mrs.
Burnett, "you had better be going, young people. The carriage is to come
back for us after setting you down at the theatre. Who are going? My
girls, Lady Alice, and Mrs. Liddell? Who is to be their escort? Colonel
Ormonde?"
He glanced across the table. Mrs. Liddell sent no glance in his
direction; she again devoted her attention to Kirby.
"No, thank you. To be intensely amused from two to six is more than I
can stand; besides, I hope to meet you at Lady Maclean's this
afternoon."
"I have an engagement, a business engagement at three," said Errington;
"but I shall be happy to call for these ladies and see them home."
"You need not take that trouble," said Mrs. Burnett. "My son will be in
the theatre later, and take charge of them; but there is still a place
in the box. Will you go, Mr. Kirby?"
"Oh, pray do!" cried Mrs. Liddell. "You will be sure to be amused; a
matinee of this kind is great fun. There is singing and dancing and
acting and recitations of all kinds." She spoke in her liveliest manner
and her sweetest tones.
"You are very good. I have not been in a theatre since I arrived; so if
you really have a place for me, I shall be most happy to accompany you."
"That's settled. Go and put on your hats, my dears," said Mrs. Burnett;
and her daughters, with Lady Alice, left the room.
"Well, Mrs. Liddell, have you persuaded your handsome sister-in-law to
join our party on Thursday?" asked Ormonde.
"I have really had no time to speak much to her. An old uncle of hers,
as rich as a Jew and a perfect miser, sent his lawyer for her this
morning. I suppose he is going to make her his heiress. I hope they will
give a share to my poor little boys. I am going to take them to ask a
blessing from their aged relative, I assure you."
"Oh yes, by George! you try and hold on to him. The little fellows ought
to have the biggest share, of course, as the _nephew's_ children. Why,
it would change your position altogether if your boys had ten or fifteen
thou. between them."
"Or apiece," said Mrs. Liddell, carelessly. She was immensely amused by
the Colonel's tone of deep interest. "You may be very sure I shall do my
best. I know the value of money."
"May I ask where this Mr. Liddell resides?" asked Mr. Errington, joining
them, with a bow to the young widow.
"I really do not know, though he is my uncle-in-law. Pray do you know
him?"
"No; I know of him, but we are not personally acquainted."
"And is he not supposed to be very rich?"
"That I cannot say; but I have an idea that he is well off."
With another bow Errington retreated to say good-morning to his hostess.
"Well, whether your sister-in-law comes or not, I hope we are sure of
your charming self?" said Ormonde.
"Unless I am obliged to parade my boys for their grand-uncle's
inspection, I am sure to honor you."
"Of course everything must give away to _that_. I shall come and inquire
what news soon, if I may?"
"Oh yes; come when you like."
"They are all ready, Mrs. Liddell," remarked her hostess.
Mr. Kirby offered his arm, which was accepted with a smile, and the
little widow sailed away with the sense of riding on the crest of a
wave. The ladies were packed into the carriage, the polite man out of
livery whistled up a hansom for the two gentlemen, and the luncheon
party was over.
It was a weary day to Mrs. Liddell--the dowager Mrs. Liddell, as society
would have called her, only she had no dower. All she had inherited from
her husband was the remnant of his debts, which she had been struggling
for some years to pay off, and the care and maintenance of her boy and
girl, on her own slender funds.
At present the horizon looked very dark, and she almost regretted for
Katherine's sake that she had agreed to make a home for her son's widow
and children. Yet what would have become of them without it?
Partly to rouse herself from her fruitless reflections, partly to
relieve the house-maid, who had been doing some extra scrubbing, Mrs.
Liddell took her little grandsons to Kensington Gardens, and when they
had selected a place to play in she sat down with a book which she had
brought in the vain hope of getting out of herself. But her sight was
soon diverted from the page before her by the visions which came
thronging from the thickly peopled past.
Her life had been a hard continuous fight with difficulty after the
first few years of her wedded existence. She had seen her gay,
pleasure-loving husband change under the iron grasp of untoward
circumstances into a querulous, bitter, disappointed man, rewarding all
her efforts to keep their heads above water by sarcastic complaints of
her narrow stinginess, venting on her the remorseful consciousness,
unacknowledged to himself, that his reverses were the result of his own
reckless extravagance. Perhaps to her true heart the cruelest pain of
all was the gradual dying out, or rather killing out, of the love she
once bore him, the vanishing, one by one, of the illusions she cherished
respecting him, till she saw the man as he really was, weak, unstable,
self-indulgent, incapable of true manliness. Still she was patient with
him to the last; and when she was relieved by friendly death from the
charge of so wilful and ungrateful a burden--though things were easier,
because hers was the sole authority--it was a constant strain to provide
the education necessary for her boy. But that accomplished, she had a
sweet interlude with her daughter in humble peace, and while she did her
best to arm the child for the conflict of life, she avoided weakening
herself by too much thought for her future. This spell of repose was
broken by the necessity for sacrificing some of her small capital to set
her son free from his embarrassments. Then came his death and her
present experiment in house-keeping in order to give his widow and
children a refuge.
For the last four or five years she had made a welcome addition to her
small income by her pen, contributing to the smaller weekly periodicals
stories and sketches; for Mrs. Liddell had seen much with keen,
observant eyes, and had a fair share of humor. This small success had
tempted her to spend several months on a three-volume novel, thereby
depriving herself of present remuneration which shorter, lighter tales
had brought in. She sorely feared this ambitious step was a
mistake--that she had over-estimated her own powers. She feared that she
could never manage to keep up the very humble establishment she had
started. Above all, she feared that her own health and physical force
were failing. It was such an effort to do much that formerly was as
nothing. That attack of bronchitis last spring had tried her severely:
she had never felt quite the same since. And if she were called away,
what would become of Katherine? Never was there a dearer daughter than
her Katie. She knew every turn, every light and shade in her nature--her
faults, her pride and hastiness, her deep, tender heart. A sob rose in
her throat at the idea of Katherine being left alone to engage
single-handed in the struggle for existence. No! She _would_ live!--she
would battle on with poverty and difficulty till Katherine was a few
years older; till she was stronger and better able to stand alone.
"Yet she is strong and brave for nineteen," thought the mother, proudly.
"Perhaps I have kept her too much by my side. I wish I could let her pay
a visit to the Mitchells. They have asked her repeatedly; but we must
not think of it at present."
Here her little grandsons, who had more than once broken in upon her
musings, came running across the grass to inform her they were sure it
was tea-time, as they were very hungry.
"Then we shall go home," said Mrs. Liddell, immediately clearing her
face of its look of gloom, and rising to accompany them, cheered by the
thought that perhaps Katie's dear face might be ready to welcome her.
But neither daughter nor daughter-in-law awaited her, and a couple of
hours went slowly over--slowly and wearily, for she forced herself to
tell the boys a couple of thrilling tales, before they went to bed, to
keep them quiet and cool. Then, with promises that both mamma and auntie
should come and kiss them as soon as they returned, she dismissed the
little fellows.
It was past seven when Katherine at last appeared at the garden gate.
"I am so glad you have come in before Ada," cried Mrs. Liddell,
embracing her. "Are you very tired, dearest?"
"No, not nearly so tired as yesterday; and, mother dear, I think that
strange old man will certainly give us the money."
"Thank God! Tell me all about your day."
"It was all very funny, but not terrible, like yesterday. My uncle seems
determined to make a cook of me. He would not let them buy or prepare
any food for him, except a cup of tea and some toast, until I came. How
that frail old man can exist upon so little nourishment I cannot
imagine; but though I seem to give him satisfaction, he does not express
any. While he and Mr. Newton talked I was sent to look at the condition
of the rooms upstairs. Such a condition of dust and neglect you could
not conceive. Oh, the gloom and misery of the whole house is beyond
description!"
"Did you get anything to eat yourself?" asked Mrs. Liddell.
"Yes; Mr. Newton, who is really kind and friendly under his cool,
precise exterior, sent for some cakes. He staid a good while. I think he
has a good deal of influence on Mr. Liddell. (I can hardly call him
uncle.) He was more polite when Mr. Newton was present. When he was
going away he said, 'I am happy to say I have convinced Mr. Liddell that
you are his niece, and if you and your mother will call upon me at noon
to-morrow, the loan you wish for can be arranged, if you will agree to
certain conditions, which I should like to explain both to you and to
Mrs. Liddell.' He gave me his card. Here it is. He has written 'twelve
to one' on it."
"They must be very hard conditions if we cannot agree to them," said
Mrs. Liddell, taking out her porte-monnaie and putting the card into it.
"This is indeed a Godsend, Katie, dear. I am thankful you had the pluck
to attack the old lion in his den."
"Lion! Hyena rather. Yet I cannot help feeling sorry for him. Think of
passing away without a soul to care whether you live or die--without one
pleasant memory!"
"His memories are anything but pleasant," returned Mrs. Liddell,
gravely. "His wife, of whom I believe he was fond in his own way, left
him when their only child, a son, was about ten years old. This seemed
to turn his blood to gall. He took an unnatural dislike to his poor boy,
and treated him so badly that he ran away to sea. Poor fellow? he used
sometimes to write to your father. Their mutual dislike to John Liddell
was a kind of bond between them. It is an unhappy story, for, as I told
you, he was afterward killed at the gold diggings.
"Very dreadful!" said Katherine, thoughtfully. "What a cruel visiting of
the mother's sin on the unfortunate child!--that horrible bit of the
decalogue! With all his icy cold selfishness Mr. Liddell is a gentleman.
His voice is refined, and except when he was carried away by hi-fury
against his roguish housekeeper he seems to have a certain self-respect.
After Mr. Newton went away I read for a long time all the money articles
in two penny papers, for the _Times_ had been taken away. Then I wrote a
couple of letters, and all my uncle said was: 'So it seems you really
are my niece. Well, I hope you know more of the value of money than
either your father or mother.' I could not let that pass, and said, 'My
father died when I was too young to know him; but no one could manage
money better nor with greater care than my mother.' He stared at me. 'I
am glad to hear it,' he returned, very dryly. He had a note from his
stock-broker in reply to one I wrote for him yesterday. He seemed
greatly pleased with it. He kept chuckling and murmuring, 'Just in time,
just in time!'"
"Perhaps he will fancy you bring him luck."
"I am awfully afraid he will want me to go and read to him every day,
for when I was directing one of the letters he said, as though to
himself, 'If she can read and write for me I need not buy a new pair of
spectacles.' It would be too dreadful to be with that cynical hyena
every day."
"Oh, when he gets a good servant he will not want you."
"I hope not."
"Now come, you must have your supper, dear. I am sure you have earned
it. We will have it quietly together before Ada comes back. I feel so
relieved, I shall be able to eat now."