"SHIFTING SCENES."
Parting is often worst to those who stay behind. Imagination paints the
trials and difficulties of the one who has put out to sea as far worse
than the reality, while variety and action brace the spirit of him who
goes forth.
Katherine's reception, however, was paralyzing enough.
Nothing was in her favor save the mellow brightness of the fine warm
evening, though from its south-east aspect the parlor at Legrave
Crescent was already in shadow. There, in his usual seat beside the
fire--for, though a miser, John Liddell had a fire summer and
winter--sat the old man watching the embers, in himself a living
refrigerator.
"You are late!" was his greeting, in a low, cold voice. "I have been
expecting you. The woman Newton found for me has been up and down with a
dozen questions I cannot answer. I must be saved from this; I will not
be disturbed. Go and see what she wants; then, if there is more food to
be cooked, come to me for money. Mark! no more bills. I will give you
what cash you want each day, so long as you do not ask too much."
"Very well. Your fire wants making up, uncle." She brought out this last
word with an effort. "I suppose I _am_ to call you uncle?"
"Call me what you choose," was the ungracious reply.
In the hall she found the new servant, whom she had already seen,
waiting her orders. She was a stout, good-humored woman of a certain
age, with vast experience, gathered in many services, and partly tempted
to her present engagement by the hope that in so small a household her
labor would be light.
"Will you come up, miss, and see if your room is as you like it?" was
her first address. "I'm sure I _am_ glad you have come! I've been
groping in the dark, in a manner of speaking, since I came yesterday;
and Mr. Liddell, he's not to be spoke to. Believe me, miss, if it wasn't
that I promised your mar, and saw you was a nice young lady yourself,
wild horses wouldn't keep me in such a lonesome barrack of a place!"
"I hope you will not desert us, Mrs. Knapp," returned Katherine,
cheerfully. "If you and I do our best, I hope the place will not be so
bad."
"Well, it didn't ought to," returned Mrs. Knapp. "There's lots of good
furniture everywhere but in the kitchen, and that's just for all the
world like a marine store!"
"Is it?" exclaimed Katherine, greatly puzzled by the metaphor. "At all
events you have made my room nice and tidy." This conversation,
commenced on the staircase, was continued in Katherine's apartment.
"It ain't bad, miss; there's plenty of room for your clothes in that big
wardrobe, and there's a chest of drawers; but Lord, 'm, they smell that
musty, I've stood them open all last night and this morning, but they
ain't much the better. I didn't like to ask for the key of the bookcase,
but I can see through the glass the books are just coated with dust,"
said Mrs. Knapp.
"We must manage all that by-and-by," said Katherine. "Have you anything
in the house? I suppose my uncle will want some dinner."
"I gave him a filleted sole with white sauce, and a custard pudding, at
two o'clock, and he said he wanted nothing more. I had no end of trouble
in getting half a crown out of him, and he had the change. If the
gentleman as I saw with your mar, miss, hadn't given me five shillings,
I don't know where I should be."
"I will ask my uncle what he would like for dinner or supper, and come
to you in the kitchen afterward."
Such was Katherine's inauguration.
She soon found ample occupation. Not a day passed without a battle over
pennies and half-pennies. Liddell gave her each morning a small sum
wherewith to go to market; he expected her to return straight to him and
account rigidly for every farthing she had laid out, to enter all in a
book which he kept, and to give him the exact change. These early
expeditions into the fresh air among the busy, friendly shopkeepers soon
came to be the best bit of Katherine's day, and most useful in keeping
up the healthy tone of her mind. Then came a spell of reading from the
_Times_ and other papers. Every word connected with the funds and money
matters generally, even such morsels of politics as effected the pulse
of finance, was eagerly listened to; of other topics Mr. Liddell did not
care to hear. A few letters to solicitor or stock-broker, some entries
in a general account-book, and the forenoon was gone. Friends,
interests, regard for life in any of its various aspects, all were
nonexistent for Liddell. Money was his only thought, his sole
aspiration--to accumulate, for no object. This miserliness had grown
upon him since he had lost both wife and son. Fortunately for Katherine,
his ideas of expenditure had been fixed by the comparatively liberal
standard of his late cook. When, therefore, he found he had greater
comfort at slightly less cost he was satisfied.
But his satisfaction did not prompt him to express it. His nearest
approach to approval was not finding fault.
In vain Katherine endeavored to interest him in some of the subjects
treated of in the papers. He was deaf to every topic that did not bear
on his self-interest.
"There is a curious account here of the state of labor in Manchester and
Birmingham; shall I read it to you?" asked Katherine, one morning, after
she had toiled through the share list and city article. She had been
about a fortnight installed in her uncle's house.
"No!" he returned; "what is labor to me? We have each our own work to
do."
"But is there nothing else you would care to hear, uncle?" She had grown
more accustomed to him, and he to her; in spite of herself, she was
anxious to cheer his dull days--to awaken something of human feeling in
the old automaton.
"Nothing! Why should I care for what does not concern me? You only care
for what touches yourself; but because you are young, and your blood
runs quick, many things touch you."
"Did you ever care for anything except--except--" Katherine pulled
herself up. The words "your money" were on her lips.
"I cannot remember, and I do not wish to look back. I suppose, now, you
would like to be driving about in a fine carriage, with a bonnet and
feathers on your head. I suppose you are wishing me dead, and yourself
free to run away from your daily tasks in this quiet house, to listen to
the lying tongue of some soft-spoken scoundrel, as foolish women will;
but the longer I live the better for _you_, till your mother's debt is
paid, or my executors will give her a short shrift and scant time."
"I don't want you to die, Uncle Liddell," said Katherine, with simple
sincerity, "but I wish there was anything I could do to interest you or
amuse you. I am sorry to see you so dull. Why, you are obliged to sleep
all the afternoon!"
"Amuse _me_?" he returned, with infinite scorn. "You need not trouble
yourself. I have thoughts which occupy me of which you have no idea, and
then I pass from thoughts to dreams--grand dreams!"--he paused for a
moment. "Where is that pile of papers that lay on the chair there?" he
resumed, sharply.
"I have taken them away upstairs; when I have collected some more I am
going to sell them. My mother always sells her waste paper--one may as
well have a few pence for them."
"Did you mother say so?" with some animation--then another pause. "Are
you going to see her on Sunday?"
"Not next Sunday," returned Katherine, quite pleased to draw him into
conversation. "You know we must let Mrs. Knapp go out every alternate
Sunday, and you cannot be left alone."
"Why not? Am I an imbecile? Am I dying? I can tell you I have years of
life before me yet."
"I dare say; still, it is my duty to stay here in case you want
anything. But I shall go home on Saturday afternoon instead, if you have
no objection."
"You would not heed my objections if I had any. You are self-willed, you
are resolute. I see things when I care to look. There, I am very tired!
You will find some newspapers in my room; you can add them to the
others. How soon will dinner be ready?" Katherine felt herself
dismissed.
The afternoons were much at her own disposal; and as she found a number
of old books, some of which greatly interested her, she managed to
accomplish a good deal of reading, and even did a little dreaming.
Still, though time seemed to go so slowly, the weeks, on looking back,
had flown fast.
The monotony was terrible; but a break was at hand which was not quite
unexpected.
The day following the above conversation, Katherine had retired as usual
after dinner to write to a German friend with whom she kept up a
desultory correspondence; the day was warm, and her door being open, the
unwonted sound of the front door-bell startled her.
"Who could it possibly be?" asked Katherine of herself. The next minute
a familiar voice struck her ear, and she quickly descended to the front
parlor.
There an appalling sight met her eyes. In the centre of the room, her
back to the door, stood Mrs. Fred Liddell, a little boy in either
hand--all three most carefully attired in their best garments, and
making quite a pretty group.
Facing them, Mr. Liddell sat upright in his chair, his lean, claw-like
hands grasping the arms, his eyes full of fierce astonishment.
"You see, my dear sir, as you have never invited me, I have ventured to
come unasked to make your acquaintance, and to introduce my dear boys to
you; for it is possible you have sent me a message by Katherine which
she has forgotten to deliver; so I thought--" Thus far the pretty little
widow had proceeded when the children, catching sight of their auntie,
sprang upon her with a cry of delight.
"Who--who is this?" asked Mr. Liddell, compressing his thin lips and
hissing out the words.
"My brother's widow, Mrs. Fred Liddell," returned Katherine, who was
kissing and fondling her nephews.
"Did you invite her to come here?"
"No, uncle."
"Then explain to her that I do not receive visitors, especially
relations, who have no claims upon me, and--and I particularly object to
children."
"I shall take my sister-in-law to my room for a little rest," returned
Katherine, wounded by his manner, though greatly vexed with Ada for
coming.
"Ay, do, anywhere you like."
But Mrs. Fred made a gallant attempt to stand her ground.
"My dear sir, you must not be so unkind as to turn me out, when I have
taken the trouble to come all this way on purpose to make your
acquaintance. Let Katherine take away the children by all means--some
people _are_ worried with children--but let _me_ stay and have a little
talk with you."
Mr. Liddell's only reply was to rise up. Gaunt, bent, his gray locks
quivering with annoyance, and leaning on his stick, he slowly walked to
the door, his eyes fixed with a cold glare on the intruder. At the door
he turned, and addressing Katherine, said, "Let me know when she is
gone;" then he disappeared into the hall.
Little Charlie burst into tears. Cecil cried out, "You are a nasty,
cross old man"; while Mrs. Fred grew very red, and exclaimed: "I never
saw such a bear in all my life! Why, a crossing-sweeper would have
better manners! I am astonished at you, Katie. How can you live with
such a creature? But _some_ people would do anything for money."
"I am dreadfully sorry," said Katherine; "do come up to my room. If you
had only told me you were coming I should have advised you against it.
You must rest a while in my room."
"I really do not think I will sit down in this house after the way in
which I have been treated," said the irate widow, while she followed her
sister-in-law upstairs.
"Oh yes, do, mammy; I want to see the house," implored Cecil.
"Why did you not tell me what a dreadful man he is, Katherine, and I
should not have put myself in the way of being insulted?"
"I think I told you enough to keep you away, Ada. What put it into your
head to come?"
"I scarcely know. I always intended it, and Colonel Ormonde said it was
my duty to let him, Mr. Liddell, see the boys. I really did not want to
come."
"I wish Colonel Ormonde would mind his own affairs," cried Katherine. "I
fancy he only talks for talking's sake."
"That is all you know," indignantly; "he is a very clever man of the
world, and I am fortunate in having such a friend to interest himself in
me."
"Oh, well, perhaps so. At all events, I am very glad to see the bays,
and--you too, Ada. Charlie is very pale. Come here, Charlie."
"Oh, auntie, is this your own, own room? Does the cross old man ever
come here? Are all those books yours--and the funny little table with
the crooked legs? Who is the man in a wig?" cried Cecil. "Mightn't we
stay with you? we would be so quiet? Mother says we are _dreffully_
troublesome since you went away. We could both sleep with you in that
great big bed! The cross old gentleman would never know. It would be
such fun! Do, do, let us stay, auntie!"
"But I am afraid of the old gentleman," whispered the younger boy. "Does
he ever hurt you, auntie dear? I wish you would come home."
"Charlie is such a coward," said Cecil, with contempt.
"Don't talk nonsense, children," exclaimed their mother, peremptorily.
"I should die of fright if I thought you were left behind with that
ogre. _I_ wouldn't sacrifice my children for the sake of filthy lucre."
"Do not talk nonsense, Ada?" said Katherine, impatiently. "I am
infinitely distressed that my uncle should have behaved so rudely, but
he is really eccentric, and if you had consulted--"
"He is the boys' uncle as well as yours," interrupted Ada, indignantly.
"Why should they not come and see him? How was I to suppose he was such
an unnatural monster?"
"I always told you he was very peculiar."
"Peculiar! that is a delicate way of putting it. If I were you I should
be ashamed of wasting my time and my youth acting servant to an old
miser who will not leave you a sou!"
"No, I don't suppose he will," returned Katherine, quietly. "Still, I am
not the least ashamed of what I am doing; I am quite satisfied with my
own motives."
"Oh, you are always satisfied with yourself, I know," was the angry
answer, "But"--with a slight change of tone--"I am sorry to see you look
so pale and ill, though you deserve it."
"Never mind, Ada. Take off your bonnet and sit down. I will get you a
cup of tea."
"Tea! no, certainly not! Do you think me so mean as to taste a mouthful
of food in this house after being ordered out of it?"
"Oh, I am _so_ hungry!" cried Cecil, in mournful tones.
"You are a little cormorant: Grannie will give you nice tea when we get
home. Put on your gloves, children, I shall go at once."
"Do come back with us, auntie," implored the boys. "Grannie wants you
ever so much."
"Not more than I want her," returned Katherine. "How is she, Ada?"
"Oh, very well; just the same as usual. People who are not sensitive
have a great deal to be thankful for. _I_ feel quite upset by this
encounter with your amiable relative, so I will say good-by."
"Oh, wait for me; I will come with you. Let me put on my hat and tell
Mr. Liddell I am going out."
"Of course you must ask the master's leave!"
"Exactly," returned Katherine, good-humoredly. And she put on her hat
and gloves.
"Well, I shall be glad of your guidance, for I hardly know my way back
to where the omnibus starts. Such a horrible low part of the town for a
man of fortune to live in! I wonder what Colonel Ormonde would say to
it?"
"I am sure I don't know," returned Kate, laughing. "Now come downstairs.
If you go on I will speak to my uncle, and follow you."
"I am sorry you have been annoyed," said Katherine, when having tapped
at the door, Mr. Liddell desired her to "come in." He was standing at an
old-fashioned bureau, the front of which let down to form a writing-desk
and enclosed a number of various-sized drawers. He had taken out several
packets of paper neatly tied with red tape and seemed to be rearranging
them.
"I am going to take my sister-in-law back to the omnibus; you may be
sure she will never intrude again."
"She shall not," he replied, turning to face her. Katherine thought how
ghastly pale and pinched he looked. "I see the sort of creature she
is--a doll that would sell her sawdust soul for finery and glitter; ay,
and the lives of all who belong to her for an hour of pleasure."
Katherine was shocked at his fierce, uncalled-for bitterness.
"She has lived with us for more than a year and a half, and we have
found her very pleasant and kind. Her children are dear, sweet things.
You should not judge her so harshly."
"You are a greater fool than I took you for," cried Mr. Liddell. "Go
take them away, and mind they do not come back."
Katherine hastened after her visitors and led them by a more direct
route than they had traversed in coming. It took them past a cake shop,
where she spent one of her few sixpences in appeasing her nephews'
appetite, which, at least, with Cecil, grew with what it fed upon, in
the matter of cakes.
The children, each holding one of her hands, chattered away, telling
many particulars of grannie and Jane, and the cat, to say nothing of a
most interesting gardener who came to cut the grass. To all of which
Katherine lent a willing ear. How ardently she longed to be at home with
the dear mother again! She had never done half enough for her. Ah, if
they only could be together again in Florence or Dresden as they used to
be!
Mrs. Fred Liddell kept almost complete silence--a very unusual case with
her--and only as she paused before following her little boys into the
omnibus did she give any clew to the current of her thoughts. "Should
Colonel Ormonde come on Saturday when you are with us--which is not
likely--do not say anything about that horrid old man's rudeness; one
does not like to confess to being turned out."
"Certainly not. I shall say nothing, you may be sure."
"Good-by, then. I shall tell your mother you are looking _wretchedly_."
"Pray do not," cried Katherine, but the conductor's loud stamping on his
perch to start the driver drowned her voice.
It was a fine evening, fresh, too, with a slight crispness, and
Katherine could not resist the temptation of a walk in Regent's Park.
She felt her spirits, which had been greatly depressed, somewhat revived
by the free air, the sight of grass and trees. Still she could not
answer the question which often tormented her, "If my mother cannot sell
her book, how will it all end--must I remain as a hostage forever?" It
was a gloomy outlook.
She did not allow herself to stray far; crossing the foot-bridge over
the Regent's Canal, she turned down a street which led by a circuit
toward her abode. It skirted Primrose Hill for a few yards, and as she
passed one of the gates admitting to the path which crosses it, a
gentleman came out, and after an instant's hesitation raised his hat.
Katherine recognized the man who had rescued Cecil at Hyde Park Corner.
She smiled and bowed, frankly pleased to meet him again; it was so
refreshing to see a bright, kindly face--a face, too, that looked glad
to see her.
"May I venture to inquire for my little friend?" said the gentleman,
respectfully. "I trust he was not the worse for his adventure?"
"Not at all, thanks to your promptness," said Katherine, pausing. "I
have only just parted with him and his mother. She would have been very
glad of an opportunity to thank you."
"So slight a service scarcely needs your thanks," he said, in a soft,
agreeable voice, as he turned and walked beside her.
Katherine made no objection; she knew he was an acquaintance of Colonel
Ormonde, and it was too pleasant a chance of speaking to a civilized
human being to be lost. Her new acquaintance was good-looking without
being handsome, with a peculiarly happy expression, and honest, kindly
light-brown eyes. He was about middle height, but well set up, and
carried himself like a soldier.
"Then your little charge does not live with you?" he asked.
"Not now. I am staying with my uncle. Cecil lives with his mother and
mine at Bayswater."
"Indeed! I think my old friend, Colonel Ormonde, knows the young
gentleman's mother."
"He does."
"Then, may I introduce myself to you? My name is Payne--Gilbert Payne."
"Oh, indeed!" returned Katherine, with a vague idea that she ought not
perhaps to walk with him, yet by no means inclined to dismiss a pleasant
companion.
"I fancy your young nephew is a somewhat rebellious subject."
"He is sometimes very troublesome, but you cannot help liking him."
"Exactly--a fine boy. What bewildering little animals children are! They
ought to teach us humility, they understand us so much better than we
understand them."
"I believe they do, but I never thought of it before. Have you little
brothers and sisters who have taught you this?"
"No. I am the youngest of my family; but I am interested in a refuge for
street children, and I learn much there."
"That is very good of you," said Katherine, looking earnestly at him.
"Where is it--near this?"
"No; a long way off. There are plenty of such places in every direction.
I have just come from a home for poor old women, childless widows,
sickly spinsters, who cannot work, and have no one to work for them. If
you have any spare time, it would be a great kindness to go and read to
them now and then. The lees of such lives are often sad and tasteless."
"I should be glad to help in any way," said Katherine, coloring, "but
just now I belong (temporarily) to my uncle, who is old, and requires a
good deal of reading--and care."
"Ah, I see your work is cut out for you: that, of course, is your first
duty."
The conversation then flowed on easily about street arabs and the
various missions for rescuing them, about soldiers' homes, and other
kindred topics. Katherine was much interested, and taken out of herself;
she was quite sorry when on approaching Legrave Crescent she felt
obliged to pause, with the intention of dismissing him. He understood.
"Do you live near this?" he asked.
"Yes, quite near."
"May I bring you some papers giving you an account of my poor old
women?"
"I should like so much to have them," said Katherine. "But my uncle is
rather peculiar. He does not like to be disturbed; he does not like
visitors; he was vexed because my sister-in-law and the children came
to-day."
"I understand, and will not intrude. But should you be able and willing
to help these undertakings, Colonel Ormonde will always know my address.
He honors me still with his friendship, though he thinks me a
moon-struck idiot."
"Because you are good. The folly is his," said Katherine, warmly. Then
she bowed, Mr. Payne lifted his hat again, and they parted, not to meet
for many a day.
When Mrs. Knapp opened the door she looked rather grave, but Katherine's
mind was so full of her encounter with Gilbert Payne that she did not
notice it, seeing which, Mrs. Knapp said, "I'm glad you have come in,
miss."
"Why?" with immediate apprehension. "Is my uncle ill?"
"He is not right, miss. I took him up his cup or tea and slice of dry
toast about five, and he was lying back, as he often does, asleep, as I
thought, in the chair. I says, 'Here's your tea, sir,' but he made no
answer, and I spoke again twice without making him hear; then I touched
his hand; it was stone cold; so I got water and dabbed his brow, when he
sat up all of a sudden, and swore at me for making him cold and damp
with my--I don't like to say the word--rags. Then he shivered and shook
like an aspen; but I made up the fire and popped a spoonful of brandy in
his tea--he never noticed. But he kept asking for you, miss. I think he
doesn't know he was bad."
Katherine hastened to her uncle, greatly distressed at having been
absent at the moment of need. In her eagerness she committed the mistake
of asking how he felt now, and received a tart reply. There was nothing
the matter with him, nothing unusual--only his old complaint, increasing
years and infirmity; still he was not to be treated like a helpless
baby.
Katherine felt her error, and turned the subject; then, returning to it,
begged him to see a doctor. This he refused sternly. Finally she had
recourse to an article on the revenue in the paper, which soothed him,
and she saw the old man totter off to bed with extreme uneasiness, yet
not daring even to suggest a night light, so irritable did he seem.
Before she slept she wrote a brief account of what had occurred to Mr.
Newton, and implored him to come and remonstrate with his client.