CROSS PURPOSES.
The first ten days at Castleford would have been dull indeed to
Katherine but for the society of Cis and Charlie in the mornings, and
the interest she took in watching Errington (who was of course a
frequent visitor) in the evenings.
Though she avoided conversing with him as much as possible, he was a
constant study to her. He was different from all the men she had
previously met. She often wondered if anything could disturb him or
hurry him. Had he ever climbed trees and torn his clothes, or thrashed
an adversary? Had he any weaknesses, or vivid joys, or passionate
longings? Yet he did not seem a prig. His manner, though dignified, was
easy and natural; his eyes, though steady and penetrating, were kindly;
his bearing had the repose of strength. It was too awful to contemplate
what his estimate of herself would be if he knew; but then he must
_never_ know!
As it was, he seemed inclined to be friendly and communicative, pleased
when he met her strolling in the garden with Lady Alice, and gratified
to find that she could accompany his _fiancee's_ songs. Indeed he said
he had never heard Lady Alice sing so well as when Miss Liddell played
for her.
Apart from the boys and Errington, Katherine found time hang very
heavily on her hands. The aimless lingering over useless fancy-work or
second-rate novels, the discussion of such gossip as their
correspondence supplied, by means of which Mrs. Ormonde and Lady Alice
got through the day, were infinitely wearisome to her.
Miles Errington was one of those happy individuals said to be born with
a silver spoon in his mouth. The only son of a wealthy father, who,
though enriched by trade, had come of an old Border race, he had had the
best education money could procure. More fortunate still in the
endowments of nature, he was well formed, strong, active, and blessed
with perfect health; while mentally he was intelligent and reflective,
thoughtful rather than brilliant, and by temperament profoundly calm. He
had never got into scrapes or committed extravagance. He was the despair
of managing mammas and fascinating young married women; yet he was not
unpopular with either sex. Men respected his strong, steady character,
his high standard, his sound judgment in matters affecting the stable
and the race-course; women were attracted by his obligingness and
generosity. Still he was the sort of man with whom few became intimate,
and none dared take a liberty. Preserved by his fortunate surroundings
and strong tranquil nature from difficulties or temptations, he could
hardly understand the passionate outbreaks of weaker and more fiery men.
His greatest physical pleasure was an exciting run with the hounds; his
deepest interest centred in politics; though never indulging in
sentiment, he was an earnest patriot. Whether he could be moved by more
personal feelings remained to be proved. At present the sources of
tenderer affection, if they existed, lay so deep below the strata of
reason and common-sense that only some artesian process could pierce to
the imprisoned spring's and set the "water of life" free, perhaps to
bound, geyser-like, into the outer air.
Having travelled by sea and land, and looked into the social and
political condition of many countries, having mixed much with men and
women at home and abroad, Errington thought it time to take his place in
the great commonwealth--to marry, and to try for a seat in the House of
Commons. He therefore selected Lady Alice Mordaunt. She was rather
pretty, graceful, gentle, and quite at his service. He really like her
in a sort of fatherly way; he looked forward with quiet pleasure to
making her very happy, and did not doubt she would in his hands mature
into a sufficient companion, for though Errington was not naturally a
selfish man, his life and training disposed him to look on those
connected with him as on the whole created for him.
He had been absent for two or three days, having gone up to town to
visit his father, who had been somewhat seriously unwell, and as he rode
toward Castleford he gave more thought than usual to his young
_fiancee_. In truth, a visit to Colonel Ormonde was a great bore to him.
He had nothing in common with the Colonel, whose pig-headed conservatism
jarred on Errington's broader views, while his stories and reminiscences
were exceedingly uninteresting, and sometimes worse. Mrs. Ormonde's
small coquetries, her airs and graces, were equally unattractive to him.
Still it was well to have Lady Alice at Castleford, within easy reach,
while there was so much to occupy his time and attention in the country.
As soon as he was sure of his election he would hasten his marriage, and
perhaps get the honey-moon over in time to take his seat while there was
still a month or two of the session unexpired.
From Lady Alice it was an easy transition of thought to the new guest at
Castleford. Where had he seen her face? and with what was he associated
in her mind? Nothing agreeable; of that he was quite sure. The vivid
blush and indescribable shrinking he had noticed more than once (and
Errington, like most quiet men, was a close observer) seemed
unaccountable. Miss Liddell was far from shy; she was well-bred and
evidently accustomed to society; her avoidance had therefore made the
more impression. His experience of life had hitherto been exceedingly
unemotional, and Katherine's unexpected betrayal of feeling puzzled him
not a little.
At this point in his reflections he had reached that part of the road
where it dipped into a hollow, on one side of which the Melford woods
began. A steep bank rose on the right, thickly studded with beech and
oak trees, still leafless, but the scanty, yellowish grass which grew
beneath them was tufted with primroses and violets.
As Errington came round a bend in the little valley the sound of shrill,
childish laughter came pleasantly to his ear, and the next minute
brought him in sight of a lady in mourning whom he recognized
immediately, and two little boys, who were high up the back, busily
engaged filling a basket with sweet spring blossoms.
Errington paused, dismounted, and raising his hat, approached her.
"I did not expect so meet _you_ so far afield," he said. "You are not
afraid of a long walk."
"My nephews have led me on from flower to flower," she returned, again
coloring brightly, but not shrinking from his eyes. "Now I think it is
time to go home."
"It is not late," he returned. "How is every one at Castleford?"
"Quite well. Lady Alice has lost her cold, and regained her voice--she
was singing this morning," said Katherine, smiling as if she knew the
real drift of his question.
"I am glad to hear it," he returned, soberly.
Errington and Lady Alice did not write to each other every day.
"Auntie," cried Cis, "the basket is quite full. If you open your
sunshade and hold it upside-down, I can fill that too."
"No dear; you have quite enough. We must go back now."
"Oh, not yet, please?" The little fellow came tumbling down the bank,
followed by Charlie, who immediately caught his aunt's hand and
repeated, "Not yet, auntie!"
"These are Mrs. Ormonde's boys, I suppose?" said Errington.
"Yes; have you never seen them before?"
"Never. And have you not had enough climbing?" he added, good-humoredly,
to Charlie.
"No, not half enough!" cried Cis. "There's _such_ a bunch of violets
just under that biggest beech-tree, nearly up at the top! Do let me
gather them--just those; do--do--do!"
"Very well; do not go too fast, or you will break your neck."
Both boys started off, leaving their basket at Katherine's feet.
"I remember now," said Errington, looking at her, "where I saw I saw you
before. Is was two--nearly three--years ago, at Hyde Park corner, when
that elder boy had a narrow escape from being run over."
"Were _you_ there?" she exclaimed, so evidently surprised that Errington
saw the impulse was genuine. "I recollect Mr. Payne and Colonel Ormonde;
but I did not see _you_."
"Then where _have_ you met me?" was at his lips, but he did not utter
the words.
"Well, Payne was of real service; I did nothing. The little fellow had a
close shave."
"He had indeed," said Katherine, thoughtfully, with downcast eyes; then,
suddenly raising them to his, she said, as if to herself, "And you were
there too! How strange it all is!"
"I see nothing so strange in it, Miss Liddell," smiling good-humoredly.
"Have you any superstition on the subject?"
"No; I am not superstitious; yet it was curious--I mean, to meet by
accident on that day just before--" She stopped. "And now I am connected
with Colonel Ormonde, living with Mr. Payne's sister and--and talking
here with--_you_."
"These coincidences occur perpetually when people move in the same set,"
returned Errington, feeling absurdly curious, and yet not knowing how to
get at the train of recollection or association which underlay her
words--words evidently unstudied and impulsive.
"I suppose so. And, you know--Mr. Payne," Katherine continued,
quickly--"how good he is! He lives completely for others."
"Yes, I believe him to be thoroughly, honestly good. How hard he toils,
and with what a pitiful result!"
"I wish he would go. Why does he stand there making conversation?"
thought Katherine, while she said aloud: "I don't see that. If every one
helped two or three poor creatures whom they knew, we should not have
all this poverty and suffering which are distracting to think about."
"I doubt it; it would be more likely to pauperize the whole nation."
Here Charlie and Cis, with earth-stained knees and hands--the latter
full of violets--reluctantly descended. Adding these to the basket
already overflowing, they had a short wrangle as to who should carry it,
and then Katherine turned her steps homeward. Errington passed the
bridle over his arm, and to her great annoyance, walked beside her.
"Are you, then, disposed to give yourself to faith and to good works?"
"I do not know. I should like to help those who want, but I fear I am
too fond of pleasure to sacrifice myself--at least I was and I suppose
the love will return. Of course it is easy to give money; it is hard to
give one's self."
"You seem very philosophic for so young a lady."
"I am not young," said Katherine, sadly; "I am years older than Lady
Alice."
"How many--one or two?" asked Errington, in his kind, fatherly, somewhat
superior tone, which rather irritated her.
"The years I mean are not to be measured by the ordinary standard; even
_you_ must know that some years last longer--no, that is not the
expression--press heavier than others."
"Even I? Do you think I am specially matter-of-fact?"
"I have no right to think you anything, for I do not know you; but you
give me that impression."
"I dare say I am; nor do I see why I should object to be so considered."
Here Cecil, who got tired of a conversation from which he could gather
nothing, put in his oar: "Are you Mr. Errington?"
"I am. How do you know my name?"
"I saw you going out with the Colonel to the meet--oh, a long while ago!
And Miss Richards and nurse were talking about you."
"They said you had a real St. Bernard dog--one that gets the people out
of the snow," cried Charlie. "Will you let him come here? I want to see
him."
"_You_ had better come and pay him a visit."
"Oh yes, thank you!" exclaimed Cis. "Auntie will take us, perhaps.
Auntie will take us to the sea-side, and then we shall bathe, and go in
boats, and learn to row."
"Cis, run with me to that big tree at the foot of the hill. Auntie will
carry the basket," cried Charlie, and the next moment they were off.
"Fine little fellows," said Errington. "I like children."
"I am going to ask Mrs. Ormonde to lend them to me for a few months, for
they are all I have of kith or kin."
"They are not at all like you," returned Errington, letting his quiet,
but to her most embarrassing, eyes rest upon her face.
"Yet they are my only brother's children." Here Katherine paused with a
sense of relief; they had reached a stile where a footway led across
some fields and a piece of common overgrown with bracken and gorse. It
was the short-cut to Castleford, by which Cecil had led her to the
Melford Woods.
"Oh, do come round by the road, auntie," he exclaimed; "perhaps Mr.
Errington will let me ride his horse."
"I do not know if _he_ will, Cis, but I certainly will not. I am tired
too, dear, and want to get home the shortest way I can, so bid Mr.
Errington good-by, and come with me. No, don't shake hands; yours are
much too dirty."
"Never mind; when you are a big boy I'll give you a mount. Good by,
Master Charlie--_you_ are Charlie, are you not? Till we meet at dinner,
Miss Liddell." He raised his hat, and divining that she wished him to
let her get over the stile unassisted, he mounted his horse and rode
swiftly away.
"I am sure he would have given me a ride if you had gone by the road,
auntie," said Cecil, reproachfully.
"I could not have allowed, you, dear; so do not think about it."
Errington meanwhile rode on, unconsciously slackening his pace as he
mused. "No, she certainly has never seen me before, yet she knows me.
How? She was very glad to get rid of me just now. Why? I am inoffensive
enough. There is something uncommon about her; she gives me the idea of
having a history, which is anything but desirable for a young woman.
What fine eyes she has! She is something like that Sibyl of Guercino's
in the Capitol. Why does she object to me? It is rather absurd. I must
make her talk, then I shall find out."
Here his horse started, and broke the thread of his reflections. By the
time the steed had pranced and curvetted a little, Errington's thoughts
had turned into some of their usual graver channels, and Katherine
Liddell was--well, not absolutely forgotten.
The object of his reflections reached the house rather late for the
boys' tea, and expecting to find her hostess and Lady Alice enjoying the
same refreshment, she gave her warm out-door jacket to Cecil, who
immediately put it on as the best mode of taking it upstairs, and went
into Mrs. Ormonde's morning-room, where afternoon tea was always served.
It was a pleasant room in warm summer weather, as its aspect was east,
and the afternoons were cool and shady there; but of a chill evening at
the end of March it was cold and dim, and needed the glow of a good fire
to make it attractive.
Daylight still lingered to the sky, but was fast fading, and the dancing
light of a cheerful fire was a pleasant contrast to the gray shadows
without. The room was very nondescript; its furniture was of the spidery
fashion which ruled when the "first gentleman" held the reins; thin hard
sofas and scanty draperies were supplemented by Persian rugs and showy
cushions, while various specimens of doubtful china crowded the
mantel-piece and consoles. Mrs. Ormonde was quite innocent of original
taste, but was a quick, industrious imitator, while of comfortable
chairs she was a most competent judge.
Quite sure of finding Mrs. Ormonde, Lady Alice, and Miss
Brereton--another visitor--refreshing themselves after their out-door
exercise, and intending to announce the pleasant news of Errington's
return, Katherine exclaimed, "Lady Alice!" as she crossed the threshold,
then seeing no one, stopped.
"Lady Alice is not here," said a strong, harsh voice, and a tall figure
in a shooting-coat and gaiters rose from the depths of a large
arm-chair, the back of which was toward the door and stood before her.
Katherine was slightly startled, but guessed it was one of two guests
expected to arrive that day. She advanced, therefore, and said, "Mrs.
Ormonde is unusually late, but I am sure she will soon be here."
"Meantime tea is quite ready. It has stood twice the regulation five
minutes; and is there any just cause or impediment why it should not be
poured out?"
"Not that I am aware of," returned Katherine, taking off her hat and
smoothing back her hair, which showed golden tints in the fitful
fire-light.
The low tea-table was set before the fire, she drew a chair beside it
and removed the cozy from the teapot.
Recognizing De Burgh from Mrs. Ormonde's description, she felt that he
was even more at home at Castleford than herself, and she also came to
the conclusion that he knew who she was. She had been prepared by Mrs.
Ormonde's evident admiration to dislike De Burgh, having made up her
mind that he would prove an empty-headed, insolent grandee, whose
pretensions imposed upon her sister-in-law's somewhat slender
experience, and whose life was probably given up to physical enjoyment.
He had not, however, the aspect of a mere pleasure-seeker. His dark,
strong face and bony frame looked as if he could work as well as play.
"Do you take sugar?"
"No, thank you; neither sugar nor cream."
"Neither? That is very self-denying!"
"Not self-denying! Were I foolish enough to do what I did not like, I
should take the sugar and cream. They do not happen to please my
palate."
"It is well we do not all like the same things."
"It is indeed!" He held his cup untasted for a moment, looking
thoughtfully into the fire. "Tea is the best drink you can have in
difficult, fatiguing journeys. Even the gold-diggers of Australia know
that. They drink hard enough when they are on the spree, but when at
work in earnest they stick to the teapot," he said, turning his eyes
full upon her with a cool, critical gaze, which half amused, half
irritated her. It was curious to sit there talking easily with a total
stranger. Perhaps she ought to have left him to himself, but it was not
much matter. Looking toward the window to avoid her companion's eyes,
she exclaimed:
"It is raining quite fast! I am glad I brought the children home before
this shower."
"An avant-courier of April. You were walking with Mrs. Ormonde's boys,
then?"
"Yes; I take them out every day."
"An uncommonly good-looking governess," thought De Burgh. "You have not
been here long, I think?" he said.
"About three weeks. The boys are quite used to me now, and enjoy their
walks, for I take them outside the grounds," said Katherine, feeling
sure that De Burgh must guess who she was.
"Indeed! You are a daring innovator. I suppose they were kept on the
premises till you came?"
"They were; and it is always tiresome to be kept within bounds."
"I quite agree with you. The sentiment is extremely natural, only young
ladies rarely confess it."
"Why?"
"Oh, you ought to know better than I do. You give me the idea of being a
plucky woman."
"You must be quick in gathering ideas," said Katherine, dryly.
"Yes; some subjects inspire me," he returned, handing in his cup.
"Another, please. I am a bit of a physiognomist. I think I could give a
rough sketch of your character." He stirred the fire to a brighter blaze
and added, "It is so deuced dark since that shower came on I can hardly
see you, but I will tell you my ideas, if you care to hear them."
"Yes, I should," she returned, laughing. "It will be curious to hear the
result of an instantaneous estimate. Why, five minutes ago you had never
seen me."
"Five minutes? No; ten at least. Well, then, I should say you are a
remarkably plucky girl, though perhaps not impervious to panic. And, let
me see," fixing his keen, fierce eyes on hers, "gifted with no small
power of enjoyment. With a strong dash of the rebel in you, and--well, I
could tell you more, but I won't."
Katherine laughed good-humoredly.
"Have I hit it off?" he asked, after waiting for her to speak.
"I cannot tell. Do we ever know ourselves?"
"That's true; but few admit their ignorance. I begin to think that you
are dangerous, in addition to your other qualities, as you can refrain
from discussing yourself; that is a bait which draws out most women."
"And most men," added Katherine. "We haven't much to reproach each other
with on that score."
"No, I must admit that. Self is a fascinating topic."
"Some more tea?" asked Katherine, demurely.
"No, thank you. I am not absolutely insatiable. Tell me," he went on,
with a quaint familiarity which was not offensive, "how can a girl with
your nature--mind, I have not told half I guess--how can you stand your
life here--walking about with those brats, making tea while the others
are out amusing themselves, hammering away at the same round day after
day? You are made for different things."
"I should not care to live at Castleford all the days of my life," said
Katherine, a little surprised by his question, and feeling there was a
mistake somewhere; "but I do not intend to stay long."
"Oh, indeed! How do you get on with Mrs. Ormonde? She doesn't worry you
about the boys? She is a jolly, pretty little woman; but you are not
exactly the sort of young lady I should have fancied would be her
choice."
"Why not?" asked Katherine, beginning to see his mistake.
"Because"--began De Burgh, looking full at her, and then paused. "You
are too handsome by half!" were the words on his lips, but he did not
utter them; he substituted, "You don't seem quite the thing for Mrs.
Ormonde."
"She finds I suit her admirably," said Katherine, gravely.
"I don't quite understand"--De Burgh was beginning, when the door opened
to admit Mrs. Ormonde.
"Ah, Mr. De Burgh, I did not expect you so early; but I am glad
Katherine was here to give you your tea. It is not necessary to
introduce you. I was afraid you would have been caught in that shower,
Katie."
"We just escaped it. I hope Lady Alice has found shelter, or she will
renew her cold."
"You are Miss Liddell, then?" said De Burgh, as he placed a chair for
Mrs. Ormonde and took her cloak.
"To be sure. Didn't you guess who she was?"
"Mr. De Burgh guessed a good deal, but he did not guess my identity,"
said Katherine, handing her a cup of tea.
"What! Were you playing at cross questions and crooked answers?"
"Something of that sort," he returned, and changed the subject by asking
if they had heard how Errington's father was.
"Better, I suppose, for Mr. Errington has returned. He met us when we
were in Melford Woods."
"I dare say he met Alice and Miss Brereton, then," said Mrs. Ormonde;
"they were riding in that direction."
"Lady Alice will be taken care of, then," said Katherine, and taking her
hat she went away, seeing that Mrs. Ormonde was quite ready to absorb
the conversation.
"So that is Katherine Liddell," said De Burgh, looking after her,
regardless of Mrs. Ormonde's declaration that she was going to scold
him.
"Yes. Is she not like what you expected?"
"Expected? I did not expect anything; but she isn't a bit like what you
described."
"How so? Did I say too much?"
"Yes, a great deal too much, but the wrong way."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, you talked as if she was a regular gushing school-girl, ready to
swallow any double-barrelled compliment one chose to offer, whereas she
is a finely developed woman, by Jove! with brains too, or I am much
mistaken. Why, my charming little friend, she is older in some ways than
you are."
"Oh, nonsense. You need not flatter _me_."
"It's not flattery, it's--"
The arrival of the riding party with the addition of Errington prevented
him from finishing his sentence.