CONFESSION.
"Errington is completely ruined!" De Burgh's words repeated themselves
over and over again in Katherine's ears through the darkness and silence
of her sleepless night. What would become of him--that grave, stately
man who had never known the touch of anything common or unclean? How
would he live? And what an additional blow the rupture of his engagement
with Lady Alice! He was certainly very fond of her. It was like him to
give up all he possessed to save the honor of his name, but how would it
be if he were penniless? Had _she_ not robbed him, he might have enough
to live comfortably after satisfying every one. As she thought, a
resolution to restore what she had taken formed itself in her mind.
Perhaps if he could show that he had still a solid capital, his
engagement to Lady Alice need not be broken off. If she could restore
him to competence, he would not refuse some provision for the poor dear
boys. Were she secure on _this_ point, she would be happier without the
money than with it. But the humiliation of confession--and to _such_ a
father confessor? How could she do it? Yet it must be done.
"Good gracious, Katherine, you look like a ghost!" was Mrs. Ormonde's
salutation when the little party met at breakfast next morning. "Pray
have you seen one?"
"Yes; I have been surrounded by a whole gallery of ghosts all
night--which means that a bad conscience would not let me sleep."
"What nonsense! Why, you are a perfect saint, Kate, in some ways; but in
others I must say you are foolish; yes, dear, I must say it--_very_
foolish."
"I dare say I am," returned Katherine; "but whether I am or not, I have
an intense headache, so you must excuse me if I am very stupid."
"I am sure you want change, Katherine. Do come back with me to town.
There is quite time enough to put up all you want before 11, and the
train goes at 11.10. There is a little dance, 'small and early' at Lady
Mary Vincent's this evening, and I know she would be delighted to see
you."
"I do not think hot rooms the best cure for a headache," observed Miss
Payne; "and till yesterday Katherine had been looking remarkably well.
She was out boating too long in the sun."
"You are very good to trouble about me, Ada. My best cure is quiet. I
will go and lie down as soon as I see you off, and I dare say shall be
myself again in the evening. I may come up to town for a day or two
before you return to Castleford, but I will let you know."
Nothing more was said on the subject then, but when Katherine returned
from the station after bidding her sister-in-law good-by, Miss Payne met
her with a strong recommendation to take some "sal volatile and water,
and to lie down at once."
"I did not, of course, second Mrs. Ormonde's suggestions--the idea of
your going for rest or health to _her_ house!--but I am really vexed to
see you look so ill. How do you feel?"
"Very well disposed to follow your good advice. If I could get some
sleep, I should be quite well." Katherine smiled pleasantly as she
spoke. She was extremely thankful to secure an hour or two of silence
and solitude.
During the night her heart, her brain, were in such a tumult she could
not think consecutively. Alone in her room, and grown calmer, she could
plan her future proceedings and screw her courage to the desperate
sticking-point of action such as her conscience dictated.
She fastened her door and set her window wide open. After gazing for
some time at the sea, golden and glittering in the noonday sun, and
inhaling the soft breeze which came in laden with briny freshness, she
lay down and closed her eyes. But though keeping profoundly still, no
restful look of sleep stole over her set face; no, she was thinking
hard, for how long she could not tell. When, however, she came
downstairs to join Miss Payne at tea, the anxious, nervous, alarmed
expression of her eyes had changed to one of gloomy composure.
"Though I do not care to stay with Ada, I want to go to town to-morrow
for a little shopping, and to see Mr. Newton if I can. I will take the
quick train at half-past eight and return in the evening. You might send
to meet the nine o'clock express. Should anything occur to keep me, I
will telegraph."
"Very well"--Miss Payne's usual reply to Katherine's propositions. "But
are you quite sure you feel equal to the journey?"
"Yes, quite equal," returned Katherine, with a short deep sigh. "I
believe it will do me good."
That Errington had been stunned by the blow which had fallen so suddenly
upon him cannot be disputed. His first and bitterest concern was dread
lest the character of his father's house, which had always stood so
high, lest the honor of his own name, should suffer the smallest
tarnish. It was this that made him so eager to ascertain the full
liabilities of the firm, so ready to sacrifice all he possessed so that
no one save himself should be the loser. "If I accepted a handsome
fortune from transactions over which I exercised no supervision, I must
hold myself doubly responsible for the result," he argued, and at once
set to work to turn all he possessed into money.
In truth the prospect of poverty did not dismay him.
His tastes were very simple. It was the loss of power and position,
which wealth always bestows, which he would feel most, and the necessity
of renouncing Lady Alice.
This was imperative. Yet it surprised him to perceive how little he felt
the prospect of parting with her on his own account. Indeed he was
rather ashamed of his indifference. It was for Lady Alice he felt. It
would be such a terrible disappointment--not that Errington had much
personal vanity. He hoped and thought Lady Alice Mordaunt liked him in a
calm and reasonable manner, which is the best guarantee for married
happiness. But it was the loss of a tranquil home, a luxurious life, an
escape from the genteel poverty of a deeply embarrassed earl's daughter
to the ease and comfort of a rich man's wife, that he deplored for her.
Poor helpless child! she would probably find a rich husband ere long who
would give her all possible luxuries, for a noble's daughter of high
degree is generally a marketable article. But he, Miles Errington, would
have been kind and patient. Would that other possible fellow be kind and
patient too? Knowing his own sex, Errington doubted it. He had a certain
amount of the generosity which belongs to strength. To children, and the
kind of pretty, undecided women who rank as children, he was wonderfully
considerate. But it was quite possible that were he married to a
sensible, companionable wife he might be exacting.
At present it seemed highly improbable that he should ever reach a
position which would enable him to commit matrimony. Thirty-four is
rather an advanced age at which to begin life afresh.
The prospect of bachelorhood, however, by no means dismayed him. Indeed
it was more a sense of his social duties as a man of fortune and a
future senator that had impelled him to seek a wife, not an irresistible
desire for the companionship of a ministering spirit. He was truly
thankful that his marriage had bean delayed, and that he was not
hampered by any sense of duty toward a wife in his design of sacrificing
his all to save his credit.
After the first few days of stunning surprise, Errington set vigorously
to work to clear the wreck. Garston was advertised; his stud, his
furniture--everything--put up for sale, and his own days divided between
his solicitor and his stock-broker. His first step was to explain
matters to his intended father-in-law, who, being an impulsive,
self-indulgent man, swore a good deal about the ill-luck of all
concerned, but at once declared the engagement must be at an end.
As Lady Alice was still in Switzerland with her brother and his wife, it
was considered wise to spare her the pain of an interview. Lord Melford
explained matters to his daughter in an extremely outspoken letter,
enclosing one from Errington, in which, with much good feeling, he bade
her a kindly farewell. To this she replied promptly, and a week saw the
extinction of the whole affair. Errington could not help smiling at this
"rapid act." It was then about three weeks after the blow had fallen--a
warm glowing June morning. Errington's man of business had just left
him, and he had returned to his writing-table, which was strewn, or
rather covered, with papers (nothing Errington ever handled was
"strewn"), and continued his task of making out a list of his
private liabilities, which were comparatively light, when his
valet--not yet discharged, though already warned to look for another
master--approached, with his usually impassive countenance, and
presented a small note.
Errington opened it, and to his inexpressible surprise read as follows:
"TO MR. ERRINGTON,--Allow me to speak to you alone.
"KATHERINE LIDDELL."
"Who brought this?" asked Errington, suppressing all expression as well
as he could.
"A young person in black, sir--leastways I think she's young."
"Show her in; and, Harris, I am engaged if any one calls."
Errington went to the door to meet his most unexpected visitor. The next
moment she stood before him. He bowed with much deference. She bent her
head in silence, but did not offer to shake hands. She wore a black
dress and a very simple black straw hat, round which a white gauze veil
was tied, which effectually concealed her face.
"Pray sit down," was all Errington could think of saying, so astonished
was he at her sudden appearance.
Katherine took a seat opposite to his. She unfastened and took off her
veil, displaying a face from which her usual rich soft color had faded,
sombre eyes, and tremulous lips. Looking full at him, she said, without
greeting of any kind, "Do you think me mad _to_ come here?"
"I am a little surprised; but if I can be of any use--" Errington began
calmly. She interrupted him.
"I hope to be of use to _you_. No one except myself can explain how or
why; that is the reason I have intruded upon you."
"You do not intrude, Miss Liddell. I am quite at your service; only I
hope you are not distressing yourself on my account."
"On yours and my own." Her eyes sank, and her hands played nervously
with the handle of a small dainty leather bag she carried, as she
paused. Then, looking up steadily, and speaking in a monotonous tone, as
if she were repeating a lesson, with parched lips she went on: "I did
you a great wrong some years ago. I was sorry, but I had not the courage
to atone until I learned (only yesterday) that you had lost, or rather
given up, your fortune, and that your engagement might be broken off. (I
_must_ speak of these things. You will forgive me before I come to an
end.) Then I felt something stronger than myself that forced me to tell
you all." Her heart beat so hard that her voice could not be steadied.
She stopped to breathe.
"I fear you are exciting yourself needlessly," said Errington, quite
bewildered, and almost fearing that his visitor's brain was affected.
"Oh, listen!--do listen! My uncle, John Liddell, your father's old
friend, left all his money to you. I hid the will, and succeeded as next
of kin. The property amounts to something more than eighty thousand
pounds, and I have not spent half the income, so there are some savings
besides. Can you not live comfortably on that, and marry Lady Alice?"
Errington gazed at her for a moment speechless. A sigh of relief broke
from Katherine. The color rose to her cheeks, her throat, her small
white ears, and then slowly faded.
"I can hardly understand you, Miss Liddell. I fear you are under the
effect of some nervous hallucination."
"I am not. I can prove I am not." She drew forth the packet inscribed
"MS. to be destroyed," and laid it before him. "There is the will. Thank
God I never could bring myself to destroy it. Here, pray read it." She
opened the document and handed it to him.
There were a few moments' dead silence while Errington hastily skimmed
the will. "_I_ am most reluctantly obliged to believe you," he said at
length. "But what an extraordinary circumstance! How"--looking earnestly
at her--"how did it ever occur to you to--to--"
"To commit a felony?" put in Katherine, as he paused.
"No; I was not going to use such a word," he said, gravely, but not
unkindly.
"If you have time to listen I will tell you everything. Now that I have
told the ugly secret that has made a discord in my life, I can speak
more easily." But her sweet mouth still quivered.
"Yes, tell me all," said Errington, more eagerly than perhaps he had
ever spoken before.
In a low but more composed voice Katherine gave a rapid account of the
circumstances which led to her residence with her uncle: of her intense
desire to help the dear mother whose burden was almost more than she
could bear; then of the change which came to the old miser--his
increasing interest in herself, and finally of his expressed intention
to change his will--as she hoped, in her favor; of her leaving it, by
his direction, in the writing-table drawer; of his terribly sudden
death.
Then came the great temptation. "When Mr. Newton said that if the will
existed it would be in the bureau, but that as he had been on the point
of making another, so he (Mr. Newton) hoped he had destroyed the last,"
continued Katherine, "a thought darted through my brain. Why should it
be found? _He_ no longer wished its provisions to be carried out. I
should not, in destroying or suppressing it, defeat the wishes of the
dead. I determined, if Mr. Newton asked me a direct question, I would
tell him the truth; if not, I would simply be silent. In short, I
mentally _tossed_ for the guidance of my conduct. Silence won. Mr.
Newton asked nothing; he was too glad that everything was mine. He has
been very, very good to me. I imagined that half my uncle's money would
go to my brother's children, but it did not; so when I came of age I
settled a third upon them. Of course the deed of gift is now but so much
waste paper, and for them I would earnestly implore you to spare a
little yearly allowance for education, to prepare them to earn their own
bread. I feel sure you will do this, and I do deeply dread their being
thrown on Colonel Ormonde's charity; their lot would be very miserable.
My poor little boys!" Her voice broke, and she stopped abruptly.
Errington's eyes dwelt upon her, almost sternly, with the deepest
attention, while she spoke. Nor did he break silence at once; he leaned
back in his chair, resting one closed hand on the table before him. At
last he exclaimed: "I wish you had not told me this! I could not have
imagined you capable of such an act."
"And more," said Katherine; "although I wish to make what reparation I
can, had that act to be done again--even with the anticipation of this
bitter hour--I'd do it."
She looked straight into Errington's eyes, her own aflame with sudden
passion. He was silent, his brow slightly knit, a puzzled expression in
his face. The natural motion of his mind was to condemn severely such a
lawless sentiment, yet he could not resist thinking of those brilliant
speaking eyes, nor help the conviction that he had never met a real live
woman before. It was like a scene on the stage; for demonstrative
emotion always appeared theatrical to him, only it was terribly earnest
this time.
"You would not say so were you calmer," said Errington, in a curious
hesitating manner. "Why--why did you not come and tell me your need for
your uncle's money? Do you think I am so avaricious as to retain the
fortune, or all the fortune, that ought to have been yours, when I had
enough of my own?"
"How could I tell?" she cried. "If I knew you then as I do now I
_should_ have asked you, and saved my soul alive; but what did the name
of Errington convey to me? Only the idea of a greedy enemy! Are men so
ready to cast the wealth they can claim into the lap of another? When
you spoke to me that day at Castleford I thought I should have dropped
at your feet with the overpowering sense of shame. But withal, when I
remember my disappointment, my utter inability to help my dear
overtasked mother, round whom the net of difficulty, of debt, of
fruitless work, was drawing closer and closer, I again feel the
irresistible force of the temptation. You, who are wise and strong and
just, might have resisted; but"--with a slight graceful gesture of
humility--"you see what I am."
"If you had stopped to think!" Errington was beginning with unusual
severity, for he was irritated by the confusion in his own mind, which
was so different from his ordinary unhesitating decision between right
and wrong.
"But when you love any one very much--so entirely that you know every
change of the dear face, the meaning even of the drooping hand or the
bend of the weary head; when you know that a true brave heart is
breaking under a load of care--care for you, for your future, when it
will no longer be near to watch over and uphold you--and that no thought
or tenderness or personal exertion can lift that load, only the magic of
gold, why, you would do almost anything to get it. Would you not if you
loved like _this_?" concluded Katherine. She had spoken rapidly and with
fire.
"But I never have," returned Errington, startled.
"Then," said she, with some deliberation, "wisdom for you is from one
entrance quite shut out." She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and
was very still during a pause, which Errington hesitated to break.
"It is no doubt lost breath to excuse myself to a man of your character,
only do believe I was not meanly greedy! Now I have told you everything,
I readily resign into your hands what I ought never to have taken.
And--and you will spare my nephews wherewithal to educate them? Do what
I can, this is beyond my powers, but I trust to your generosity not to
let them be a burden on Colonel Ormonde. I leave the will with you." She
made a movement as if to put on her veil.
"Listen to me, Miss Liddell," said Errington, speaking very earnestly
and with an effort. "You are in a state of exaltation, of mental
excitement. The consciousness of the terrible mistake into which you
were tempted has thrown your judgment off its balance. I do not for an
instant doubt the sincerity of your proposition, but a little reflection
will show you I could not entertain it."
"Why not? I am quite willing to bear the blame, the shame, I deserve,
rather than see you parted from the woman who was so nearly your wife,
who would no doubt suffer keenly, and who--"
"Pray hear me," interrupted Errington. "To part with Lady Alice is a
great aggravation of my present troubles; but considering the kind of
life to which we were both accustomed, and which she had a right to
expect, I am sincerely thankful she was preserved from sharing my lot.
Alone I can battle with life; distracted by knowing I had dragged _her_
down, I should be paralyzed. I shall always remember with grateful
regard the lady who honored me by promising to be my wife, but I shall
be glad to know that she is in a safe position under the care of a
worthier man than myself. _That_ matter is at rest forever. Now as to
using the information you have placed in my power, you ask what is
impossible. First, it is evident that the late Mr. Liddell fully
intended to alter his will in your favor. It would have been most unjust
to have bestowed his fortune to me. I am extremely glad it is yours."
"But," again interrupted Katherine, "why should you not share it at
least? Why should you be penniless while I am rich with what is not
mine?"
"I shall not be absolutely penniless," said Errington, smiling gravely.
"Even if I were," he continued, with unusual animation, "do you think me
capable of rebuilding my fortune on your disgrace? or of inventing some
elaborate lie to account for the possession of that unlucky will? No
amount of riches could repay me for either. I dare say the temptation
you describe was irresistible to a nature like yours, and I dare say too
the punishment of your self-condemnation is bitter enough. Now you must
reflect that your duty is to keep the secret to which you have bound
yourself. If you raise the veil which must always hide the true facts of
your succession, you would create great unhappiness and confusion in
Colonel Ormonde's family, and injure the innocent woman whom he would
never have married had he not been sure you would provide for the boys.
It would so cruel to break up a home merely to indulge a morbid desire
for atonement. No, Miss Liddell. Be guided by me; accept the life you
have brought upon yourself. _I_, the only one who has a right to do it,
willingly resign what ought to have been yours without your
unfortunately illegal act. Your secret is perfectly safe with me. Time
will heal the wounds you have inflicted on yourself and enable you to
forget. Leave this ill-omened document with me; it is safer than in your
hands. Indeed there is no use in keeping it."
"But what--what will become of _you?_" she asked, with strange
familiarity, the outcome of strong excitement which carried her over all
conventional limits.
"Oh, I have had some training in the world both of men and books, and I
hope to be able to keep the wolf from the door."
"Would you not accept part at least--a sum of money, you know, to begin
something?" asked Katherine, her voice quivering, her nerves relaxing
from their high tension, and feeling utterly beaten, her high resolves
of sacrifice and renunciation tumbling about her, like a house of cards,
at the touch of common-sense.
"I do not think any arrangements of the kind practicable," returned
Errington, with a kind smile. "I understand your eagerness to relieve
your conscience by an act of restitution, but now you are exonerated. I
ask nothing but that you should forgive yourself, and knit up the
ravelled web of your life. The fortune ought to be yours--is
yours--shall be yours."
"Will you promise that if you ever want help--money help--you will ask
me? I shall have more money every year, for I shall never spend my
income."
"I shall not want help," he returned, quietly. "But though it is not
likely we shall meet again, believe me I shall always be glad to know
you are well and happy. Let this painful conversation be the last we
have on this subject. For my part, I grant you plenary absolution."
"You are good and generous; you are wise too; your judgment constrains
me. Yet I hope I shall _never_ see you again. It is too humiliating to
meet your eyes." She spoke brokenly as she tied the white veil closely
over her face.
"Nevertheless we part friends," said Errington, and held out his hand.
She put hers in it. He felt how it trembled, and held it an instant with
a friendly pressure. Then he opened the door and followed her to the
entrance, where he bowed low as she passed out.
Errington returned at once to his writing-table and his calculations. He
took up his pen, but he did not begin to write. He leaned back in his
chair and fell into an interesting train of thought. What an
extraordinary mad proceeding it was of that girl to conceal the will! It
was strangely unprincipled. "How impossible it is to trust a person who
acts from impulse! The difference between masculine and feminine
character is immense. No man with a grain of honor in him would have
done what she did; only some dastardly hound who could cheat at cards.
And she--somehow she seems a pure good woman in spite of all. I suppose
in a woman's sensitive and weaker nature good and evil are less
distinct, more shaded into each other. After all, I think I would trust
my life to the word of this daring law-breaker." And Errington recalled
the expressive tones of her voice, surprised to feel again the strange
thrill which shivered through him when she had looked straight into his
eyes, her own aglow with momentary defiance, and said, "Had it to be
done again, I'd do it!" He had never been brought face to face with real
emotion before. He knew such a thing existed; that it led like most
things to good and to evil; that it was exceedingly useful to poets, who
often touched him, and to actors, who did not; but in real every-day
life he had rarely, if ever, seen it. The people with whom he associated
were rich, well born, well trained; a crumpled rose leaf here and there
was the worst trouble in their easy, conventional, luxurious lives. Of
course he had met men on the road to ruin who swore and drank and
gambled and generally disgraced themselves. Such cases, however, did not
affect him much; he only touched such characters with moral tongs. Now
this delicate, refined girl had humbled herself before him. Her sweet
varying tones, her moist glowing eyes, the indescribable tremulous
earnestness which was the undertone of all she said, her determined
efforts for self-command, made a deep impression on him. Was she right
when she said that from him "wisdom by one entrance was quite shut out?"
At all events he felt, though he did not consciously acknowledge it even
to himself, that this impulsive, inexperienced girl, whom he strove to
look down upon from the unsullied heights of his own integrity, had
revealed to him something of life's inner core which had hitherto been
hidden from his sight.
But all this dreaming was unpardonable waste of time when so much
serious work lay before him. So Errington resolutely turned from his
unusual and disturbing reverie, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to
write steadily.