A Crooked Path Part 16

"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-fas.h.i.+oned 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'

appet.i.te, 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 gra.s.s. 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 gra.s.s 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 Ca.n.a.l, she turned down a street which led by a circuit toward her abode. It skirted Primrose Hill for a few yards, and as she pa.s.sed 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 refres.h.i.+ng 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.