A Crooked Path Part 2

Still she sat there thinking with all the force of her young brain, partly remembering, partly antic.i.p.ating.

Of her father she had scarce any knowledge. She was but four years old when he died, and her only brother was nearly fourteen. The eldest and youngest of Mrs. Liddell's children were the survivors of several.

Katherine's memory of her childish days presented the dim picture of a quaint foreign town; of blue skies, bright suns.h.i.+ne, and abundant vegetation; of large rooms and a smiling black-eyed attendant in a peculiar head-dress; of some one lying back in a large chair, near whom she must never make a noise. Then came a change; mother always in black, with a white cap, and often weeping, and of colder winters, snow and skating--a happy time, for she was always with mother both in lesson and play time, whilst Fred used to go away early to school. Next, clear and distinct, was the recollection of her first visit to London, and from this time she was the companion and confidante of her mother. They were poor--at least every outlay had to be carefully considered--but Katie never knew the want of money. Then came the excitement and preparation attending Fred's departure for India, the mixture of sorrow and satisfaction with which her mother parted from him, of how bitterly she had cried herself; for though somewhat tyrannical, Fred had been always kind and generous.

How well she remembered the day he had left them never to return--how her mother had clasped her to her heart and exclaimed: "You must be all in all to me now, Katie. I have done but little for you yet, dear, Fred needed so much."

A spell of happy, busy life in Germany followed, enlivened by long letters from the young Indian officer, whose career seemed full of promise. But when Katherine was a little more than thirteen sorrow fell upon them. Fred's letters had become irregular; then came a confession of weakness and debt, crowned by the supreme folly of marriage, concluding with a prayer for help.

Mrs. Liddell was cruelly disappointed. She had hoped and expected much from her boy. She believed he was doing so well! She told all to Katie, who heartily agreed with her that Fred must be helped. Some of their slender capital was sold out and sent to him, while mother and daughter cheerfully accepted the loss of many trifling indulgences, drawing the narrow limits of their expenditure closer still, content and free from debt, though as time went on Katherine cast many a longing glance at the world of social enjoyment in which their poverty forbade her to triumph.

Mrs. Liddell had always loved literature, and her husband had been an accomplished though a reckless and self-indulgent man. She had wandered a good deal with him, and had seen a great variety of people and places.

It occurred to her to try her pen as a means of adding to her income, and after some failures she succeeded with one or two of the smaller weekly periodicals. This induced her to return to London, hoping to do better in that great centre of work. Here the tidings of her son's death overwhelmed her. Next came an imploring letter from the young widow, who had no near relatives, praying to be allowed to live with her and Katherine--sharing expenses--as the pension to which an officer's widow and orphans were ent.i.tled insured her a small provision.

So Mrs. Liddell again roused herself, and managed to furnish very scantily the little home where Katherine sat thinking. But the addition to their income was but meagre compared to the expenses which followed in the train of Mrs Frederic Liddell and her two "little Indian boys."

All the efforts of the practical mother and daughter did not suffice to keep within the limits they dreaded to overpa.s.s. Mrs. Liddell's pen became more than ever essential to the maintenance of the household, while the younger widow considered herself a martyr to the most sordid, the most unnecessary stinginess.

A tapping at the door and suppressed childish laughter called Katherine from her thoughts. She rose and opened the door quickly and softly.

"Hush, Cecil! be quiet, Charlie! poor grannie is asleep. Come with me downstairs; I will read to you if you like."

"Oh yes, do," said Charlie.

"I don't care for reading," cried Cecil. "Can't you play bears?"

"It makes too much noise. I will play it to-morrow if grandmamma is better. Shall I tell you a story?"

"No," said Cecil; "_I_ will tell _you_ one."

"Very well. I shall be delighted to hear it."

"I would rather have you read, auntie," said the little one.

"Never mind, Charlie; I will read to you after."

"Shall we sit in the garden? We have made it quite clean and tidy."

"No, dear; grannie would hear us there. Come into the dining-room."

Established there, the boys one on each side of her, Katherine listened to the young story-teller, who began fluently: "There was once two little boys called Jimmie and Frank. Frank was the biggest; he was very strong and very courageous; and he learned his lessons very well when he liked, but he did not always like. The two little boys had an aunt; she was nice and pleasant sometimes, but more times she was cross and disagreeable, and she spoiled Jimmie a great deal. One day they went out to walk a long way, and saw lots of people riding, and Jimmmie grew tired, and so did Frank, but Frank would not complain, and their aunt was so unkind that she would not call a hansom; so when they came to a great street Frank thought he would catch an omnibus, and he ran out quick--quick. He would have caught it, but his aunt was so silly and such a coward that she sent a man after him, who nearly dragged him under the feet of a horse that was coming up, and they would both have been killed if Frank had not called out to the cabman to stop."

"Oh, Cecil, that is you and I. _What_ a story! Auntie is not unkind, and you did not call out," cried Charlie.

Katherine could not help laughing at the little monkey's version of the incident.

"Cecil, Cecil, you must learn to tell the truth--" she was beginning, when the door was opened, and a small, slight lady in black silk, with a profusion of delicate gray ribbons, jet tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and foamy white tulle ruching, stood in the doorway. She was very fair, with light eyes, a soft pink color, and pale golden brown hair--altogether daintily pretty.

"Oh, mammy! mammy! where have you been all my birthday?" cried the elder boy, rus.h.i.+ng to her.

"My own precious darling, do not put your dear dirty little paws on my dress!" she exclaimed, in alarm. "I was _obliged_ to go, my boy; but I have brought you a bag of sweets; it is in the hall. Dear me! how stuffy this room is! Mrs. Burnett's house is _so_ cool and fres.h.!.+ It looks into a charming garden at the back; and oh, how delightful it must be to be rich!" She had advanced into the room as she spoke, and began to untie and smooth out her bonnet strings.

"It must indeed," returned Katherine, with a deep sigh.

"I will go and put on an old dress; this one is too pretty to spoil, and the house is _so_ dusty. Do you think it becoming, Katherine?"

"Yes, very"--with an indulgent smile. "You ought always to wear half-mourning; it suits you admirably."

"I think it does; but I must put it off some day, you know. Cecil dear, go and ask cook to make me a cup of tea. I will have it up in my room.

Charlie, don't cuddle up against your aunt in that way; it makes her too hot, and you will grow crooked." Charlie jumped down from his chair and held up his face.

"There, dear," giving a hasty kiss. "Don't worry."

"Mammy," said Cecil, with much solemnity, "I was nearly killed to-day."

"Nonsense, dear! This is one of your wonderful inventions. What does he mean, Katherine?"

"He might have been. He darted from me at Hyde Park Corner, intending to catch an omnibus, and would have been run over if a gentleman had not s.n.a.t.c.hed him from under the horses' feet."

"My precious boy!" laying her hand on his head, but keeping him at a distance. "How wrong of you, Katherine, to let his hand go!"

"I did not let it go; I was not holding it," returned Katherine, dryly.

"At Hyde Park Corner?" pursued Mrs. Frederic Liddell, eagerly. "Was the gentleman soldierly and stout, with gray mustaches?"

"No. He was young and slight and clean-shaved."

"That is curious; for Colonel Ormonde was saying at luncheon to-day that he had saved, or helped to save, such a pretty little boy from being run over. I don't exactly remember what he said. I was listening to Mrs. De Vere Hopkins, and Mrs. Burnett's boy was making a noise. Colonel Ormonde said he was just like a little fellow he had seen nearly run over that morning. I am sure Tom Burnett is not half as handsome as my Cecil."

"I should not have been run over if auntie had left me alone."

"Go and get mother's tea, and you, Charlie, fetch her some nice bread and b.u.t.ter," said Katherine, who, though six or seven years her sister-in-law's junior, looked at first sight older. "There _was_ an elderly gentleman such as you describe, talking with the young man who rescued Cecil, and he was very polite and interested in Cecil, who broke away from me, though he had promised to stay by my side."

"Promised," repeated Mrs. Frederic, lightly, and carefully dusting her bonnet with her handkerchief. "What can you expect from a child's promise? But poor Cecil rarely does right in your eyes."

"Nonsense, Ada!"

"Not at all. I am very observant. But tell me, did Colonel Ormonde take much notice of Cecil?"

"I do not know. I was too much frightened to see anything but the dear child himself."

Mrs. Frederic did not reply for a moment; she seemed to be thinking deeply. "Where did you get those flowers--those you bought on Sat.u.r.day for sixpence?"

"Oh! at the little florist's on Queen's Road. It was late in the evening, you know, or they would not have been so cheap."

"I should like some to-morrow to make the drawing-room look pretty, if possible, for Colonel Ormonde said he would call. He wishes to see some of my Otocammed photographs. Heigho! it is a miserable place to receive any one in."

"Well, you see, it must do."