CHAPTER III.
n after-life, when Catherine tried to review the events of that strange summer, although every detail of her stay in Switzerland stood out in startling distinctness, she could never remember anything about the journey home. It seemed to pass in a dream, and she saw, as in a vision, the flitting crowds at the railway stations, the swarms of strange, unknown faces, the gleams of sunlight on field and stream as the train rushed by them, and at last the sea and the white cliffs of England again. Ten days had changed her from an eager, impulsive girl to a mature woman, self-reliant, not only in intention, but in fact. The well-known approach to her old rooms convinced her of the reality of things. “And now,” she thought, “for the old life, with its ordinary cares and business. Well, it has to be endured.”
But her anticipations were destined to be falsified. Her landlady met her with mingled relief and surprise. A letter had come that morning marked “Immediate.” She had not known where to send it, but now Miss West had come it would be off her mind.
“A letter for me!” cried Catherine, her thoughts at once rushing to Granville and Margaret, and then immediately reduced to order by a little common sense. “I so seldom have any letters, surely you must be mistaken.”
But no, the letter was there, a large square envelope, sealed with a heavy crest. She opened it with a good deal of curiosity, and read:—
“The Parade, St. John’s.
“Dear Niece,—You probably never heard of your aunt, or rather your father’s aunt, Cicely. He and I quarrelled before you were born, and I never had any communication with him afterwards. But I have just discovered that I am suffering from an incurable complaint and have not many months to live, and it has come upon me that I should like to see you, and be reconciled to you as his representative. As soon, therefore, as you receive this I beg of you to come to me. I will, of course, defray all your expenses, and will see that you are met at the station. Telegraph the time of your arrival.
“Yours sincerely,
“Cicely West.”
The arrival of this letter was a positive relief to Catherine. It gave her something to do and something to occupy her mind, and she had so much dreaded those quiet days spent alone in her rooms before the school opened again. Now there was no time for regret. With feverish energy she looked out her train in Bradshaw, despatched her trunks, had some lunch, and started out again on her travels. The journey took some time. St. John’s is a little watering-place on the south coast, almost suburban in character, so accessible is it from London, and with that peculiarly uninteresting and unfinished look distinctive of places that have been developed as a speculation. A bran new promenade and a flaunting “Kursaal” are its chief attractions, and at each end of the bay the giant scaffolding prophetic of some immense hotel or terrace projects its hideous outline between the sky and sea. Catherine, fresh from the magnificence of the Alps, shuddered as the train ran into the overcrowded little station.
She collected her belongings and was about to call a cab when a man in livery touched his hat, and, asking her if she were not for Frampton House, opened the door of a brougham that stood waiting. Catherine got in, and realised for the first time how tired she was; but she did not have much time for reflection, for in a very few minutes the carriage drew up at a large house facing the sea.
She was ushered into a dimly-lighted hall, up a broad flight of stairs, and soon found herself in a bedroom looking out over the promenade. She was slowly unfastening her jacket, trying to become accustomed to the sudden change in her surroundings, when the door opened and a little old lady walked in.
She was decidedly below middle height, but her carriage and dress gave her a dignity that would hardly belong by right to one so small of stature. Her fine delicate features were framed in a mist of lace, and underneath the neatly-parted bands of silver hair her dark eyes flashed with a brilliance undimmed by age or suffering. But her face was lined and worn, and the tiny hand that she extended to her visitor was almost transparent. Catherine was surprised to find how firm was the grasp in which her own was taken; but she soon found that this mingled frailty and dignity were but an index to the woman’s whole character. An iron will within a tender frame, resolution fighting with femininity, this had been the tragedy of her life; even now the fatal disease with which she was struggling was kept at bay by sheer force of will.
“So you are Catherine West,” she said, after the first greeting, standing at a little distance that she might have a better view of the girl. She crossed to the window and drew up the blind before Catherine guessed her intention, and then continued her inspection. “Ah, not much like your mother, much more like what I was in my young days, but taller—it is the fashion to be tall now. Brown hair, blue eyes, fair complexion—but you are tired now. Yes, certainly you are a West, and that is satisfactory.”
Aunt Cicely retired, and Catherine, shaking out her one evening gown, tried to make herself as presentable as possible. She feared the disapproval of this daintily-attired old lady, though the large pier-glass beneath the electric light flashed back to her a defiance of criticism. Then she found her way down to the immense drawing-room, like a conservatory in its wealth of glass, but somewhat inferior as regards warmth. She found out afterwards that her aunt had been ordered to St. John’s for her health, and had taken this large, new-fashioned house on the recommendation of a land agent without having seen it.
Aunt Cicely was not such a terrible person after all. The fact was, she was agreeably surprised by this relation, whom she had summoned in tardy reparation for the injury she had done her nephew. Catherine’s father had chosen his wife from an inferior class, and his aunt had concluded that their daughter would be bourgeoise in the extreme. She had expected a short, dumpy girl, with big wrists and red hands, and saw instead a reflection, as it were, from the days of her own girlhood. A storm of grief and regret swept through the passionate heart that years of worldliness had been unable to entirely chill, and a resolution to make Catherine’s life as full and happy as her own had been empty and desolate filled her mind. But her manner was still distant and repellant; she could not easily throw aside her reserve or give play at once to the instincts of tenderness that had been distorted and diverted all her life.
But as the days wore on the two grew nearer and nearer to one another. Catherine’s sore and wounded heart, still bleeding from the effort of her great sacrifice, found wonderful solace in the care and attention she lavished on her aunt. The absolute necessity of some object of solicitude and tenderness is more obvious to most women than the desire for a particular lover. If Catherine had felt that Granville had any need of her she would not have run away from him; the liberty to love was far more to her than the desire for his devotion to herself. But that brief experience had wonderfully deepened and expanded her character. Before that, she would have viewed her aunt’s idiosyncrasies with some contempt and treated them with impatient forbearance. Now a great flood of pity filled her soul for this unhappy woman, who had wrecked her life by her own self-will, and yet bore the result with such unexampled fortitude. And Cicely, on the other hand, found that after all she had not forgotten how to love. After the tragedy of her youth she had made the repression of her emotions her great end; naturally ardent, she had striven to show the world an impassive and indifferent countenance: now, on the brink of dissolution, the long-suppressed fire burst forth. She was more like the Cicely of her youth than she had been for forty years.
Her tenderness manifested itself in a hundred ways. She had made Catherine, immediately after her arrival, send in the resignation of her post; and though the girl remonstrated with her, and lamented her loss of independence, she only replied that she could not possibly do without her, and that it was her plain duty to remain where she was. But the head mistress was travelling in Norway, so that the letter did not reach her at once, and was forwarded from place to place in pursuit of her. Catherine knew that if Granville or Margaret should wish to find her, they would at once apply at the address on the visiting card that she had given the latter—the address of her rooms. She was, therefore, careful to avoid telling the landlady where she had gone, sending directions to have her few belongings forwarded to the cloak-room at Victoria, whence they were afterwards despatched to her. In this way she thought she had concealed her retreat, at least for the present. For the discovery of a rich aunt had not at all altered Catherine’s sentiments or caused her to regret her resolution. She was quite as sure as Margaret that Granville’s interests could best be advanced by a marriage with Lady Blanche, and, in spite of his note, was by no means convinced of his attachment to herself. The idea that in the event of her aunt’s death she would be the probable heiress had not occurred to her, nor did she realise what this might mean, till one evening about a fortnight after her arrival, when the two women were sitting together in the twilight.
Catherine had been playing softly on the piano, and now she sat at the window, gazing over the darkening sea with eyes that obviously saw nothing. She did not know that her aunt’s keen glance was fixed upon her face, and suddenly she gave a little sigh.
“What are you thinking of, my dear?” said the old lady.
Catherine crimsoned, for, to tell the truth, she had been reviewing for the thousandth time that episode on the mountain-side. She hesitated, and then answered—
“Oh, about a great many things.”
“Catherine,” asked her aunt again, “have you ever had a lover?”
“Oh, what makes you ask?” said the girl, swift waves of colour chasing each other from her white forehead to her slender neck.
“That means, I suppose, that you have. I thought that sigh could not be for nothing.”
“No, indeed,” stammered the girl, “really I haven’t—at least, I suppose—I don’t think——”
“My dear, I am sure there is somebody. You must not think me very prying and inquisitive, but I insist on knowing the particulars.”
Catherine grew indignant.
“You have no right; and besides, there is nothing to tell.”
“Pardon me, I have a right,” said her aunt. “Do you not understand that I have left all my property to you, that you will be a very rich woman, and that I have some interest in knowing on whom the responsibility of the management will devolve? Come, my dear, imagine that I am your mother, and that no one cares more for your happiness than I. Did it happen in Switzerland?”
And so at last, by dint of many questions and suggestions, she drew out Catherine’s little story.
“Well, my dear,” she said, when it was finished, and Catherine’s shoulders were shaking in a storm of sobs on her lap, “I must say that I think you have behaved very foolishly, although I appreciate your motives. You should at least have given him the opportunity of a definite declaration.”
“But I don’t believe that he really cares; it was only a momentary impulse, perhaps, and besides, how could I help him? And Margaret, at any rate, suspected that he cared for someone else.”
“But his letter afterwards—you say he was a gentleman?”
“Of course!” cried Catherine, indignant at the insinuation.
“Then it is most probable that he was in earnest. How absurd girls are! To risk the happiness of your whole life for a sentimental idea! Now what you must do, and at once, is to write to his sister, and enclose your address.”
“Aunt Cicely!” exclaimed Catherine angrily.
“Yes, why not?”
“Don’t you see that it would undo all that I have already accomplished? He would be sure to hear, and it would be like asking him to come to me!”
“And what of that? He would probably be only too glad. And remember that you are a better match now. If he cared for you when you were a little insignificant governess, without any connexions as far as he knew, he would care much more now you are my acknowledged heiress.”
“It is too bad to say that! He is not at all that kind of man. Why, Margaret told me that it was only her money that stood between him and Lord Mayne’s sister.”
Aunt Cicely smiled wisely. Catherine’s warmth was merely a further revelation of the state of her feelings. “At least, you must do as I wish in this matter. You must certainly write to Miss Gray,” she said decidedly.
“I cannot—I dare not—I will not!” returned the girl with equal emphasis.
Aunt Cicely grew angry. Her will had been so long dominant that she could not brook opposition. And in proportion to her increased determination, Catherine’s defiance became more and more resolute. It was the battle of two wills, and the girl had herself scarcely realised till then how strong her own could be.
At last her aunt moved away, her whole frame shaking with indignation, and tottered towards the door; but as she reached it, she turned, and, lifting her hand, exclaimed—
“Remember! From this time you are disinherited! Not a penny of my money shall ever reach you!”
Catherine drew herself up with girlish dignity. “I have given you no right to speak like that,” she said. “I have never shown any desire for your money. I was independent of your favour before, and I can be independent again.”
The door closed, and Catherine sank exhausted into an arm-chair. But when the first impulse of resentment had subsided, she began to have regrets. After all, her aunt was an old woman, and however irritating she might be, her age entitled her to forbearance. And she was ill and suffering, and any excitement was bad for her. Catherine dried her eyes, and ran lightly upstairs to the old lady’s room. She tapped at the door, but received no response: and after waiting a long time she concluded that her aunt’s resentment was still unabated, and crept miserably to bed.
Aunt Cicely, tossing uneasily to and fro, was not less remorseful. But she was still convinced that her advice was sound, and that the girl should have taken it. After all, had she not the experience of a lifetime to guide her? Reviewing her brilliant girlhood and the long years of desolation and loneliness that had resulted from her own foolish pride, she resolved emphatically that another life should not be sacrificed in the same manner. If Catherine would not take the necessary steps to bring about an understanding, she would take them herself. She had known Lord Mayne’s father, and had followed the son’s career with much interest. She could use her knowledge of the family and introduce herself to the latter, from whom she would, no doubt, be able to learn all that was necessary about his secretary. And if she approved of him, she did not doubt that she would be able to bring the match about. She waited impatiently for the morning, and at six o’clock rang for her maid.
“I must go to London by the 7.30 train,” she said. “Tell Wilkins to have the brougham ready in an hour. And don’t disturb Miss Catherine. She was up late last night, so you might take some breakfast to her at nine o’clock. Now help me to dress.”
(To be concluded.)
A DREAMY AFTERNOON.