CHAPTER XLVI.—KATE BEGINS TO REAP THE WHIRLWIND.
Kate Crane was the eldest of a large family; two children younger than herself had died in infancy, so that her next brother was five years her junior. He was a fine, high-spirited lad, generous to a fault, as wilful and determined as his sister, but unfortunately without her power of self-control or steadiness of principle. Thus constituted, he was at once the darling and the torment of his family. Through Mr. Crane’s interest he had obtained a good position in a large mercantile establishment in the city, where, though Kate had at first entertained considerable apprehensions as to his steadiness, he appeared to be going on satisfactorily.
One morning, about three weeks after the date of the occurrences we have related, Mr. Crane having as usual departed for the city to coin money, the mid-day post brought the following letter for his wife—
“Dearest Kate,—It is with reluctance that I take up my pen to ask you whether it will inconvenience you to pay me a part of the next quarter’s allowance you so generously make us, in advance. You know well how I strive and struggle to keep down our expenses, without depriving your dear father (who, I grieve to say, gets weaker and weaker) of the comforts which his declining health renders daily more necessary for him. My best endeavours cannot, however, prevent some of the tradesmen’s bills from getting in arrear,—the fearful expense of your father’s illness absorbing the addition to our income which your kind husband’s liberality has enabled you to make. Such a difficulty is now pressing upon me, and induces me to apply to you. If you can help me, I am sure you will; if you are unable to do so, I can only trust that the beneficent Providence who has hitherto supported me under my heavy trials will not now desert me. Believe me to remain, dearest Kate,
“Ever your affectionate mother,
“Rachel Marsden.”
“P.S.—I am uneasy about Fred; his letters have been short and unsatisfactory for some time; and for the last three weeks he has not written to me at all. I wish you would see him, and endeavour to learn from him how he employs his evenings, &c. You will think my fears unreasonable; but you know how fond and proud we both are of our boy. If anything were to go wrong with him, in your father’s present state of debility, I believe it would be his death-blow.”
Kate’s first impulse on reading the above epistle was to fly to her writing-desk—ten, twenty, thirty pounds, was all that remained: the liberal assistance she had bestowed on Mrs. Leonard and her family having reduced her finances to this low ebb. Reserving only five pounds for her own use, she immediately dispatched a hurried answer, enclosing an order for five-and-twenty pounds, and explaining, in general terms, the reason of her inability to render her parents more effectual assistance, promising to be more careful of their interest for the future.
As she was desiring the servant to post her letter without delay, a sharp knock at the street-door caused her to start, and she had barely time to close her writing-desk, ere Mr. Frederick Marsden was announced, and a tall handsome lad entered.
“Why, Fred, how is this? away from business at this hour! what will that tremendous individual, the ‘Head of the Firm,’ say to you?” inquired Kate, with an attempt at gaiety which scarcely concealed an undefined dread of something having gone wrong, with which her brother’s unexpected arrival, and the information contained in her mother’s letter, had inspired her.