"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.