Had he been a close observer of human nature he would have seen that Kate reddened and then turned white. She recovered herself in a moment, however. He approached her. She held out her hand. He bent over it and said “Good-bye.” She felt a hot tear fall that seemed to burn through her glove. But she only said with supreme airiness of manner, “Good-bye,” and galloped up through the avenue of chestnuts.
Harry was as good as his word. He took the portion of goods that fell to him, and went into a far country. And now Miss Arbery began to evince an interest in Arthur Chilcott, which she had never before exhibited. She made all sorts of excuses for seeing that gentleman, and at last she did what she might have done before, confessed her love for Harry, and commanded his brother to bring him back to her. Ladies do occasionally make preposterous demands of this sort, imagining that it is the duty of Society at large, to repair the evil of their own making. But Arthur was cynical. He professed himself unable to reconcile Kate’s expressions with Kate’s actions.
“I will prove to you that I love him. You are his brother. You shall see my diary. You shall read my confessions. And then you will bring him back, will you not?” she pleaded.
To a woman in her present state of mind, Arthur Chilcott knew that he might as well say “Yes” as anything else. Besides which “yes” is more easily said than any other word in the language. So he said it; and received, with many injunctions as to strict secrecy, the precious diary. It was folded up in brown paper. He put it into his pocket; took leave of Miss Arbery and the Squire, and went home.
Arthur Chilcott, though capable of advising well when consulted about the affairs of others, was not triumphantly discreet in the conduct of his own. And soon after the departure of his brother, he became very badly afflicted with the mania for that species of gambling, which goes by the name of speculation. He dabbled in all sorts and conditions of stocks, and in the course of a couple of years, had muddled away his whole fortune. Chilcott Manor, with the fine grounds attached, had to be brought to the hammer. The pictures, books, plate, and wines were duly entered in the unsympathetic pages of the auctioneer, and Arthur came up to London, to live in chambers, heartily wishing that he had never indulged in any sport more hazardous than hunting the red-deer of Exmoor.
Harry Chilcott, after many wanderings in foreign lands, during the course of which he had never forwarded an address, or any indication of the course of his aimless adventures, arrived in London. He was tolerably well cured of his passion—or fancied that he was, which is perhaps not exactly the same thing. Happening to pass through Holborn one day, he stopped at the second-hand bookshop of Mr. Whalley, and began turning over the volumes that lay higgledy-piggledy in a deal box bearing the intimation, “All these at fourpence.” Of course this intimation did not mean that the whole boxful would be sold for that ridiculously inadequate sum, but that each volume could be purchased for a simple groat. The box contained a miscellaneous and somewhat battered assortment of literary works. There was an odd volume of Swift’s “Letters to Stella;” a “Euclid” minus the title page; volume the fourth of Rollin’s “Ancient History;” three or four numbers of “Blackwood;” a “Book of Common Prayer” with one clasp, an incomplete copy of “The Whole Duty of Man” and—
And! what is this?
Harry Chilcott took up a little book of manuscript. His hand trembled as he opened it and gazed at the handwriting. He turned eagerly to the flyleaf. One word was written there—
“Kate.”
It was enough. He ran into the shop, deposited fourpence, and rushed with his prize to the Charing Cross Hotel, at which establishment, probably for economical reasons, he was staying. He locked himself into his room, and as he read page after page, uttered that scrap of autobiographical intelligence, which at some time or other most of the sons of Adam have felt impelled to repeat—“What a fool I have been!” Against the dates of an entire twelve months were entries in which Kate Arbery confessed her affection; entries in which she admitted regret that she should have teased her lover; entries in which she vowed that she would never marry mortal man unless Harry Chilcott asked her to be his.