Part 30 (2/2)
”Beautiful!” repeated Miss Payne. ”I rather admire her myself, but I don't think any one could call her beautiful.”
”Perhaps not. There is so much expression in her face, such feeling in her eyes, that not many really beautiful women would stand comparison with her.”
Miss Payne sniffed, and then she smiled. ”She is not a commonplace young woman, though I fear she is easily imposed upon. I am afraid she may be snapped up by some plausible fortune-hunter.”
Bertie frowned slightly. ”I trust she may be guided to happiness with some good, G.o.d-fearing man,” he said, and then, he bid his sister good-night somewhat abruptly.
Meantime, Katherine sat plunged in thought beside the fire in her bedroom. She was not given to weeping, but she was profoundly sad. To find herself again in London without her mother seemed to renew the intense grief which had indeed lost but little of its keenness. Never had a mother been more terribly missed. They had been such sympathetic friends, such close companions; they had had such a hearty respect for and appreciation of each other's qualities, such a pleasant comprehension of each other's different tastes, that it would be hard to fill the place of the dear, lost comrade with whom she had hitherto walked hand in hand. It soothed her to think of the delightful tranquility Mrs. Liddell had enjoyed for the last two years, of the untroubled sweetness of their intercourse, of her mother's last contented words: ”I am quite happy, dear. Your future is secure, and you have never given me a moment's pain. We have had such delightful days together!”
How could she have borne to have seen a pained, anxious look--such a look as was once familiar to them--in those dear eyes, as they closed forever on this mortal scene! Oh, thank G.o.d for the heavenly security of those last days whatever the price she had paid for them!
Motherless, she was utterly desolate. It would be long, long before she could find any one to fill her mother's place, if she ever did. For the present she was satisfied to stay with Miss Payne, but she did not think she could ever love her. The idea of residing with Colonel Ormonde and his wife was distasteful. The most attractive scheme was to beg her little nephews from their mother, and take them to live with her. She was almost of age, and _felt_ old enough to set up for herself. As she pondered on these things she felt bitterly that, rich or poor, a homeless woman is a wretched creature.
At last she went to bed, and lay for a while watching the fire-light as it cast flickering shadows, thinking of the tender, watchful love which had dropped away out of her life; and with the murmured words, ”Dear, dear mother!” on her lips she fell asleep.
The next day broke bright and clear, though cold, and having kept Katherine at home all day, Mrs. Ormonde made her appearance in time for afternoon tea.
”My dear, dearest Katherine!” cried the little woman, fluttering in, all fur and feathers, in the richest and most becoming morning toilette, looking prettier and younger than ever, ”I am _so_ delighted to see you once more! Why have you staid in town, instead of coming straight to us?” and she embraced her tall sister-in-law effusively.
Katherine returned her embrace. For a moment or two she could not command her voice; the sight of the known childish face, the sound of the shrill familiar voice, brought a flood of sudden sorrow over her heart; but Mrs. Ormonde was not the sort of woman to whom she could express it.
”And _I_ am very glad to see _you_, Ada! How well you are looking--even younger and fairer than you used!”
”Yes, I am uncommonly well; and you, dear, you are looking pale and ill and older! You will forgive me, but I am quite distressed. You must come down to Castleford at once.”
”Thank you. Where are the boys? I hoped you would bring them.”
”Oh, Colonel Ormonde thought they would be too troublesome for me in a hotel, so I left them behind. They were awfully disappointed, poor dears; but it is better _you_ should come down and see them. Cecil is going to school after Easter, and I believe Charlie must go soon.”
”I long to see them,” said Katherine, a.s.sisting her visitor to take off her cloak.
”And _I_ long to show you my new little boy,” cried Mrs. Ormonde, drawing a chair to the fire, and putting her small, daintily shod feet on the fender. ”He is a splendid child, amazingly forward for six months.”
”I am glad you are so happy, Ada; I shall be pleased to make the acquaintance of my new nephew. I suppose I may consider him a sort of nephew?”
”My dear, of _course_! Colonel Ormonde, as well as myself, is proud to consider you his aunt. Yes, I am very happy--though Ormonde _is_ rather provoking sometimes; still, he is not half bad, and I know how to manage him. You are _such_ a favorite with my husband, Katie. He admires you so much, I sometimes threaten to be jealous--why, what is the matter, dear?”
Katherine had suddenly covered her face with her handkerchief and burst into tears.
”Do not mind me, Ada!” she said, when she could speak. ”It was just that name; no one has called me Katie except my mother and you, and the idea that I should never hear her speak again overpowered me for a moment.”
Mrs. Ormonde was puzzled. Not knowing what to do in face of a great grief, she took out her own pocket-handkerchief politely.
”Of course, dear,” she said; ”it is quite natural. I was awfully cut up when I heard of your sad loss--and mine too, for I am sure Mrs. Liddell loved me like her own child; it was quite wonderful for a mother-in-law.
I was afraid to speak to you about her, but I am sure she would like you to live with us; it is your natural home. And--and she would, I am sure, be pleased if she can know what is going on here below, to see that you fulfilled your kind intentions to her poor little grandsons.” These last words with some hesitation.
Katherine kept silence, and still held her handkerchief to her eyes. So Mrs. Ormonde resumed: ”A good, religious girl like you, Katherine, must feel that it is right to submit to the will of--”
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