The Project Gutenberg EBook of Niece Catherine, by Mary Hampden This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Niece Catherine Author: Mary Hampden Release Date: July 28, 2011 [EBook #36880] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIECE CATHERINE *** Produced by Delphine Lettaum, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net NIECE CATHERINE By MARY HAMPDEN AUTHOR OF 'ALISON'S AMBITION' 'THE GIRL WITH A TALENT' 'STRANGER MARGARET' ETC. LONDON THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY 56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works Frome, and London. Contents CHAPTER I. The Heroine CHAPTER II. Uncle Ross CHAPTER III. Uncle Jack CHAPTER IV. Catherine's Resolution CHAPTER V. An Unshaken Resolution CHAPTER VI. A Sunday's Experiences CHAPTER VII. A Ray of Light CHAPTER VIII. The Coming of Catherine's Betrothed CHAPTER IX. An Important Offer CHAPTER X. The Unexpected Happens CHAPTER XI. Confidences and an Attempt CHAPTER XII. Good-bye CHAPTER XIII. The Fate of a Letter CHAPTER XIV. Catherine's Appeal CHAPTER XV. As God Willed CHAPTER I The Heroine 'Catherine!—Catherine!' Mrs. Arderne stood at the foot of the staircase, looking upward, and calling her companion. Though her voice sounded impatient there was an amused smile on her face, because she could hear merry laughter from the night-nursery, where 'Catherine' was helping nurse to put Ted and Toddie into bed. The last call produced the effect desired. A tall slim young woman came running downstairs, explaining and apologising. 'Oh, I am really very sorry! Have you been trying to make me hear? I didn't know that you were calling, not until a minute ago; and then Ted was on my lap, and made himself so heavy when I tried to lift him back into his cot!' 'You spoil my children.' The mother was still smiling. Catherine laughed aloud, and very musically, the laugh of a girl to whom people had always been kind. 'If you seriously meant that accusation, Mrs. Arderne, I should have to try to prove my innocence; but as I am sure you didn't, I will only tell you what a darling Ted has been to-night. He said his hymn right through, and afterwards composed a dear little prayer for "mother's wicked headache to be taken right away." Now could I refuse to tell him about Jack and the Beanstalk after that?' Catherine was trying to smooth back her brown hair with her hands as she spoke, for several curly locks were fluttering round her equally brown eyes, Toddie having 'rumpled dear Carr's head all up,' as the little girl herself would have expressed it. 'Kiss the tiny fellow "good-night" for me, dear,' said Mrs. Arderne, leading the way into the villa drawing-room. 'I called you down that you might fasten this flower in my dress, your fingers are so deft.' After having performed the task Catherine stood back a few paces to survey the effect. 'You look delightful,' she remarked. 'But I'm not certain that it's a "companion's" place to tell you so!' 'The remark might be flattery. "Companions" are supposed to flatter.' Catherine made a grimace. This was a bad habit she had, a trick copied unconsciously from her boy cousins in Melbourne. 'I won't ever be a first-rate "companion" then. Mrs. Arderne, it was tremendously good of you to take me, to give me a home, and a salary. Until I came to England I hadn't the least idea how ignorant, and peculiar, and—and—and independent a creature I am!' 'You were just going to use a stronger term of opprobrium!' 'Yes, dreadful slang. I checked myself for once, just because I am in real earnest. Oh, I am grateful to you! I want to learn to be of use to you,—to repay some of your goodness to me; please teach me to be a satisfactory companion in every way but that of flattery!' There were tears sparkling in the brown eyes now, and a sweet pleading expression on the whole face. Mrs. Arderne, being a woman of the world, did not show how much she was touched, and answered laughingly,— 'Catherine, you are beautiful! Why did you spoil all my best plans for you by getting engaged to Brian North?' A series of dimples played round the girl's lips. She put her hands behind her back, dropped a curtsey, after the manner of charity children before a benefactress, and blushed. 'Please, ma'am, I think it was because—I love him.' 'Romantic nonsense! My dear, you could as easily have loved another man. Mr. North is not a paragon of every virtue and charm. He happened to love you, and so, soft-heartedly, you tried to pay him back for love, just as you want to pay me back because I offered you a home when you were in want of one.' 'You didn't try to patronise me. You came to me, and spoke like the dear true woman you are, as a sister might have spoken; and you burdened yourself, or rather let me burden you, with an untrained, wild, hot-tempered girl, an individual who knew simply nothing of etiquette, whose manners were all learned in the Bush! That is a gentle description of me,—you know it is! And I don't believe you needed a companion at all!' 'I have learned to appreciate the advantages of possessing one, then. But seriously, Catherine, have you no expectations at all? Who is this uncle, who lives in this neighbourhood, to whom you were writing this afternoon?' 'Uncle Ross, or Uncle Jack—which do you mean? I wrote to them both. Oh, Uncle Ross, I suppose, for he is the elder. He is Ross Carmichael, Esq., of Carm Hall, Beverbridge, and he used to be very nice to me when I was a child. He and Uncle Jack came out to Australia once, years ago, before they quarrelled, and I have written to them every Christmas ever since.... Uncle Jack was quite a darling!' 'Why did they quarrel?' 'About an adopted nephew, named Loring Carmichael, whom they both loved. Uncle Ross wanted to make a business man of him; Uncle Jack wished him to go into the army. I never heard quite the rights of the matter, for I never met Loring, though my Melbourne cousins knew him well; in fact, one of them was in Egypt at the time he was. He became a soldier, but only a "private," for he enlisted; he left home hoping that his absence would heal the feud between his uncles.' 'Whereabouts is Carm Hall?' 'I asked the stationmaster when we arrived this afternoon, and he said, "It's four miles straight up the road from Woodley Villa, miss." So I shall walk up to see my uncles to-morrow morning, with your consent. Four miles are nothing!' 'Since they have quarrelled, they maybe living in different places, not in the old home.' 'Oh, I hope not. The stationmaster said "Yes," when I asked if they were both well. He looked as though he wanted to talk a lot about them, but of course I could not allow him to gossip about my own relatives.' 'But is the adopted nephew dead? There is the "fly" at the door, and I must go, but I want to find out first what expectations you have, my dear. Tell me, in a few words!' Catherine's face was quite grave now. 'Yes, he died in battle, in the third year after he left home. Uncle Ross means to leave all his fortune to charities, and Uncle Jack never had any money to speak of, so my "expectations" are nil, Mrs. Arderne, dear. I shall earn my own living until Brian can afford to get married. If uncle's intentions had not been fully explained to me in one of his own letters, I should not have expected any part of his fortune, for my Melbourne cousins are nearer kin to him than I.... Now let me help you on with your cloak.... Wasn't it wonderful that you should have taken a furnished house in this very neighbourhood?' 'I've many friends here, you see. After to-night you must come out with me, child. A little gaiety will do you good.' The expressive face lit up with smiles again, as Catherine cried,— 'How kind you are! But please, please, don't worry over me. I believe you are often quite unhappy for my sake, just because my stepfather squandered all my money. Dear Mrs. Arderne, money doesn't matter, it really doesn't. If I were delicate, unable to earn my living, I might merit pity, but not as I am. Why, I've never been ill in my life, and I'm so happy always, that it's not the least bit of a wonder that I feel I must thank God every minute for all His goodness to me!' Mrs. Arderne gave an impatient shrug, and hastily kissed her companion's rosy cheeks. 'Child, you are rather ridiculous sometimes. There, good-night. That "fly" has been at the door five minutes, and I shall be late for Mrs. Dumbarton's dance.' Catherine ran out into the hall to wave a hand as her employer and friend was driven away, then went upstairs again to peep at the children, to whom she was devotedly attached. Six-year-old Ted was slumbering quite peacefully, his usually mischievous expression having given place to a seraphic smile. As the girl bent above him he laughed in his sleep, so she dared not linger by his side, lest he might wake to clamour for the history of Jack and the Beanstalk all over again. Passing into the inner room, she found 'Toddie' (otherwise Nora) likewise wrapped in slumber, and not in danger of being disturbed by a kiss. Toddie was a very calm, sensible little person, a model of deportment and good conduct, compared with that enchanting rebel Ted, who was but one year her junior. Presently Catherine stole away, into the sanctum of her bedroom; and there, kneeling on the hearth, with her hands stretched out to the blaze of a glorious fire, she gave herself up to pleasant thoughts, many of which were connected with the portrait of Brian North, which occupied the place of honour on the mantelpiece. It was a fine photograph. The keen eyes looked straight out at the observer, with an earnestness of gaze betokening earnestness of purpose. The features and contour of the face were both delicate and strong; and the mouth, sensitive as well as resolute, was shadowed, not hidden, by the dark moustache. This young man was an intellectual worker—a journalist by profession, an author by predilection—and already the dark hair over his brow was streaked with grey, though he was only thirty. From her kneeling posture on the rug Catherine, looking up at the portrait, mentally apostrophized it. 'My dear, hard-working old boy! Mrs. Arderne wonders why I accepted the offer you made me—why I valued it! She thinks I could have loved any one else just as well! Isn't it wonderful how dense the nicest people are sometimes? Ah, yes, even you, dear!' At this point in her meditation Catherine's eyes saddened. 'You are dense on the greatest subject of all. Do you guess how much I pray God to make you see? If I were not so sure that you, being you, must grow wise before long, must shake off the contagion of the world's indifference, your want of faith would be enough to do away with all the happiness I have been boasting about. But you will soon learn, Brian dear; you will let my persuasion rouse you. God must love you so well that He will surely show the beauty of His love to you.' Brian North had been brought up by a father who had taught him to feel scorn for that profession of religion which so many men make without ruling life by it—the empty show of faith in God without any attempt to serve Him. No mother had ever shown Brian the truth of Christianity—since his birth he had been motherless. The clever lad had always admired his father, and had willingly been led by him. In early life he had even been proud of doubting that which the majority of men believe. Of late years, indeed, as his intellect had ripened, he had begun to perceive the folly of unbelief—had come to see that religion, pure and honest, is for every man the matter of supreme importance, and that faith, though dishonoured by some hypocrites, remains the chief glory in a glorious world. But, until Catherine Carmichael had talked to him of these subjects, he had tried to put them out of his thoughts, to imagine that he had not been specially 'called' to the leading of that Christian life which he owned was a noble one. His hours were spent in business struggles; his times of leisure were few, and he always brought to them a brain wearied by money-earning, and, often, the despondency of baffled ambitions. His Heavenly Father had now indeed 'called' to him by the voice of the woman of his love, and well might she hope for great things from his faith, when it was once thoroughly aroused. To-night nearly all her thoughts were of Brian, of his needs. She could scarcely spare one reflection for the matter which Mrs. Arderne considered all-important—the possible reception which rich Uncle Ross might give her. When she remembered the two old men, it was to feel pleasantly sure of their affection, not to long for a share in the fortune of the elder. Her heart was full of tenderness to-night, and it was partly because she was so earnestly sorry for Brian, who did not possess her secret of happiness, that she let him monopolize her thoughts to such a degree. It was not his lack of money of which she was thinking when she prayed, 'O God, make my dear boy rich! He is so poor and needy, while I can never thank Thee enough for the gifts Thou hast lavished upon me. No one can be content without Thee, my God.' And long before Mrs. Arderne returned from the dance Catherine was sleeping soundly and peacefully, like Ted with the smile on his lips. CHAPTER II Uncle Ross Ross Carmichael, Esq., of Carm Hall, Beverbridge, was not a punctual person at the best of times, but on this particular morning he was the cause of his servants' despair, for never had he been so late in coming down to breakfast. The cook had begged the footman to let her have back the bacon to 'hot up,' but he had replied that he dared not remove the dish from the table: 'Master might come down any minute now, and it would never do for him to have to wait while the dish was carried upstairs again.' Now Mr. Carmichael had never been known to lose his temper with a servant, so their alarmed anxiety would have appeared ridiculous to any one ignorant of the peculiar awe that old gentleman inspired. He never scolded harshly, nor raised his voice in remonstrance, but his reproof would have been sarcasm, and the memory of the fault would have lingered for days in his mind. His expression was severe generally; only those persons who had not been so unfortunate as to offend him nearly always found out that his face did not do his heart justice. A man of prejudices, and keen, though controlled passions, was Ross Carmichael, very self-sufficient, and terribly unwilling to forgive or forget the smallest injury. This morning, however, he did not mind whether his bacon were well or ill-cooked, hot or cold, and the fact that one egg was boiled too hard quite escaped his attention. His 'Good-morning, James,' was spoken as usual, then he sat down to the breakfast-table and ate the habitual meal in silence. James began to grow anxious about his master. He was not often so taciturn. At the end of a quarter of an hour the man ventured to inquire whether his master felt the room cold and would like a fire. Mr. Carmichael lifted his eyes from his plate (fine, dark eyes they were, in striking contrast to the bent white brows above them), checked a desire to frown at the interruption to his reflections, and answered: 'No, James, thank you. A fire? You know I never have one lit in this room until October. This is only September.' 'Yes, sir; but unusually cold to-day is.' Mr. Carmichael returned to his breakfast and meditation. In a few seconds, however, he looked up again and smiled. 'Do you remember that it was in September, ten years ago, that we returned from Australia, you and I, James?' 'Yes, sir, that I do. It was a capital journey, so we was told, but the sea was a deal too playful for my tastes.' 'Tut, tut; the sea was smooth—perfectly smooth—most of the time. You will not have forgotten the "station" then, the homestead, and little Miss Catherine?' 'The young lady as used to ride better than most men do over here, sir? It was a sight, and no mistake, to see her clearing the paling round that place they called the Gum Paddock—and she not more than fourteen or fifteen, or thereabouts.' 'I never gossip,' said the old gentleman, after another pause. 'No, sir; of course not.' 'I had a reason when I spoke about the journey to and from Australia, and the "homestead" where I stayed, You have served me tolerably well, and I am sure loyally, to the best of your ability for so long now, James, that I feel able to talk to you as I would to none of your fellow-servants.' 'I'm sure I hope so, sir,' cried the man, sorely puzzled, and not a little hurt by the dictatorial and patronising tone of his master. His chagrined look touched Mr. Carmichael's heart. 'Why, certainly, James; I regard you as a proved friend. Don't look as though I had called you a murderer. We've faced perils together, and—and——' Suddenly the 'squire' discovered that he was speaking strangely after the manner of his brother (Catherine's Uncle Jack), and this surprising fact made him break down altogether in his speech. The question to which he had been gently leading up, in order not to surprise James into feeling curious about it, burst without any warning from his lips. 'Do you think Miss Catherine liked me—was fond of me—in those days, James?' 'Indeed, yes, sir; why, she was for ever talking about her uncles.' 'Ah! but which did she prefer?' 'Which uncle, sir?' 'Yes. It was her Uncle John, was it not, James?' 'Mr. Jack, sir? Well, she was certainly remarkably attached to him, but then so she was to you, sir, and she seemed able to do anything she liked with you, sir, and it's not many people that could be said of.' The squire pondered the answer, until he chuckled over it. The chuckle ended with a sigh, though. Rising from the table, he drew a letter from his pocket and said shortly: 'Wrongly addressed; send Newton at once with it. And, James, after all you may light the fire here, and another in the drawing-room, for I expect Miss Catherine to see me this morning.' James gave a start of surprise. Before he had recovered from his amazement sufficiently to reply, the squire had left the room, and was shut up in the library. '"Miss Catherine" coming to Carm Hall! Why, "Miss Catherine" must be quite grown up by this time!' Then James read the address on the letter in his hand: 'Colonel J. Carmichael, Carm Hall, Beverbridge.' 'Poor Mr. Jack! She reckoned he would be still here, in the old home!' sighed the man to himself, as he hurried away to send Newton at once with the missive. 'Strange, too, as the postman didn't know better than to deliver his letter here; but no doubt he only looked at the address, that's plain enough,—and where he ought to be too!' The elder Mr. Carmichael was not studying in the library. His account-books lay untouched on his secretary-table; his morning papers were not cut yet; the huge volumes of reference stood upright on the shelves. He was sitting in his 'office-chair' before the desk, and there was a lot of business correspondence awaiting his attention; but he was only reading and re-reading the letter from his niece Catherine. 'Woodley Cottage, 'Beverbridge. 'My dear Uncle Ross,— 'I am coming to see you to-morrow morning—a few hours after you will receive this! Since I wrote to you, last Christmas, my worldly circumstances have undergone such a tremendous change that I am obliged to earn my own living; for which fact many kind-hearted, well-meaning folk have pitied me. I wonder why they think me so unfortunate? At the homestead I worked fifty times harder than my duties as Mrs. Arderne's companion oblige me to do now; and, after all, work is happiness, when God sanctions it. You shall hear no grumbles from me, I promise you! My stepfather is not dead, only bankrupt, and the station has passed into other hands. Mother's money, the little fortune she left me, has vanished, and Alice is married. Mrs. Arderne offered me a home just when I found myself without one. The dear kind soul has no real need of a "companion," so I tell her often; yet, as she does not wish me to leave her, I feel justified in remaining under her roof. This is a hired roof, by-the-bye, uncle—a furnished villa, taken for six months, because she has friends in the neighbourhood. Is it not a splendid opportunity for me to see you both again? It is ten years since we last met, when I rode with you as far as the boundary-rider's hut on the Curra Paddock. We said good-bye at Wattle Creek, do you recollect? Uncle Jack, seeing that I was nearly crying, tried to cheer me by inviting me to Beverbridge for next Christmas; but I went home in tears, because I knew I shouldn't be allowed to go to England all by myself. Yet here I am—ten years later! I'm grown up now, though; not "little Catherine" any longer! 'My pen has been running on, while I ought to have reserved all my news to tell you to-morrow, when I see you again; and I have not been able to resist writing to Uncle Jack as well as to you. 'Good-bye again, dear uncle, for a very short time now. 'Your affectionate niece, 'Catherine Carmichael.' 'Ha!—couldn't resist writing to "Uncle Jack" as well!' The squire sighed and frowned as he pondered this admission. Ten minutes later the library door behind him opened and shut, and he was startled by a voice which cried: 'Uncle, you didn't want me to wait ceremoniously in the drawing-room, did you?' 'Bless my soul, it is you, Catherine!' The girl let both her hands remain in his grasp, and stood facing him, smiling, scrutinizing his face eagerly. 'Yes, Catherine at twenty-five instead of fifteen! You look very little older, only your beard has turned quite white!... How is Uncle Jack? Shall I see any difference in him? Is he as upright as ever?' 'He—I—I really do not know, my dear.' 'Not know? Oh, you mean that people who are always together are easily deceived on such points.' 'No, I did not, Catherine. It is three years since your Uncle John and I were always together!' 'Your own, only brother! Perhaps he is abroad, serving his Queen and country?' 'He lives in Beverbridge still, but not here. Your letter has been sent on to him by one of my servants, though I might reasonably have returned it to Jenkins, the postman, who should have known his business better than to have delivered it wrongly. Now come into the drawing-room, my dear; there is a fire there.' 'Please let us stay here. You look at home in this room. The drawing-room will be a chilly-looking place, I know, in spite of the fire.' Mr. Carmichael's gaze softened as it rested on the merry pleading face. 'Still the same roguish young lady, Catherine? Bent on having your own way, even in trivial matters! Ah, well, you ought to have it, if it doesn't spoil you.' 'That latter sentence was an after-thought, uncle! Thank you! Remember, I am not a spoilt child of fortune any longer, but poor Miss Carmichael, the companion!' Her hearty laugh was not echoed by her relative. In his opinion the loss of money was a great evil,—a few years earlier he would have been disposed to think it the greatest possible, only he was beginning to realize that riches are less powerful than is usually supposed. Catherine, being quick to note changes of expression in those dear to her, cried suddenly: 'Uncle! you are sorry for me!' 'Is that so remarkable, my dear?' 'Perhaps not, only I—I regret it. Why should you worry over my case, when it does not in the least distress me? If I were very rich, I should worry about the responsibility of such a stewardship, for fear I might not make the best use of it, and so disappoint God.' Mr. Carmichael smiled involuntarily. 'You have an extraordinarily familiar way of speaking of God!' 'Because I used the words "disappoint God"? Does He not yearn over sinners? Did Christ not weep over Jerusalem? Are we not told, "Ye have wearied the Lord with your words"? If you, uncle, had showered love and wonderful gifts upon a creature who cast away the affection and the help, would not you be disappointed?... Oh, forgive me! My thoughtlessness has hurt you! I—I forgot Loring!' Her penitence was very real, and tears had come into her eyes. She felt desperately angry with herself for having reminded Uncle Ross of the nephew who had run away to be a soldier. 'Loring certainly disappointed me—he has left my home lonely; and you are right in supposing that I prefer not to speak of him.' The old man's brow had contracted with a frown, which deepened as he went on speaking. 'While we are upon the subject, Catherine, let me remind you that, had not Loring despised money, as you seem to do, he would not have behaved badly to me. I consider that men and women ought to desire and respect wealth.' It was the office-chair in which Catherine was sitting. She swung it round, that she might face her uncle, who was standing beside her, and impulsively laid her hand on his, as she answered: 'It is difficult to be quite frank with you, yet sincerity is always best, isn't it? I don't despise money,—indeed, I do desire it,—at least I should like more than I have, because—because I am engaged to a very poor hard-working man, and we shall not be able to marry until his circumstances have improved.' 'Engaged, Catherine?' She blushed and nodded. 'But please let me make my explanation first,—I will tell you all about him presently. Some one suggested to me that— that some people might suppose that I—expected help from you, or—or——Oh, please understand, uncle dear, without any more explaining!' 'Some one suggested that the pretty niece was going to see a rich old uncle who would probably make her his heiress, —was that it? In this cynical world motives are generally misjudged, my dear girl.' 'I told the person (it was not Brian) that my Melbourne cousins were nearer kin to you than I,—I am only a stepniece, though we have the same surname,—and also that you have resolved to leave your fortune to charities, as you told me by letter. All the same, I was foolishly nervous lest you might misunderstand me; so I assured you, too bluntly, that I am quite happy with Mrs. Arderne, and enjoy earning my own living.' The frown had gone from the squire's brow. It was with a serene smile that he asked, pressing Catherine's hand: 'And I may believe without undue vanity, that you wanted to see the old uncle again for his own sake?' 'Yes; yes, indeed!' 'Now tell me about this Brian. Is he worthy of you?' 'Of course he is!' 'That reply was expected.' 'You mustn't tease me, if you want to hear about my first and last romance!' Catherine was not used to speaking much about herself, so it was the relation of Brian North's merits, talents, and history which she told Uncle Ross, rather than the story of how she had learned to love this man to whom her promise was plighted. The squire paid most attention to the description of Brian's abilities; in fact, the moneyed gentleman was trying to calculate the author's worth by estimating his possible financial success or failure. 'If the young fellow has tact and imagination, and a practised pen, he may win you a fortune yet, my dear; but if, as I suspect, he is one of the large army of obstinate, blind, proud geniuses, then he isn't likely to be able to offer you a home at all; in which case, I can only trust you will grow tired of believing in him.' Catherine felt that her pleasure in meeting this uncle again was all gone—dissipated by a few unsympathetic words! Yet, being genuinely fond of him, and knowing that his worldly wisdom was far more on his lips than in his heart, she tried to make allowances for him. Still, her feelings had been really hurt. 'You would not mistrust him if you knew him, uncle!' she cried eagerly. 'You wouldn't like me to have given him a half- hearted kind of love, would you? If I didn't believe in him, trust him wholly, I should not have promised to be his wife.' 'Girls are too tender-hearted,' said the squire. 'And where their affections are concerned they are utterly incapable of judgment. I will try to believe in your impecunious betrothed, Catherine, and soon you must make him come down to Beverbridge to see me, or rather that I may see him.... In the meantime we will not discuss him. You will stay and spend the day with me, of course?' 'No, I cannot, uncle. I am sorry, but my time is not my own, you know. I have to be back for lunch at one o'clock.' 'Then you certainly need not spring up now! Sit down again, and I will ring for my housekeeper, Mrs. Marlin,—a worthy soul,—to relieve you of your hat and jacket.' 'But it is a four-mile walk home, and—I must go to see Uncle Jack.' Again the frown came on Mr. Ross Carmichael's brow, and his voice regained a cynical tone as he replied: 'You are not likely to find my brother indoors in the morning; I believe he employs his time in the office of the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Beverbridge Volunteers. He will not have received your letter yet. If you can bear to postpone your visit to him until evening, you had better do so, unless indeed you want to spend some hours alone with Agatha.' 'Poor Agatha! How is she?' 'Worse, I believe. A life like that is better ended.' 'God doesn't think so, that is evident,' said Catherine. CHAPTER III Uncle Jack Mrs. Arderne made Catherine give a full account of her visit to Uncle Ross, but wisely refrained from commenting upon the recital, knowing that her companion would be distressed by any expression of her own firm opinion that a fortune and a good position were to be had for even less than the asking. The kindly-natured, worldly woman was quite excited over Catherine's prospects, though she dared not speak of them. A rich, lonely old uncle, with no relatives near him but a brother from whom he was estranged, and that brother's invalid ward, a girl twelve years of age,—where could Catherine be more sure to find a benevolent patron for Brian North (if she was resolved to be faithful to her promise to him), or to whom could she more reasonably look for help in her orphanhood and poverty? But Catherine was such an oddly unpractical, independent young woman that she absolutely refused to speculate as to her chances! For this reason, Mrs. Arderne felt positively bound to speculate for her, and to persuade her to behave to Uncle Ross in a manner likely to please him. Needless to say, therefore, she strongly disapproved of Catherine's intention of visiting Uncle Jack on this, her first whole day at Beverbridge. 'My dear child, you really ought not to go roaming about the country after nightfall,' she remonstrated. Ted and Toddie had just been sent back to the nursery, after the usual game of play following upon dessert, and Catherine's cheeks were flushed, her brown hair rumpled by exercise. She was now seated on a low stool at Mrs. Arderne's side, smiling up at her confidentially. 'Why, I simply couldn't get lost on a starlight night,—besides, I have a compass on my watch-chain! Do you think I relied upon the aid of street-lamps and sign-posts in Australia? Uncle Jack lives quite near us, in a bye-lane or street of the village. The postman looked so pleased just now when I asked him about Colonel John Carmichael! "The nicest gentleman I ever met, miss," he said. "Quite one of the old sort. There's no telling the kindnesses he's shown to the poor; not so much money-giving, for folk do say he isn't well off enough for himself, but in other ways, that mean more, usually. Oh, that village postman is quite a philosopher, I assure you!' 'You delayed Her Majesty's mail while you gossiped with him!' Catherine laughed. 'I forgot that; he didn't seem in any hurry, and I'm sure he enjoyed telling me about Uncle Jack.' Mrs. Arderne reverted to the original subject. 'I am not at all certain that I shall let you out to-night, Miss Carmichael.' 'You—you don't mean that, do you?' 'Why should you annoy your Uncle Ross, who seems to have been very nice to you? I am certain he will be vexed by your going at once to seek out the brother with whom he has quarrelled.' 'But the right of the quarrel is all on Uncle Jack's side,' said the girl simply. 'You will understand that when you have met him.' 'He persuaded Loring Carmichael to rebel against his elder uncle's authority.' 'He only talked to him enthusiastically of the army; Uncle Jack, dear old fellow, never could talk even to me for a quarter of an hour without mentioning Sebastopol! He is such a thorough, devoted soldier, and he always abhorred mere money-earning life-occupations!' 'The world would say that, in persuading his rich brother's adopted son to rebel, he was probably actuated by money interests himself.' Catherine was silent and very grave. This was her habitual manner when disappointed or grieved. Mrs. Arderne bent down to glance at the saddened young face, and promptly repented for having banished its customary smile. 'There, I'm sorry I said that! No doubt Mr. Jack is a guileless hero; but such persons are often tiresome! Go and find him this evening, if you must, only don't perversely quarrel with the other uncle on his account,—that other, who has certainly been very badly treated!' So, after tea, Catherine set forth at a brisk pace through the village, smiling to herself all the way so happily that many of the cottagers, seeing her, smiled too for sympathy. Yes, here was the lane, or street rather, of which the postman had told her, leading out of the old market square. A small white house stood on the right, planted sideways, within a high wall. There was no proper entrance to it, only a narrow wooden door, painted green, and inscribed with the name, Redan Cottage. At the sight of that address (which, after the manner of country dwellers, the postman had omitted to mention, having called the house 'Carmichael's'), Catherine's smile widened, and her heart began to beat fast in her eagerness. Redan Cottage!—of course that was the name Uncle Jack would have chosen for his house! No sooner had she rung the bell than the door opened as if by magic, and a rosy-cheeked lad invited her to follow him across a tiny stone-floored yard, under an ivied porch, and indoors. 'I am expected!' thought Catherine. Indeed, the boy had not paused to ask her name or business, and now preceded her into a little dark room, with the announcement: 'Miss Catherine's come at last, please, sir!' Uncle Jack had been pacing the room—a short promenade! His niece had just time to find out how overwhelmingly delighted she was to see him once again, before he had put his arm round her shoulders and kissed her cheek, as a father might have done. 'My darling! What, crying? Oh, it's a long while since we said good-bye at Wattle Creek, isn't it? I couldn't tell you how often I've wanted my niece since then. But I believed we should meet again some day, and I've found out that the times chosen by the Great Commander are always best and fittest, lassie.' 'Uncle Jack, why didn't you write oftener to me? Why did you let me forget even a little bit how good you were to me, and how fond we were of one another? When you call me "lassie" it all comes back to me. I used to fancy that my father must have been like you.' 'An uncle isn't as much good as a father; still, he may be some use. And you are poor now—your possessions have melted away! We won't call the absent bad names, lassie, will we? but I always saw "rascal" written on your stepfather's brow. He couldn't stand fire properly, though he ought to have been used to it out there. I remember once I held my sword to his throat, too—to show him how poor Northcote died; and he winced under it. Still, I won't blame him, since we are the gainers by his wrong-doing, Agatha and I.' 'Gainers? How is that?' 'Because you are coming home, my dear, to live with us. Sit there in the basket-chair—it was bought for you this morning, for this room was rather short of chairs—and good old Harriet made the cushions. I verily believe she went without her dinner that she might get them finished. Ah, you kept us waiting a long time, lassie! Robert has been in the yard nearly all day, he was so anxious not to keep you on the doorstep.' Catherine sat down in the chair, and could not find words to answer with all at once. Home! Uncle Jack had taken her consent to his invitation for granted! Home! And even the postman knew that he 'wasn't well enough off for himself'! Oh, the dear, true-hearted, generous old man! And what could she say? She could not bear to hurt his feelings, yet she must not be a burden upon him. Tears were in her eyes, and it was with the utmost difficulty that she steadied her voice to thank him. 'Gratitude? Nonsense, my dear (if I may use such a word to a lady). Think of the joy your presence will be to us— Agatha, myself, old Harriet, and even Robert. I haven't been able to resist talking about you to the servants, and they have been very curious to see you; you would have laughed at Harriet's endeavour to get a cake made ready to greet you. She is not the typical, cross housekeeper, resenting interference. Indeed, she told me to-day that we all need some one to smarten us up, and that you, "being a travelled young lady," would be sure to do it!' In this way did Colonel Jack talk on, softly patting Catherine's hand, and trying to give her time to control her evident emotion. She understood this, and appreciated it. Soon her eyes began to smile through her tears, and she cried: 'You know I am grateful, so I need not speak any more thanks to you; but oh, Uncle Jack, dear, until you offered me a home I had not realized the loneliness of being without one. Mrs. Arderne has always been so kind to me (you remember her, don't you?) that I've never been sorry for myself while with her, and Uncle Ross's pity this morning only made me feel more independently cheerful!' 'So I've taught you to be lonely, lassie?' 'No; you first made me long for a home, and then you gave me one! I cannot come to live in it altogether, for I must earn my living—not be an idle creature, you know; but Redan Cottage is "home" for me from henceforth—"home," to love, to remember, to dream of, to visit, to spend my holidays in!' Uncle Jack looked troubled. 'Catherine, you are not—what is commonly called "an advanced woman," are you? You are not of opinion that women should do all the work in the world?' She laughed. 'No, indeed! but a penniless young woman certainly should support herself, if she is able to do so. Dearest of uncles, don't you think that, by coming "home" to subsist upon the income which keeps up this establishment, I should be defrauding Agatha, if not you?' 'The poor child would receive benefits that no money could buy her: your love and care—and counsel, especially counsel.' 'Whose counsel can be better than yours?' There was a shake of the white head. 'I'm a beginner in Christianity, Catherine,' said the colonel thoughtfully. 'In my youth I wasn't taught much about God, and then my ambitions and enthusiasm for the service left me no time, so I imagined, for other than military studies. Naturally, when my comrades were falling around me, I prayed, for them and for myself, if I were about to fall too; still, I knew next to nothing of the Lord whose help I asked. Lately I have been studying the Bible, and I'm honestly ashamed of my purposeless past. Every time I pray I make the best excuse I can to the Creator, by assuring Him that had I been so fortunate as to know Him earlier, I would have served Him as loyally as, thanks be to Him, I have always served my Queen.' Catherine's smile was very tender as she looked at the colonel's reverential face. 'God must quite understand you!' 'Do you think so? You used to talk of Him in the old days, I recollect, but I regarded your piety as a mere part of a gentle girl's sentiments—as a sort of beautiful romance unsuitable for men to share. Dear, what a fool I was, Catherine (if you will excuse the strong expression)!' 'You are God's own soldier now, dear uncle. I am glad indeed. Nothing is equal to the peace of serving Him who died for us.' 'Ah, what a soldier He was!—the Great Commander is the title I like best to give Him. You will teach me all you know about Him, will you not, my child?' Catherine's fingers returned the pressure of his hand. 'We will teach each other, Uncle Jack. And even when we are absent one from another we shall know that we are both looking in the same direction, towards the glory of the Prince of Peace and the King of Battles.' 'If you must earn your living, lassie!' 'It seems to be a clear duty. I will never stay away from home out of pride, or because I do not like to take favours from you, you may be quite sure of that. And if Brian could only find employment in this neighbourhood, oh, how glad I should be! He is not very strong, his health would be so much better in the country, and he would have quiet hours in which to write.... Oh, I forget—you don't know about Brian yet!' 'Your bright face tells your secret, lassie. Tell me you love him, and that he loves you with all his heart, and then I shall be quite satisfied!' 'Yes, to both those questions! He is a poor, hard-working journalist, earning a bare livelihood for himself.' 'That doesn't matter; his love will give him courage to work on for you, and God will reward him some day!' 'He does not call God "Father" yet; his mind is only just groping nearer to the Light; his heart has not yet been taken captive by the Lord.' 'You will teach him, as I want to be taught. God will help you.' 'Uncle Jack, you are the dearest consoler and encourager possible! Brian shall love you almost as well as I do! He shall come to see you very, very soon! Uncle Ross wants to see him too; isn't it strange?' 'Surely not strange, lassie. He would naturally be interested. If my brother offers you a home with him—what then? You will be standing in your own light if you refuse. He is a rich man; Carm Hall is more fitted than this cottage to be your shelter. You mustn't allow any—any affection for me to—to influence you in this matter.' Yet, bravely though the colonel was looking this possibility in the face, nobly though he was anxious for Catherine's welfare rather than for his own pleasure, the contemplation of his vision of what might be, cast a shadow into his eyes. Watching him, Catherine learned how sincerely he wanted her. Though a most unworldly young woman (as Mrs. Arderne had often told her), she could not help understanding that she had made a choice which most people would blame and ridicule. She had promised always to regard Redan Cottage as home. Though she honestly believed that Uncle Ross would keep to his intention of leaving his wealth to be divided among charities, she could not deny that he might offer her, and even her husband, a home during his lifetime—possibly a small portion of his fortune might be set aside for them. Yet, as she had said, she believed 'the right of the quarrel to be on Uncle Jack's side,' and never could she deny this belief. The result of her short reflection was that she said happily, 'I have got a home now, and I prefer it to any other at present existing in all the world, dear colonel!' 'Then my duty is done! I need never again try to persuade you to desert me, lassie! And if Brian is vexed with me——' 'But he won't be.' 'No doubt you can answer for him, so I won't trouble over any supposition! Ross does not need you, as Agatha does. He is a good man, in his own way; Heaven forbid I should judge him harshly, but he would not be grateful for being taught religion.' 'My choice is made, uncle dear, and you may be sure I shall never, never regret it!' 'God bless you, lassie!' The old gentleman bent his lips to his niece's hand, and they were both silent for a minute or two, gazing into the fire. Then he said: 'I must take you to Agatha now; the poor little maid will be wearying for you.' So Catherine was led out of the tiny parlour, across the hall of this doll's house of a cottage, past the open door of the kitchen, where old Harriet and Robert were waiting to catch a glimpse of her as she passed, and into another room as wee as the parlour, where bright pictures, pink curtains and upholstery generally, and the presence of flowers, betokened the colonel's fatherly care for his adopted ward. CHAPTER IV Catherine's Resolution Agatha had been an invalid all her short life. Suffering had made her fretful and terribly nervous, especially of death, which she always imagined to be coming soon to her. She was not at all resigned to her lot, nor anxious to learn resignation, unless to escape the punishment that she feared must be the result of rebellion. A more unhappy, self-tormenting child could scarcely exist. Directly Catherine caught sight of the piteous-looking countenance, with its great dark passionate eyes, her heart went out to Agatha. The little girl was lying flat on a wheel-couch before the fire, with her face turned away from the warmth, towards the door of the room. There were tears on her cheeks; she had been indulging in a stormy fit of crying because she had been, as the colonel had surmised, wearying for the coming of Catherine. 'You might have come to me sooner!' These were her first words. Bending to kiss her—a greeting that was warmly returned—Catherine answered: 'It is such a long while since I saw Uncle Jack that it was excusable for us to have a great deal to say to one another, wasn't it? Don't scold me on the very first evening of our acquaintance, Agatha, for you and I will be friends soon, I hope. It is very nice of you to be anxious to share your home with me, dear. I cannot come to live here, but I shall pay you frequent visits, and spend my holidays with you both.' 'You won't come altogether?' 'I cannot give up my work.' Agatha laughed bitterly, and shrugged her shoulders with the gesture of a spoiled child. 'I suppose you're afraid of offending our enemy! Guardian, don't look cross with me because I said that! He is our enemy, if he isn't more willing to make up the quarrel than you say he is. Miss Carmichael, you'll be very silly if you don't take Uncle Ross's side of the dispute, not ours! Being poor, and living in a tiny cottage, and having to be economical, is so horrid!' The colonel showed no sign of being cross; there was only an expression of perplexity in the gaze he bent upon his ward. 'Now, dearie, do not try to shock Catherine—she will not understand, as I do, that you never mean one half the shocking things you say.' 'Oh, guardian, I can't be polite to her, just as though she were a stranger, for I'm much too glad she's come. Catherine, if you make Uncle Ross adopt you, I suppose you'll be cutting us out, spoiling any chances we may have, you know, but I don't mind that a bit, and you can see guardian doesn't. Will you promise always to remember that? I would like the quarrel to be made up, just so that we went back to Carm Hail to live, but that's all! I don't want any one to leave money to us, because——Oh, never mind about why. Only say you won't misunderstand when I grumble! I want you most of all; if you'd come and live here, it wouldn't be as dull, and it's only the dulness that matters much.' This extraordinary series of sentences was delivered in a jerky, half-shy, half-reckless fashion, and Agatha's glance remained fixed on Catherine's face. Stroking the child's thin cheek, Miss Carmichael asked playfully: 'Don't you know that you would have to be still more economical if I came to live here, dear?' To her amazement Agatha burst into tears. 'There! you will misunderstand me! I only mind economy because I'm miserable often, and dull, and frightened. Now you've forced me to tell the truth, and guardian's feelings will be hurt. Oh, I'm always doing wrong somehow!' Catherine sat down on the edge of the couch, and laid her face on the tumbled mass of brown curls. 'You little goose! I was half in fun. I do believe that you want me to come; only I can't, so you must be content to have me sometimes.' The sobs still continued. Uncle Jack smiled wistfully at his niece, shook his head with a puzzled air, and stole out of the room, wisely thinking that the two girls, of ages so different, would arrive sooner at mutual understanding if they were left alone together. Catherine refrained from asking for an explanation of the sobs, and presently Agatha raised a tear-strewn face out of the pillows, and nestling her cheek against her new friend's arm, said penitently: 'I'm sorry I'm such a little beast. My ideas are all in a muddle, so that it's impossible for me to make you understand what I mean. And I was trying to be diplomatic, and you've no notion how difficult that is when one's head is always aching!' 'Poor little woman! But why want to be diplomatic? Simplicity is true, noble and best. Your guardian has a simple heart.' 'I am going to try to make you understand, Catherine!' cried Agatha resolutely. 'Ever since guardian adopted me I've heard praises of you—of your courage, and sincerity, and beauty, and talents—until you've become a sort of ideal to me. Do you see?' 'A very poor basis to found an ideal upon!' laughed Catherine. 'I know all about your Australian life—how you found out when the stockman (Jock was his name, wasn't it?) was being cruel to the cattle, and you told your stepfather about him, in spite of his threats of revenge. I've made a map of the station, and guardian marked the paddock-fence...