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CHAPTER VI

RALPH HENLEY found his playmate of the olden days altogether delightful. She was more beautiful than his imagination had ever painted, more animated, more brilliant than even his fondest fancies had believed possible. It is true, she was also a little different from what he had expected. There was a grave and thoughtful note in the letters which Kate Bouverie had written which he missed somehow in the real Kate. He was himself a grave man, thoughtful, reserved; he took life seriously. He was a Liberal, and thought a great deal of the vast responsibilities of the landlord. He was also a man of religious tendencies, and believed that he owed a distinct duty to his neighbours. Now the Kate Bouverie who had written to him from India seemed to be heart and soul with him in all these things, and yet when he met this same Kate she started aside with a queer restiveness from the subjects which interested him most.

"You surprise me, Kate," he said on the evening of the day when Kate had had her conversation with Mr. Hume on the side of the mountain. "You surprise me with many of your views. When you wrote to me last year you were as keen as I am for the improvement of the masses."

"And I still agree with you," replied Kate lightly. "But just at present I am so excited. It is because I have met you again, darling, after all the long years | | 38 of parting; and there is so much to do, and the future does look so glorious and golden. And then I shall have such fun in London before my wedding, and the getting of my trousseau will be such a joy. I do love gay clothes. There, Ralph, make love to me. Tell me once more that you love me beyond anything in all the world. Don't let us talk gravely to-night. Let us be frivolous. I am in the mood for that; I am not in the mood for reflection. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you love me."

And Ralph did look into the clear brown eyes, and his heart beat fast, and he clasped Kate to his breast and kissed her again and again.

"You are the dearest, most bewitching girl in the world," he said. "Sit here by me, Kitty, and let us talk of old days."

But in this particular also the present Kitty rather disappointed her lover, for old days were just the subjects she did not wish to talk about. She made a few remarks, it is true, alluding to this little incident and to that, but when Ralph followed up the incident with a fresh reminiscence, a puzzled look came into her eyes and invariably she started aside from the subject, introducing another of altogether less interest to her lover.

"It is so queer," he said, "that you cannot remember that time when we climbed over the orchard wall, and I nearly broke my leg. Can't you recall it a bit, Kate, not a bit?"

"Oh yes, I can now," replied Kate. "When you mentioned it yesterday I had quite forgotten. I wore my little red frock, and it got such a tear."

"It was a blue frock, Kate. I never knew any one with a worse memory."

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"Oh, blue or red, it doesn't matter," said Kate. "We need not talk any more of our reminiscences, need we? Ralph, there is something else I want to say."

"Anything you like, my darling."

"Well, it is this. I have been asking Uncle Robert to do something for Mrs. Mildmay."

"That poor, sad-looking woman. She does look dreadfully broken down."

"You would be sad, too, if you had lost your only daughter."

"I should be terribly sad and heart-broken if I had lost you, Kate." "Ah, that's right," she cried, nestling close to him as she spoke. But a shudder ran through her frame; for had he not really lost his Kitty, only he knew nothing about it?

"All men are alike," she murmured to herself. "He thinks I am Kitty, and therefore he loves me. It is all for the best. I have saved him untold misery, and kept a fortune for him to boot."

"If I had died, for instance," she said, looking full into his face, "what would you have felt?"

"Don't talk of it, dearest. You have been the dream of my life all these years. I could not live without you, Kate. But now, what about Mrs. Mildmay?"

"I am very sorry for her. I was so fond of her poor little girl--who had such a likeness to me, by the way, such a strange, wonderful likeness--and when the poor little thing was dying I promised her that her mother, who is dreadfully poor, should never want. To-day I asked Uncle Robert if he would advance me two thousand pounds out of my money, and | | 41 do you know he quite grumbled. He said, wouldn't fifty do? the old screw. Now, I want two thousand. Will you help me to get it ?"

"To give to Mrs. Mildmay? Of course."

"But Uncle Robert means to make a fuss about it. He says that I am not of age, and cannot handle my capital until I am."

"I'll lend it to you," said Henley. "I can easily lay my hands on it if you will wait until we return to England. It is but to sell out some Consols, and the thing is done."

"Thank you; you are a dear! Perhaps I may ask you to help me, for, you know, all the money will be yours very soon. But I won't if I can manage otherwise, for Uncle Robert ought to give it to me."

"I'll have a talk with him on the subject. Of course he ought to give it you. I love you so much, dear, for having such a kind heart. Is there anything else you want to say, little woman?"

"I wonder why you keep calling me the little woman. I am quite a tall girl."

"Oh, height matters not at all. When you love a girl you always call her little woman."

"Have you loved a great many girls, Ralph?"

"No one, I swear, but your dear little bonny self."

"You are a delightful sort of lover, Ralph. And I shall adore going over your place and my place. You must describe them to me."

"What do you mean?"

"You must describe your place, Castellis, and my place, The Pines."

"My dear girl, what a short memory you have!"

"Oh, I have a general hazy sort of idea about them both, but I want you to describe them minutely. | | 42 You must tell me about each room. I shall love so to hear. It will bring back my childish memories."

"Well, darling, I am quite agreeable. Shall I begin right away?"

"No; there is something else I want to say first. I am anxious to have a head-stone put up to poor little Kitty who died here. I want to write the inscription before I go away, and to give a proper order to a stone-mason, who will put up the head-stone all in good time. Have you any ideas on the subject, Ralph?"

"I? Certainly not, Kitty. I followed the poor little thing to the grave, but as to knowing what to put upon her head-stone, that is not at all in my line. Yes; of course, it would be nice to put up a stone. But I cannot help you with the inscription. Have you any ideas yourself?"

"I thought of something like this," replied Kate. She took a piece of paper out of her pocket and scribbled a few lines on it in pencil.

Henley read aloud:

"Just your age," said the young man. "But, my dear Kitty, you have never put her name--her surname, I mean. It ought to be 'Kate Mildmay,' not 'Kate.' It is quite a pretty inscription, but let us add the word 'Mildmay.'"

"It is more uncommon to leave it out," said Kitty, moving restlessly. "I will show it to her mother and see what she says. The mother ought to be consulted, ought she not?"

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At that moment Mrs. Mildmay was seen passing by the balcony, and Kate called to her.

"Please come here for a moment, Mrs. Mildmay."

The widow entered. Her face was white, and her eyes had a tired appearance.

"Sit down, won't you," said Kate in a gentle voice.

Mrs. Mildmay dropped into the nearest chair. She was undergoing daily and hourly torture, and she shivered now as she glanced at Kate. In her lap lay a black-edged handkerchief. She took it up and began to pleat it restlessly round the hem. Kate's blooming face bent nearer. Just for an instant her slim hand touched the widow's. In that touch there was warning more than sympathy. Mrs. Mildmay made an effort and recovered herself.

"I have been talking to Ralph," said the young girl. "He knows all about you."

"About me?" answered Mrs. Mildmay.

"Yes; I mean the ordinary things. He knows that you have lost your daughter. He is very sorry for you."

"I am broken-hearted," said poor Mrs. Mildmay. She covered her face with her handkerchief and sobbed aloud.

Henley got up.

"Perhaps, Kate," he said, looking at his betrothed, "it might be kinder--"

"No; Mrs. Mildmay does not mind you in the least," said Kate, glancing at him with that queer determination which he could never remember the old Kate wearing round her pretty lips.

"Ralph and I have been talking about the money which you are to receive," continued Kate; "and I | | 44 thought you would like to know that it is quite all right. You shall have the greater part of it in a few days. But now there is another matter. Dear little Kitty, who was my companion, who cheered my loneliness, by whose death-bed I stood, must never be forgotten by me. Ralph and I thought of erecting a head-stone to her memory. You would like that, would you not?"

"Yes; but I cannot bear to talk of it," said Mrs. Mildmay.

"I am afraid I must ask you to try and listen. You see, I am going back to England, and the matter must be arranged before I leave. I thought this inscription would be nice." Here Kate thrust the paper, on which she had written the words: "To Kate, who went from the villa Beau Séjour," into the widow's hands.

Mrs. Mildmay hastily read it and gave it back again. "Very nice--very suitable," she said.

"But surely," interrupted Henley, "you would like your daughter's surname to be put on the head-stone; not only 'Kate.' That might apply to any Kate."

"Oh, I think it is very nice and suitable as it is," said the widow again. "I am somewhat in a hurry. Perhaps you will excuse me, Miss--Bouverie?"

"I told you she would like it best as it is," said Kate. "Next time you will believe me, won't you?"

The order for the head-stone was given to a stone-mason, and before Mr. Hume and Kate left Mentone other arrangements were also made to the satisfaction of Mrs. Mildmay. She received two hundred pounds on account and a letter from Kate promising to send her the remainder of the two thousand as soon as possible. She had already given notice to her late | | 45 employer and was looking out for a house which she intended to open during the next season. During these last days neither Kate nor she dared to have any private consultations.

"We had better not," said Kate to her once in a smothered whisper. "We began to act our parts the moment Uncle Robert and Ralph appeared on the scene; we must go on acting them now to the bitter end. When you want to think of me as I am, go and visit Kate who left the Beau Séjour. Go and visit her in her quiet little grave. Think what a happy girl she has made me and rejoice."

The miserable mother promised.

On the day before they left Mentone Henley started for a long walk all alone. On his way back he was joined by a rough-looking man, an Englishman by birth. The man was dressed in a coarse tweed suit, had a large face, somewhat bloated in appearance, furtive, bloodshot eyes, and a disagreeable expression round his mouth. His hair was much mixed with grey, and he was bald round the temples. He had a swaggering walk and a manner which the smallest provocation might render insolent. And yet, notwithstanding all these defects, there was something about his bearing which showed that at a very distant date, and before dissipation had seized him for its prey, he had considered himself a gentleman.

"Good afternoon," he said, slackening his pace to accommodate Henley's steps. "You are doubtless on your way back to the Beau Séjour."

"I am," answered Henley shortly.

"I am interested in that place," continued the stranger. "I happen to know a lady who resides there very well."

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Henley glanced at him when he said this. It was quite impossible that Kate could know this creature. He hurried his steps.

"Yes," continued the stranger briskly, "I am well acquainted with Mrs. Mildmay. The loss of her daughter was a terrible blow to her. She is an active, enterprising, clever woman; I never met a cleverer. I believe I have the honour of addressing Mr. Henley. You must have noticed what I mean, have you not, sir?"

"I can't say I have," answered Henley. He earnestly desired to get rid of this most obstrusive man, but had never in his life been intentionally rude to any one. "Forgive me," he added; "I am in a hurry, and must be going forward."

The man laughed in a coarse manner.

"I can accommodate my steps to yours," he said. "Perhaps you are thinking that we will never meet again. Would you like me to make a bet on the subject?"

"I do not bet with strangers," replied Henley.

"All the same, I wish to make a statement. We shall meet again--and yet again."

Henley had long legs, and he now strode quickly forward.

"I should like to tell you my name, sir," said the stranger, whose squat legs had some difficulty in keeping pace with Henley's long strides. "Surely it is not necessary for you to walk quite so fast; I am a little blown, and it is really important that I should say something. By-and-by you will be able to recall the circumstances of this apparently incidental meeting; you will be able to know that I joined you in your last walk to the Villa Beau Séjour, and that during the walk we talked together about Mrs. Mild | | 47 may. This memory of yours will be very useful to me, if not to you. My name, sir, is Henry Merriman. My father was a lawyer in the old country; but I--well, I am a cosmopolitan. I know a little of all parts of the globe, and at present am settled at Mentone. I am here because I have important business to transact. I am a hungry beggar and a disappointed one. Sir, I have made a mess of my life. Ah! you young fellows, who have all the world before you, don't know what it is to be down on your luck--to have touched your bottom dollar, sir; yes, to have touched your bottom dollar. I buried my pride with a lot of other things many years ago. But in my day, Mr. Henley, I went to a good public school--no less a school than Cheltenham College--and afterwards I went to Cambridge. Well, the least said about that the better. Sir, I have had a rough-and-tumble existence."

"This is all very interesting, no doubt, to you, Mr. Merriman," retorted Henley; "but as two strangers--"

"Sir, we are not likely to be strangers long. I must again allude to the possibility of our knowing more of each other in the future. It is on account of that future that I have ventured to break in upon your solitude, Mr. Henley. I understand that you are about to contract an alliance with the wealthy heiress, Miss Bouverie? Ha! ha! Really you must excuse me; I have a keen sense of humour, Mr. Henley." Here Merriman burst into a loud rollicking laugh.

The blood mounted to Henley's cheeks.

"Your future wife is a very wealthy heiress, is she not, Mr. Henley?" he continued.

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"I decline to discuss my future wife with you," retorted Henley.

The valley they were walking up now narrowed, and the way was lonely. Henley was a slighter man than Merriman. Merriman looked quickly around him. With a quick stride he came forward, and now stood in Henley's path.

"I am a desperate man; and I want ten pounds," he said. "It is worth your while to be civil to me; I can make things hot for you if you are not. Will you give me ten pounds here, and now?"

"Certainly not."

"I repeat it is worth your while to keep my tongue silent."

"Worth my while! what do you mean? This sounds like blackmailing. I never heard of you before. I refuse to walk another step with you. Go! Our ways part here."

"No, they do not part here," said the stranger. He rushed upon Henley, caught him by the collar, and, by a deft and sudden movement, hurled him to the ground.

"There," he said, placing his knee on the chest of his captive; "I am up now, and you are down. It is a pleasant reversion of our ordinary positions, and I am in no hurry to put an end to it. Give me your purse; I won't leave you until you do."

"You are a beggarly ruffian; and if you can take my purse you may, but I don't intend to give it you," said Henley.

The man looked steadily at him. He read the determination in his eyes, rose abruptly, and stood a little way off.

"Get up, sir," he said. "You're a gentleman; | | 49 I'm sorry I insulted you. From my soul, desperate as I am, I wouldn't rob you; I mean I wouldn't rob you in that way. You can go your way now, and I'll go mine; but once more let me repeat my name to you: Henry Merriman, late of Cheltenham College and M.A. of Cambridge. Ah, sir, a gentleman once, but one who now cumbers the ground. I am deeply interested in your wedding--and in your heiress. Miss Bouverie is a spirited and handsome young lady--very spirited; and Mrs. Mildmay, whose daughter was buried a fortnight ago, is, by Jove, the cleverest woman in the length and breadth of Europe! I wish you good-day, sir. When you meet me next, perhaps you will remember me."

The man turned suddenly and disappeared round a sharp corner. Henley stood and watched him until he was out of sight. What a ruffian he was!

What an unpleasant adventure altogether!

Henley slowly threaded his way back to the Beau Séjour.

"I shall be right glad when I leave this place," he thought. Just then Kate came out on the veranda to meet him. She was all in white from head to foot, and the last rays of the setting sun caught her red-brown hair, causing it to glitter in the evening light.

"Oh my beautiful darling!" said the young man. He quickened his steps and folded her in his arms.