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CHAPTER XI

ONE thing at least Mr. and Mrs. Hume insisted on, the wedding was to take place from the Grange. Kate struggled against this decision on their parts, but finally yielded to the combined entreaties of her uncle and aunt, cousins, and lover. Henley was restless at her living alone in her flat, and felt much relieved when she gave up the pretty little suite of rooms and returned to the more conventional atmosphere of the Grange.

The marriage was to be solemnised on the 1st of June. The 31st of May of that year ushered in the first of a long series of glorious summer days. A festive and bridal atmosphere reigned already over the Grange. Signs of bustle and preparation for the coming ceremony were apparent everywhere. Even Mrs. Hume forgot her sufferings in the thought of the great event which was so near. Kate was petted and caressed by every one.

The marriage settlements had been finally drawn up and signed. Kate's enormous income was absolutely settled upon herself and her future children. Henley was quite satisfied with this arrangement. He was heard to say once or twice that the one thorn in his cup was the knowledge of his bonny Kate being possessed of such a much larger income than he owned himself.

As to Kate she lived in a dream. Faster and | | 96 faster did the whirlpool of pleasure revolve round her feet. She was raised to such a pinnacle of excitement and bliss that she found it possible to banish all serious thoughts. By this time she had persuaded herself that she really was Kate Bouverie. The Kate in her nameless grave at Mentone returned seldomer and seldomer to haunt her. The future was her own and the present was all that was delightful. She was caressed, loved, and fussed over. Everything that money could devise was used to enhance her remarkable beauty. She had more dresses than she knew what to do with, and these dresses were chosen with the most exquisite care and thought. In each costume she looked more and more fair. Jewels bedecked her round throat and encircled her snowy arms, jewels gleamed in her dark hair and flashed a radiance which was only vied with by the sparkle in her eyes. Those eyes were now soft as well as bright, the latent anxiety which could never be really absent had given them that depth of expression which in the old days they lacked. Yes, she was happy. Her scheme had succeeded. Not only had she won her heart's desire, riches with their magical power, friends to love and make much of her, but she was also in love--deeply, truly, desperately in love with the man who to-morrow was to be her husband.

"When I was making all my plans," thought Kate to herself, "I never pictured this last and crowning joy. It never for a moment occurred to me that I should love Ralph Henley. I meant him to love me as a matter of course, but that I should give him my heart in return, that I should tremble when I hear his step, that my heart should leap when he speaks to me, that the dearest bliss of all is to feel | | 97 his hand and see his face, that I never, never dared to think could happen. But it has happened. I love him with all my soul and strength. I would marry him to-morrow if he had not a halfpenny."

"Kate," cried her cousin Mary, dancing into her room, "your dress has just arrived--your wedding dress. Mother wants so much to see you in it. Of course we know that it fits perfectly, but won't you put it on and come down to the drawing-room? Mother is lying on the sofa, and she wants so much to see the dress."

"Well, my dear Mary, I have not the least objection," said Kate, who was feeling too happy at that moment to mind what trouble she took to please people.

"Then do let us help you," said Mary, in a kind of rapture. "Don't let Marryat have anything to do with it; we want to put you into your bridal dress ourselves."

"All right," said Kate; "only you must let Marryat put the dress away afterwards. It needs a perfectly trained maid to do the folding process without making a crease in the satin."

For answer Mary went to the door of the room and called her sister.

"Come, Ethel--come quickly!" she cried. "You and I are to dress Kate in her wedding costume."

Ethel tripped eagerly forward.

"Has it come?" she said.

"Yes; it is in this great box. Marryat and one of the maids brought it in a few moments ago."

"Let's have a peep," said Ethel. "Oh! how delicious!"

The box was uncorded, the tissue wrapper re | | 98 moved, and a lovely dress of the softest satin, richly embroidered in pearls, was brought to view. The dress had cost a small fortune, and came from Worth. No London dressmaker could have produced it.

"I wonder what the bill will be?" said Ethel.

"Oh, never mind about the bill--that is Uncle Robert's affair," answered Kate. "I told him I wanted an elaborate trousseau, and he gave me carte blanche to order what I pleased."

"Oh dear!" sighed Mary, "the money this one dress has cost would keep Ethel and me in every imaginable luxury for a couple of years."

"I think it is rather mean of you to talk in that way, Mary," said Ethel, "when Kate is so generous to us. Could anything be more lovely than the bridesmaids' dresses?"

"Well, do help me into my dress now," said Kate.

"By the way," continued Mary, as she slipped the lovely robe over Kate's dark head, "Marryat has been looking for you high and low. There is a person somewhere in the ground who wants to see you."

"A person who wants to see me! What person?"

"I have not the slightest idea. Marryat says he is a fussy sort of beggar person."

"Oh, it can be nobody of the slightest consequence," said Kate. "I am much too busy to attend to strangers to-day."

She had scarcely uttered the words before there came a tap at her door and Marryat entered.

"Is this the wedding dress, miss?" she said. "How very beautiful!" She stepped forward and looked at it critically, turning her head from side | | 99 to side, pulling out the train and smoothing out the soft folds by the young girl's waist.

"It fits like a glove; it is a dream dress," said Ethel. "I never saw anything so lovely; and it becomes you so, Kate. You look--oh, you look superb! You look like--like an angel!"

"No, no; do not say that," answered Kate, almost testily. "What do you think of the dress, Marryat?"

Marryat nodded her head; the admiration she felt was all too apparent in her eyes.

Meanwhile Mary was silent. She kept on looking at Kate's face as if she were fascinated. Kate glanced at her and then looked at herself in the glass. Never had her eyes rested on a fairer vision. The tenderest, softest bloom filled her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes was veiled with a sort of mist of the purest happiness. She knew that she looked lovely. She was glad because she was going to give herself with all her loveliness to Ralph. She said to herself--

"Even though I am all false, even though I am not Kate Bouverie at all, yet I am the loveliest Kate in all the world. Surely that fact is enough; surely Ralph is the luckiest of men."

"Yes, dress does help beauty," she said abruptly. She turned aside, and a quick, half-strangled sigh burst from her lips. Just for a moment she thought of the old days.

"In the old days," thought Kate, "there were the little cotton dresses, the faded ribbons, the darned gloves. Oh, I was pretty in the old days; now--now I am lovely!"

Meanwhile Marryat came up and said something in a low tone.

"There is a man in the avenue, miss, who wants | | 100 to see you, and he won't go away. I begged him to, but he won't be satisfied. He seems to intend to make a fuss. Can you manage to give him a minute?"

Kate felt herself turning suddenly pale. Mary's eyes were still fixed upon her.

"If the man is a beggar or anything of that sort," said Mary, "you ought to go to father. You cannot be worried by these sort of people coming to see you."

"Oh, of course he is a beggar," said Ethel. "Kate is known to be so rich that all sorts of people will be approaching her now."

"I don't think the man is exactly a beggar, miss," continued Marryat. "By the way he spoke he seemed to have seen Miss Bouverie before now. It might do no harm for you just to give him a minute's interview, miss."

"I'll see about it," answered Kate. "Tell him not to come to the house."

"But you won't see a beggar, surely!" cried Ethel. "I wish you wouldn't; you really will be overpowered with these sort of people if you begin to take notice of them."

"He looked very miserable, miss," said the maid.

Kate glanced at Marryat, read in her eyes what she did not dare to say aloud, and made up her mind at any risk to see the man.

"Tell him I will come to him, Marryat," she said.

"Oh dear me! Kate, I wish you wouldn't," said Ethel again.

"My dear Ethel, I feel so happy to-day that I cannot bear to turn any one away who is in misery. Now do come down and let us show the dress to Aunt Susannah."

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They did so. Mrs. Hume praised and admired. She, too, saw the brilliant and yet softened light in Kate's eyes, and had long ago ceased to miss the expression which she believed the child Kate used to wear. Yes, the child Kitty had grown into a lovely woman. Mrs. Hume felt her whole heart going out to her in a great wave of longing.

"Oh my darling," she said, "how very beautiful you are! Stoop and kiss me, dear. I love you as if you were my own child, Kitty; I love you as my own child."

Kate fell on her knees, clasped her arms round Mrs. Hume's neck, and kissed her two or three times. She then got up and slowly left the room.

"Why, mummy," exclaimed Ethel, the moment she had done so, "you are making us jealous. Your poor little Ethel and Mary must come first."

"So they do," laughed the mother; "but Kitty bewitches me, she is so lovely."

"She is perfectly radiant," said Ethel. "I never saw any one like her."

"She is very much handsomer than she promised to be when a little girl," remarked Mary.

"What do you mean?" said Mrs. Hume in an astonished voice. "We all did so admire the little Kitty of long ago."

"Nevertheless, she has turned out far handsomer than I had the least idea of," replied Mary. "There was a want in the old Kitty's face--"

"Oh, my dear Mary!"

"I repeat my remark," answered Mary. "There was a want in the old Kitty's face which no amount of training could have supplied. She was very sweet, but she needed strength of character. There is no | | 102 lack of strength in the present Kitty; she is immensely, surprisingly improved."

"You talk as if--" began Ethel; but Mary interrupted her hastily.

"I wonder who that man is who wants to see her?" she exclaimed.

"A man!" cried Mrs. Hume. "What man?"

"Oh, a beggar of some sort. Marryat told her about him. He won't go away, and that foolish Kate absolutely declares she will see him."

"It is very imprudent of her," said Mrs. Hume. "You had better go at once and tell your father. Kate must not see beggars; they will prey on her good-nature. It is very immoral to encourage begging."

"Then I will run at once and tell father," said Mary. She tripped off to the study. Mr. Hume was writing letters, looking through deeds, and winding up Kate's affairs.

"Well, Mary, what is it?" he said. "I am busy."

"Mother sent me, father. She thinks you ought to know that there is a man in the avenue who is worrying to see Kate."

"A man worrying to see Kate! What do you mean?"

"He wants to see Kate in the avenue, and she is going to see him."

"Tell Kate to do nothing of the kind," said the lawyer impatiently.

"But she intends to go, father."

"Then I had better put a stop to it. What a nuisance it is! That silly woman, Marryat, is not, in my opinion, at all a suitable maid for Kate; I hope she will get rid of her."

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"She has not the least intention of doing so; she is quite devoted to Marryat."

"Well, I suppose I must go and see this person," said Mr. Hume, "but it is no end of a worry."

He put on his hat and went up the avenue. The avenue to the Grange was long; it wound in and out amongst stately old trees. About half-way up there was a miniature lake. Now, as Mr. Hume approached, he saw a man standing by the lake and looking down at his own reflection in the water. The man was stoutly built and shabbily dressed. Mr. Hume stood still for a moment to gaze at him; the next moment he uttered a hasty exclamation, for, crossing the lawn at the opposite side of the lake, he observed his niece. She was going quickly in the direction where the man was standing. Hume called out to her, but she did not take any notice. She reached the man's side, and the two turned and began to pace slowly up and down. Then they stood still; Kate was talking and the man was replying. Just as Mr. Hume, who hurried as much as he could, came up to the pair, the man took off his hat to Kate and walked quickly away. Kate saw her uncle, and tripped up to his side.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" he said.

"What is what?" asked Kate.

There was a slightly brighter colour than usual in her cheeks; otherwise, she looked perfectly composed.

"What did that man want with you, Kitty?"

"May I not see people now and then without telling you exactly what they want?" was Kate's answer.

Mr. Hume glanced at her in astonishment.

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"Oh, I did not mean to be cross," she said then; "but in father's lifetime I had so much liberty. Of course, Uncle Robert, you are anxious about me because you love me." Here she laid her slim hand on his arm.

"Of course I love you, my dear Katherine. Who would not love one so lovely and interesting? But the fact is ever present before me that you are a very wealthy girl. Now, wealth has its responsibilities, and one of these is that the person who owns money should never squander it. The man whom I saw you talking to just now did not look like a gentleman."

"Of course he is not a gentleman; I never said he was. Is it necessary that I should only speak to gentlemen?"

"My dear niece, don't cavil."

"Oh, I won't. I will try to be patient," answered Kate. She bit her lips, and her hand rested with a slightly heavier pressure on the lawyer's arm.

"You have so much money that you cannot shirk your responsibilities," he said; " and I, as your guardian, will not let you squander your money. It is sent to use, not to abuse."

"Oh, I know all that," said Kate, in her most flippant voice. "Well, I suppose the upshot is that you want to know to whom I have been talking. I will tell you. The man's name is Rogers. Mrs. Mildmay knew him very well at Mentone. He happens to be in England, and she asked him to call and see me. She is very poor, and wants a little money. Out of my abundance--my great abundance--she wants a little--just a little."

"Nonsense, Kate! What are you talking about?" Mr. Hume flashed round and confronted his niece. | | 105 "Now, once for all, listen to me. I put my foot down as far as that woman Mildmay is concerned. I know for a fact that she has received from you within the last three months the sum of two thousand pounds. Even though her daughter did die in your house, the mother is not to blackmail you for ever."

"She does nothing of the kind. She is not the sort of person you imagine her to be, Uncle Robert. I promised little Kate Mildmay before she died to look after her mother, to relieve her difficulties, to give her a fair start in life."

"And has not two thousand pounds done that?"

"Up to a certain point it has, but not altogether. She had debts which had to be cleared. She has now started on her own account--has taken a pension and furnished it well. She will make a comfortable and easy living in the future."

"Then you have done your duty and can rest in peace. Rogers, or whatever his name is, shall get nothing out of you."

"He wants it for her, not for himself. Another fifty pounds would set her up completely, and she would never trouble me again."

"She shall not have it; I will see the man myself."

"Oh no, Uncle Robert," said Kate; and now a note of real alarm came into her voice.

Mr. Hume was still facing her.

"Do you mean to tell me you are afraid of this person?" he said.

"Not in the very least. But it pains me to have to refuse--" The word "Mother" almost passed her lips, but she drew herself up in time. "It pains me to refuse Mrs. Mildmay," she continued. "I | | 106 was so very fond of her poor little daughter who resembled me."

"I am sick of hearing of that likeness," said Mr. Hume impatiently. "The whole thing is preposterous, Katherine, and cannot be permitted for a single moment."

"Very well, Uncle Robert. Then you really will not help me?"

"I will not give you a penny for that woman. There, I have said it."

"Of course, if you refuse there is an end of it," said Kate. She turned away from her uncle, entered the house, and went up to her own room. The moment she did so she locked her door. Out of a secret receptacle she now took one of the diamonds which she had stored away in case of need. It was an unset diamond, but a good one, and of the first water. She knew well that it could be cut into a lovely stone, and by no means wished to part with it to the man who called himself Rogers, but whose real name was Merriman. He had said some very queer things, however, and had frightened her dreadfully. She could not guess what he knew or did not know; but that he knew something--something that could implicate her, and perhaps ruin her whole scheme--was all too evident.

"At any risk I must not see him again," she thought to herself. "It would be too dangerous. And yet I must give him what he needs. I must stop his mouth. He threatened to go to see Uncle Robert to-morrow--on my wedding day, too--but he mustn't. Whatever happens, he must not. Just when the cup of happiness touches my lips it shall not be dashed away. I don't think the man knows | | 107 much, but I must silence him. Stay, though; need I give him this diamond?" She glanced hastily at the others. There was one set in the form of a pin; it sparkled brilliantly. Kate had often longed to wear this pin, but she had resolved not to do so as it might be remarked upon. The girls had never observed it, for she had taken it out of the secret drawer at the same time that she removed the other diamonds. She now put it into a box, folded the box in brown paper, and put a string round it. She then rang the bell for Marryat.

"Yes, Miss Bouverie," said the maid, coming discreetly forward. "Why, miss, you have not done much yet in the way of arranging your things. I want you to select what you wish to take for your wedding tour, and then I can pack for you."

"You can do that in an hour or two. I wish you now to attend to something else."

"Certainly, miss."

"That man you saw in the avenue--"

"He seemed a queer person, Miss Bouverie."

"That is neither here nor there. But I must tell you something about him."

"I am all attention, miss."

"You will never repeat what I say, Marryat?"

"I have learned to hold my tongue, Miss Bouverie."

"I hope you have, for from time to time I shall be obliged to trust you."

"I know that, miss. You had to trust me about Sir John Orme, hadn't you, miss?"

Kate flushed angrily.

"I do not wish you to refer to the occasions on which I ask you to hold your tongue," she said. "A maid, a perfect treasure of a maid, would never re | | 108 member such things; she would forget them. You forget yourself and your place when you allude to them, Marryat."

The maid drew herself up primly, and her face turned white.

"I will remember this against you, my proud young lady, some day," she said to herself. "Yes, I will remember and not forget." Aloud she said, in a demure and conciliatory tone: "Of course, miss; and I quite understand."

"I am glad you do. Now what I wish you to do is this. Take this little parcel to the Swan Inn, ask to see a man of the name of Rogers--Mr. John Rogers--and give him the parcel. There is no message. Just give it to him. Slip it into his hand when no one is looking."

"Certainly, miss. And there is no message?"

"No. You will wonder, Marryat, why I am doing this?"

"Well, yes, miss--although, of course, I have no right to wonder. A poor woman in my position has just to do what she is told. She is not expected to use her brains, miss, like--like a grand young lady in your position."

"Oh, don't be silly," said Kate, with a laugh. "You know you are just dying with curiosity; and you do use your brains--and pretty sharp ones they are, too. If you had not sharp brains you would not suit me at all. Well, I have made up my mind to tell you; but, of course, you won't breathe it to a soul."

By way of answer, Marryat closed her lips tightly together.

"It is this," said Kate. "There is a poor woman | | 109 in France--a very poor and sad woman. Her name is Mildmay. She was my housekeeper when I was there, and her daughter, her dear young pretty daughter, was my companion and friend. She died in my house, Marryat. Oh, it was so sad!" Kate's eyes filled with tears as she spoke. "As she was dying, I told her that I would be good, very good, to her mother. Now, the mother wants money badly, and this man has come to beg for it. Uncle Robert refuses to give her a penny."

"Quite right too, miss," said Marryat.

"Oh, Marryat, do you say so? You would not if you had seen her face--such a worn face, and so sad. Well, I cannot give her money, so I am giving something else. There, take it, and be quick. Tell the man to go back immediately to France. Go, Marryat, and be quick. When you come back I shall be ready for you to pack my finery."

"Yes, miss, I'll go, and be back as quick as possible. And mum's the word, Miss Bouverie--mum's the word."