| | 22

CHAPTER IV

A TALL young man with broad shoulders and a somewhat fair type of face was standing kicking his heels impatiently in the outer room of a lawyer's office. He had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant expression. English country gentleman was written all over him, from his bronzed cheek to his firm, well-knit hands and athletic figure.

A clerk came up and spoke.

" Mr. Hume will see you now, Mr. Henley; will you follow me this way?"

Henley stepped across the room, a door was flung open, and he entered a large inner apartment. A man with iron-grey hair rose as he approached, and held out his hand.

"How do you do, Ralph? Sit down," he said. " This is a somewhat unpleasant business. You must go off at once to Mentone."

"Why, what's up, sir? Why am I to go to Mentone?"

"Well, I can't. I would if I could ; but I can't--not for a day or two. But you must go at once."

"I wish you would tell me why," said the young man impatiently.

"You have wondered at Kate's silence?"

"Rather. Has this anything to do with her? Has she been discovered at last?"

"Yes; the naughty puss has been hiding in Men | | 23 tone all the winter. I received a telegram from her last night, and a long letter this morning. She is rather lonely, and wants us both to go. You may as well run off; you can put up at one of the hotels and run down to see her. She is at a place in one of the valleys, called Beau Séjour. Here is her letter; you can read it for yourself."

As the lawyer spoke he pointed to an open letter which lay on his desk. The young man took it up eagerly and was soon buried in its contents. It ran as follows:--

Ralph Henley let the letter flutter to the ground.

"I could not make out why she was silent," he said; "but, of course, this accounts for it. So you think I ought to go to Mentone myself, sir?"

"I do, Ralph. It would be a great convenience to me. I cannot get off until the end of the week. I don't like the thought of that child being all alone; she always was a little bit eccentric, and my poor brother spoiled her so dreadfully. I have been looking through some important papers this morning with regard to the administration of the estate. Kitty has been left heiress of everything. Here is her photograph; poor Christopher sent it to me with the last letter he ever wrote."

As the lawyer spoke he lifted the lid of his desk and took out a photograph enclosed in soft tissue paper. He handed it to Ralph Henley, who gazed at it attentively.

"She is not much changed," he said. "She has not sent me one of these. I have not had a new | | 25 portrait of her for a couple of years; but she is exactly what she always was. I should like to keep this if you don't mind, sir--at least, for the present. You shall have it back when I see you again."

"Ah, my boy, is it possible that you are as much in love as ever?"

"There never was any girl for me except Kitty," was the answer.

"I am right glad to hear it. Her father was most anxious that a marriage between you both should come off. He has left her with a very large fortune, and if she is as beautiful as she looks in that picture, you will have won a very desirable wife, for the coffers of Castellis are not too flourishing at present."

"I would not marry her for her fortune for the world," said the young man, his face darkening.

"Oh! come, come; you can put it in that way if you like. Provided you love the girl, a bit of gold with her comes in very handy, I can tell you. However, to come to immediate matters, can you start for Mentone this evening?"

"Yes; I certainly can."

"Then wire to Kate, and tell her so! Tell her that you will be with her as soon as the swiftest train can bring you. I will write to her by the same post. Poor girl! She was always an original. What possessed her to hide herself in that place for the last three months passes my belief; but it is just like Kitty."

"Yes, just like Kitty," said the young man. "But I think, sir, I love her all the better for her eccentricities."

"Well, go out and see to the matter. I shall be | | 26 busy until late this evening. I will manage to send a letter off to-night; but that's about all I can do."

Ralph Henley left Mr. Hume's chambers, and, going to the nearest post office, sent off a telegram to Kate Bouverie, Beau Séjour, Mentone.

The little winged messenger reached Kate Mildmay within two hours. She was standing in the veranda of the pretty villa, dressed in Kate Bouverie's clothes. When the messenger brought up the telegram she took it, read it coolly, told the boy there was no answer, and retreated within the house.

"Now," she said to herself in a breathless sort of voice, "I am primed in every respect. He will be here by the morning after next. I shall go down the garden to meet him. Poor little Kate must be buried that day, and he and I will go together to the funeral. I must accustom myself to calling her Kate Mildmay; there must be no slip now, no backward glance. I think I am quite ready; I don't believe it is possible for me to fail. The only one who gives me the slightest uneasiness is mother. Notwithstanding the enormous advantage to herself, she is but half-hearted in the matter. Now that Ralph is coming, I had better drive into Mentone and engage a couple of servants. That is a good thought. I shall make Ralph stay here; there is no earthly use in his going to any of the hotels. With mother as chaperon it can easily be managed."

She entered the large sitting-room. The sofa where the sick girl had lain was empty. Mrs. Mildmay was lying back in a deep chair with her hands folded.

"I am doing nothing, Kate," she said in a fretful voice. "I cannot turn my attention to anything. | | 27 You won't ask me to cook a good dinner for you to-day, will you?"

"No, certainly not," said Kate; "I am not hungry. Now listen, mother."

"You are always saying 'Listen,'" answered the woman; "and you make me so desperately nervous. What is it now?"

"I have had a telegram from Ralph Henley. Mr. Hume cannot come out to Mentone for two or three days; but Ralph is coming."

"Can you meet him, Kate? Dare you?"

"Of course I dare. Mother, I am going to shut the door; I want to have one last talk."

"You had better shut the window too; any one may come up to the window and overhear us."

"Oh, but no one will," said Kate in a defiant voice. "We have guarded this secret pretty well. No one was here when she died except our two selves; the doctor arrived half-an-hour too late; but he saw her, of course, and signed the death certificate. It is all right, as right as it can be. Now then, mother, are you ready to listen?"

"Yes, I wish you would be quick, Kate. You terrify me."

"I intend to give you before the end of the week two thousand pounds. I am mistress of my own fortune, and can manage it. Then I wash my hands of you. From this hour I never call you mother again. You address me from this moment as Miss Bouverie; I speak to you as Mrs. Mildmay. Instead of you as my mother I take Mr. Hume as my uncle. I call him Uncle Robert. I take all Kate Bouverie's relations as mine; and Ralph Henley is betrothed to me. He saw me last when I | | 28 was a child, not more than eleven years old. He thinks himself in love with me. He shall be desperately, desperately in love with me, me myself--not because I have gold, not because I have a good old name, not because I am a lady by birth, but because of me myself--before the week is out. And we will marry; and sometimes we will come to Mentone, and you shall see us. But beyond that two thousand pounds which I am giving to you, I mean to wash my hands of you. You can clear all your debts, and take a good house and start on your own account. Now, are you satisfied; for, if not--"

"If not, what will happen?" said the woman.

"You had better not ask; but I am desperate. Do you accept? Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, yes. I suppose I am."

"That is right."

Kate walked to the window, drew up the green jalousies, and stepped out on to the veranda. She never heard, as she did so, the sound of softly retreating footsteps, nor did she see a man's figure standing behind the big eucalyptus-tree to the left of the little garden. The man stole away chuckling to himself.

Kate stood serene, with a smile on her face. Presently she returned to where Mrs. Mildmay was still seated.

"I thought I would tell you," she said, "that I am going to take the pony-trap to Mentone immediately after lunch. I mean to engage two good servants. You must dress yourself in your best, and appear as my friend and companion. Mr. Henley will sleep here. We will get the little room to the left of the stairs ready for him."

| | 29

"And where will you sleep, Kate?" began the mother.

"Miss Bouverie, please," said Kate. "I shall sleep in that room. It will be ready on the night of his arrival."

"What! The room where she died?"

"Yes. Why not? You can sleep there with me."

"I should dread it."

"You will be all right with me."

"Kate, Kate. I dare not be left alone with that dead girl."

"Mother, don't be silly. What harm can she do you? Poor little Kitty! There, I must never call you mother again. But kiss me; kiss me for the last time."

Kate Mildmay went up to her mother, flung her arms round her neck, pressed her to her heart, and kissed her passionately on her lips.

"There," she said, "it had to be. It is good-bye for ever as mother and child."

"Oh, my child. I don't like it. I dread it; I fear it. Give it up even now."

"Never. Now then, Mrs. Mildmay; you will attend to all that is necessary. When I return with the servants remember it will be fatal--fatal to my scheme and yours if even once your tongue slips and you call me Kate."

Mrs. Mildmay hastily left the room.

"I wish I might wash my hands of it," she thought. "Kate is a terrible girl. I could almost wish she had died when she was young."

Kate remained behind. She looked round her. Then taking the telegram out of her pocket, she opened it swiftly, and looked at the words:--

| | 30

"Leave England to-night. With you Thursday morning. Ralph Henley."

"Ah, Ralph," said the girl half aloud; I wonder what sort you are. Yes; I am playing a big game. But I believe I shall succeed."

She softly entered the bedroom. In her coffin lay the dead girl. Kate bent down now and kissed the lips of the other Kate. Those lips wore the evanescent and most touching smile of death.

"I don't believe you are angry, poor little Kitty," said the other Kate. "And even now I believe I would change places with you, Kate Mildmay. Yes, you are Kate Mildmay. I shall believe it in the long-run. And I--I am Kate Bouverie. I will attend to your wishes, little Kate, and put no flowers over you even though you are Kate Mildmay. Forgive me, little Kitty--sweet, soft, pretty Kitty. And if it is in the power of the dead to help, let your mantle descend upon me in order that I may act your part worthily in the world."