Chapter XXII: Fruits Meet for Repentance

THE four years which followed Kathleen's first quarrel with her husband were far from happy ones. When a mask has fallen off, the wearer seldom cares to replace it. In like manner, when a certain character has been assumed to gain a selfish end, if the counterfeit is discovered, the pretender ceases to act an unnatural part.

John Torrance became in time less anxious to hide from Kathleen that he differed widely, both from her ideal and what he had determined to become after marriage. He was more than ever from home, and she knew less and less of the places and persons amongst which and whom he spent his time apart from her.

Some young wives might have yielded, and gone to places which in girlish days they had been taught to shun.

"Come with me, Kitty," John would say. "I want some one to keep me out of mischief."

She knew this, but was well aware that she would be helpless. Such influence as she possessed in their early married days had long vanished. She strove to make home attractive, she studied her husband's wishes and obeyed him in all that was right. She possessed her soul in patience amidst many provocations. She knew nothing of money matters, but hitherto Mr. Torrance had kept her purse well supplied, and often complimented her on her modest expenditure, saying, "You are really economical, Kitty, but you are always well dressed."

She would smile with pleasure, rewarded by the words for the trouble she had given to externals. She often said to herself, "John shall not find me indifferent in little things."

Aylmer Matheson was only too well informed as to Mr. Torrance's position, and often asked himself, "How many years will pass before he is as much embarrassed as he was when poor Kathleen's splendid, but mistaken generosity saved him from ruin and made him rich?"

Aylmer had again tried to induce Mr. Torrance to make a will, but in vain, and he desisted from any further effort, at Kathleen's request.

She had been resolute in one respect. The income of the little property which could not be alienated had been invested year by year, to accumulate in trust for her child.

"Nothing shall induce me to touch a penny of this," said Kathleen. "This shall be secured to my boy. It may be his only heritage."

In seven years and a half, the annual three hundred and fifty pounds, with interest added, made no unimportant sum, and Kathleen rejoiced that it had not been disturbed.

One evening Mr. Torrance alluded to this "separate fortune," as he called it, and said—

"If I want to borrow a few hundreds, Kitty, you will let me have them."

"Surely you have no need to borrow, least of all from me," she said.

"Why, is it not natural that married people should mutually accommodate each other?"

Kathleen was silent, but thought was busy. If her husband was in want of money, what had become of the great sum placed in his hands together with the income from the estate? She had kept household expenses within proper bounds, and since their first two years of married life there had been nothing to account for any present scarcity of money.

"Do you mean that you will not lend me a few hundreds?" said Mr. Torrance.

"You cannot be in earnest in asking," replied Kathleen.

"You will soon find out that I am if you refuse!" was the angry response.

Mr. Torrance looked furious and menacing, and Kathleen was determined not to yield.

"The sum you allude to is equally out of my power and yours. When, after I had given you all else, you refused to secure to my boy his rightful heritage, I resolved the trifle left should never be alienated. I put it out of my own power, and placed it in trust for Kenneth."

"Do you dare to tell me this?" shouted Mr. Torrance.

"I do. I rejoice to think that this money cannot be touched even by you or me. Kenneth will not be penniless, though it is dreadful to think that what came from my dear father has been squandered in a few years by a—"

"You had better finish your sentence, madam."

The pause gave Kathleen time to overcome her first anger, and to substitute other words for those which might, without it, have been spoken.

"By a man whom experience has failed to teach or improve. A man who having twice trod the road to ruin, finds it more attractive than any other, whose promises were uttered only to be forgotten, on whose honour I relied, to find it but a broken reed."

Kathleen rose from the breakfast-table and left the room, feeling nearly broken-hearted. She had borne much, but the attempt to get possession of the last fragment of her fortune tried her beyond endurance.

As the door closed behind Kathleen, an evil smile came on her husband's face. He did not follow her, but he said aloud—

"Before you are many hours older you will be glad to change your tone, my fair Kathleen."

An hour later, Mrs. Ellicott and Geraldine were startled by Kathleen's appearance at Monk's How. Her coming suggested some new trouble, and into their sympathetic ears she poured the story, not only of this last trial, but of many preceding ones hitherto unsuspected.

"I blame myself," said Kathleen, humbly, "because I sinned against conscience and knowledge by marrying one in whose life the fear and the love of God had no part. I indulged my self-will at the cost of pain to my best friends. I trusted fortune, my hope of happiness, the future of my child—all that marriage might bring—to one whose past life proved him unworthy of trust. Even John said it would be better for him if he were not so trusted, and oh! how truly he knew this! You know, dear aunty, how I used to chafe at little contradictions and crave after forbidden things, just because they were forbidden. Yet that night when you told me my mother's story, my longing after one prohibited amusement was quenched for ever. Things that I thought I should enjoy when I became my own mistress, lost their relish as soon as I tasted them, and I would have given the world to live with John the old peaceful life such as ours was, when we were together at the Hall before my marriage."

"It is an awful thing to pass the years with one to whom you are joined by the closest and most sacred ties, and yet to be as far as possible asunder in all that concerns the soul and eternity. I doubt if John and I ever joined in real prayer in our lives, for even when we went to church together, he always said it is 'only for the look of the thing and to please you, Kitty, that I go.' Even that poor concession soon ceased, as you know."

Tears stopped Kathleen's utterance for a while. She had begged her aunt and cousin just to let her tell her tale uninterrupted.

"For," she said, "if you begin to pity me and speak lovingly, it will never be told. I shall break down, and cannot begin again."

"You have had one great blessing out of the trouble, one light that has pierced the darkness, Kathleen," said Mrs. Ellicott. "You have been brought nearer to God, and realized, as you never did before, the love that never faileth."

"Oh yes. This is now my one great joy. Silent to others, even to you, how could I have lived without the comfort and strength He gave me, though I felt so unworthy even to ask for it? I was—I am so lonely, though I am a wife and a mother. Yet my very loneliness has drawn and driven me to God. I have needed much discipline, and it has taken a long time for me to learn the truth about myself. I started on my married life with the idea that I—weak, sinful, and to a great extent ignorant of my own need—should prove a source of strength to my husband, and be his helper and safeguard on the path we were to tread together until life ended for one of us. It is true that I soon began to regret the sorrow I had caused to dear earthly friends by my wilfulness; but I placed them first. Now, by the enlightening power of the Holy Spirit, I see my sinfulness and ingratitude towards my Heavenly Father. In all my wilful words and acts I rebelled against Him, and in paining the dear earthly friends whom He had graciously given to watch over me I showed the basest ingratitude for His goodness to me."

"When I first realized all this, and felt that nothing I could do would make amends for the past, all seemed dark and hopeless around me. But God had another message for me and it was one of love which I had often heard, though it never reached my heart before, and of forgiveness for the sake of Jesus, 'who loved us and gave Himself for us' when He died on Calvary. I can now say, 'He gave Himself for me,' for I believe it with all my heart, and I 'rejoice with joy unspeakable.'"

Despite her recent sorrow and present anxiety, there was a light in Kathleen's face which betokened the peace which passeth all understanding, a light which her aunt and cousin had never seen there before. Needless to say, she had their rejoicing sympathy.

There was a brief silence; then Kathleen said—

"If only John could feel as I do in these things, what a happy life might yet be before us! but I dare not hope for it, though I keep on praying always. I am now sorely in need of guidance, and after earnest prayer I have come to the conclusion that I should be wrong not to seek the help of my three best earthly friends. It would be neglecting the means placed within my reach. I must care for my boy. I will be firm in defending the little that is left for him, and I beg that you will tell Aylmer all I have told you, and ask him to join you in standing by me and strengthening my hands."

"I have other troubles which I must tell you before I go. One is about Ralph. He is greatly improved, for John has, in most things, allowed others to influence him for good—Aylmer especially—and not in vain. Of late he has taken an opposite course, to punish me for having wished him to make a will and secure the rights of my boy, without leaving Ralph's future unprovided for. You remember Ralph's foolish jealousy of his little brother, which really arose out of his great affection for me. John has been taking pains to revive this un-brotherly feeling, when Ralph has been at home for the holidays. I could not tell you how I suffered the last time."

"Poor Kitty, you have been wounded in your tenderest feelings!" said Ger.

"It is not on that account only I grieve. It is for Ralph himself I do so want him to grow up a good man. I have tried to make him look on the little brother as one to whom he should act as a defender and guardian. Often Ralph and I have been very happy. He is a fine youth, with many noble aims and longings. I have tried to strengthen these, and I have really opened my heart to him more than to older friends. I do not mean in a complaining way, but about the best things of all. We have read and prayed together many a time, and I am sure we have both been happier for this."

"I do not know how it came about, but some one told Ralph of his father's early career, and of the disgraceful ending to his military life. It was an awful trouble to the boy, and he came to tell me, and ask if it could be true."

"How sad for you and for the boy, dear Kitty!" said Ger.

"It was indeed, for what could I say? I had to own the truth; but I said that people were often sorry for the faults of their early days, and that it was possible for them to repent and, in God's strength, to live noble after-lives."

"'You knew before you married father, didn't you?' he asked; and I said, 'Yes, I did.'"

"Ralph was very thoughtful for a little while, and then with a burning flush on his face he said, 'I don't think father has led a noble life since, do you, mother?'"

"Perhaps I did the worst possible thing when I answered, 'Your father has always told me he was sorry for the past. He never brought any of the old visitors to the Hall, whom you used to dislike at Monk's How.' I wanted to make the best of my husband in the eyes of his son."

"Ralph asked another question. 'Did father promise that he really would keep away from those men?'"

"Fancy how hard it was to say 'Yes,' and then to hear Ralph reply, indignantly, 'My father has not kept his word to you. He has acted dishonourably, I know.'"

"I tried to speak hopefully, but Ralph was not to be easily cheered. He is close upon eighteen now, thoughtful and manly. I am very anxious about his future. He used to say he would be a soldier, as his father had been, but after that miserable tale came to his ears he gave up the idea. He thought that, no matter what his life might be, some one would identify him as the son of that Captain Torrance who had perforce to leave the service for dishonourable conduct. What to do for Ralph I know not. I have spoken earnestly to John more than once, and the last time—he was not quite himself, though that is a pitiful excuse to make for him—he laughed in my face, and said, 'You forget that Ralph will be master of the Hall.'"

The reminiscence was too much for Kathleen, and her tears could not be restrained. Her aunt and Geraldine were most indignant at this insult. They had not thought John Torrance could be so cowardly a tyrant. All that love could suggest they said to comfort Kathleen, yet felt that the task was an impossible one.

"I have one other trouble—a great one, I mean—the state of John's health," said Kathleen. "He is far from well, though he looks strong, and ridicules my anxiety. Some, perhaps, who bore such a burden as I do, might be indifferent, or think it would be no misfortune were he to die."

Kathleen shrank from uttering the last word, and it was followed by a burst of passionate weeping, during which she sobbed out—

"I have loved him truly—my husband, the father of my little child. I cannot bear to think of it, after all that I have had to endure at his hands. Besides and above all comes the thought, John is living without God and without hope in this world, and what is there beyond?"

Thus Kathleen ended her pitiful story, and left it with her aunt and cousin to repeat to Aylmer. "Remember," she added, "whatever John says, 'I will not give in with regard to the little sum saved for Kenneth. I must go back now; my child will want his mother.'"

Kathleen left immediately, and before the day was over Aylmer knew all that had passed, and shared the indignation inspired in Mrs. Ellicott and Ger by Kathleen's story. He owned that he was aware of Mr. Torrance's unsatisfactory state of health, and that it did not surprise him, and he replied gravely, "Kathleen has not yet seen his worst side, and I trust she never will, though he puts less and less restraint on himself. At first, I had some faint hope that the poor girl's unselfish trust and generosity would influence him permanently. Time has proved that I was wrong."

"Can Mr. Torrance have spent all Kitty's fortune?" asked Mrs. Ellicott.

"I fear so, since he is trying to wrest this little reserve sum from her. He is in debt, I know. He may have mortgaged the property, for he had full power. The income from the estate would about meet their present home expenditure, but if there is interest to be paid, and Torrance's outside extravagances to be met, he may easily be in difficulties."

"He cannot seize Kitty's little fund," said Ger.

"Not the property which yields the income. As to her savings, I dare say nothing. Torrance has stirred in her a spirit of resistance. He may next appeal to her pity with success. It waits to be seen whether love for her boy or his father will conquer in the end. If the worst come, it will neither find Kathleen homeless nor friendless whilst we three live," said Aylmer. On this thought alone could they all fall back for comfort.

When Kathleen reached home she asked for her boy.

"Master has taken him for a drive in the pony-trap, ma'am," was the nurse's answer.

The child had often gone with both parents, but his father had never before driven with the boy alone. Further inquiry showed that Mr. Torrance had got out at the station, and sent the trap back by a tenant's son. It seemed absurd to suppose that harm could happen to the child when in his father's care; but when Kathleen heard that the young man had seen the London train move off with Mr. Torrance and his boy in it, she turned sick with terror. "What could be John's motive for carrying off Kenneth unknown to his mother?" she asked herself.

Perplexed and troubled, she sent for Aylmer and Geraldine, who came immediately, and heard what had happened.

"You need not fear on your boy's account, Kathleen," said Aylmer, "though you may have to endure some suspense. No doubt John intends to extort your last available shilling. He has carried off the child that he may force you to ransom him at the cost of the sum you have saved as a provision for Kenneth. Do not yield. Trust to me, and be sure I will not rest until I find your boy."

"God will reward you for your unfailing goodness, my best of friends, my brother!" said Kathleen. "What should I do without you, my aunt, and dear, kind Ger?"

Kathleen's words were few, but her heart was full of thankfulness to the friends whom all her past wilfulness had failed to alienate.

Little has been said of late about Mountain, the faithful, self-opinionated, crusty coachman, who, despite his old dislike to Mr. Torrance, was still at the Hall. Kathleen had begged that she might retain him, and John Torrance, knowing the value of honesty and unimpeachable trustworthiness, had consented. The old man, however, always insisted that he served "Miss Kathleen as was," not Mr. Torrance. To him Aylmer would telegraph if needful, not to Kathleen, during his search for Kenneth.

Aylmer found that Mr. Torrance had booked for St. Pancras, and he was about to do the same, when a sudden inspiration stopped him.

Hollingsby was only two hours from London. Two trains left within a few minutes of each other, one express, the other slow. Mr. Torrance hated slow travelling, yet Aylmer easily ascertained that he had allowed the express to pass, though he might have had it stopped, and gone by slow train.

Aylmer at once decided that the London ticket was a mere blind, and that father and child would be set down at Earlsford Junction, ten miles away.

"I will make further inquiries," he thought. "Besides, there is no need to fear for Kenneth, and I must not risk a meeting with his father yet."

At seven that evening Mr. Torrance returned flushed and excited, but with an air of triumph. Kathleen schooled herself to meet him calmly, and asked in a natural tone, "Where is Kenneth, John? Have you given him to nurse? It is late for him to be out."

She trembled visibly, though she strove not to show her anxiety.

"You ask where our boy is. I will tell you after dinner, on certain conditions. In the meanwhile, let me say he is with those who will teach him to obey—a lesson he would hardly learn from you."

Without another word he passed her, and went to dress for dinner.

Kathleen easily divined what the conditions would be, and resolved not to yield to them. She only thought, "John is proud of our boy, and will not harm him. He only wants to coerce me through my fears for the child. I must bear in mind that if I have to endure threats and suspense during the child's absence, they will be for Kenneth's sake."

She went about preparing mechanically for the meal of which it would be impossible for her to partake. She even took special pains with her dress, and quietly told the nurse not to expect her charge before the morrow, as Mr. Torrance had left him to spend the night elsewhere.

Her manner deceived the servants, who were wondering what this new departure might mean. It also puzzled her husband, who expected passionate reproaches, tears and entreaties—anything but calmness. He could not imagine her capable of self-restraint where her child was concerned, and he saw it with surprise. Kathleen's trial came as soon as the servants left the room.

"You are not troubled at your darling's absence," said Mr. Torrance, in a mocking tone.

"How can I fear, when you are responsible for his safety?" replied Kathleen. "Still, it would have been kinder to tell me you were taking him away for the night."

"Or, if I had not taken him at all, I suppose."

"It is unusual to take one so young from home without warning the mother, that he might be fittingly clothed."

"It will do the boy good to rough it. He will have to do so, as a younger son. You have spoiled him."

Kathleen could not answer, and her silence irritated her husband, and disturbed his anticipation of an easy triumph, to be gained by the removal of the child.

"You are indifferent about the youngster, then; perhaps you are tired of both him and me. Why do you not speak?"

"You asked no question, and your remark called for no reply. You know that it was equally unjust and undeserved," replied Kathleen.

Her quiet dignity rendered Mr. Torrance uneasy, and he began to ask himself as to the source of her strength. There was something about Kathleen to-night which he could not fathom. Surely this hitherto yielding woman was not going to foil him when, as he would have expressed it, he had played his strongest card.

At this moment a servant entered and said, "Mountain would be glad to speak to you for a moment, ma'am."

"Excuse me for a moment, John," said Kathleen, "I will be back directly."

Mr. Torrance was always guarded before his servants, and he remarked, good-humouredly, "I suppose your favourite has been ailing. Mountain is a fidget about his horses."

When Mountain saw his mistress he made a remark or two about Polly, adding, "She is about well again now." Then in a low voice he said, "I've got the message, Miss Kathleen—ma'am, I mean. The child is safe at Monk's How."

An intelligent look from his mistress was enough for Mountain, and though she only remarked, "I am glad my favourite is better," he knew what his message had done for her.

Kathleen's heart beat wildly with the gladness Mountain's news had brought, but she went back to her husband with an unmoved face.

"Polly had been ailing, but Mountain says she is well again," she remarked.

"What do I care about the animal?" retorted Mr. Torrance. "You take Kenneth's absence coolly enough, and I am not likely to trouble about the mare. We have important business to talk about."

"I am ready to listen, John."

"You know what I mean well enough. You have only to recall to mind what I said this morning about the money you have been hoarding. I must and will have it, or a good portion of it, immediately."

"I do remember what you said. Surely you also remember my answer."

"You dare not repeat it, Kathleen."

"There is no need for me to do so; but oh, John! look back and think of the past, I pray you. If you do, you cannot persist in such a request. Remember this is all I have reserved for our child."

"I do not want the settled property. That is out of your power to give, but the money you have hoarded I will have, or you shall not see the boy again until he has forgotten that he ever knew his mother. I have him in my power, at any rate."

Even this threat failed to move Kathleen. In the same firm but quiet tone, she replied—

"I am sorry to deny you anything, John, but I must do what I feel to be right."

And as Mr. Torrance listened he was more than ever convinced that some secret influence was working against him, and that his final triumph was doubtful. He laughed uneasily, as he answered with a yawn—

"I am tired with my double journey, and need rest I will give you until to-morrow morning to come to your senses. By the way, I am glad the mare is all right again. She will sell for something, and every little helps."

The littleness displayed in this threat pained Kathleen more than the threat itself. Every day of late had shown her more plainly to what manner of man she had given herself. At this moment, however, the thought, "My child is safe, in loving hands, and with those whose faces and home are familiar to him," took the sting from the bitterest words that Mr. Torrance could say to her.

In spite of herself, Kathleen felt troubled about her husband. The complaint of weariness was no pretence. He walked unsteadily from the room, as if suffering from giddiness, and she noticed the almost livid colour on his face. He had of late frequently consulted a specialist relative to attacks of the kind, and had been advised to live very quietly and avoid excitement and stimulants. He would obey for then, feeling better, would laugh resume his old habits. Before Kathleen slept, she knew the story of her boy's recovery. It was told as briefly as possible in a note which Mountain placed in her hands later still.