“I understand,” said De Burgh.  “I’ll leave my card for your chief below; and be sure you don’t forget me when you are sending out cards.  By-the-way, I have a pressing invitation to Castleford.  When I write to refuse I’ll say I have seen you, and that I am going to take charge of the boys during the holidays.”

“No, no; pray do not, Lord de Burgh,” cried Katherine, eagerly.  “You know Ada, and—­”

“Are you ashamed to have me as a coadjutor?” interrupted De Burgh, laughing.  “Trust me; I will be prudent.  Good-by for the present.”

Katherine stood in silent thought for a few moments after he had gone.  She fully understood the meaning of his visit; though there had been little or nothing of the lover in his tone.  He had come as soon as possible to place himself and all he had at her disposal.  He was perfectly sincere in his desire to win her for his wife, and she almost regretted she could not return his affection:  it might be true affection—­something beyond and above the dominant whim of an imperious nature.  And what a solution to all her difficulties!  But it was impossible she could overcome the repulsion which the idea of marriage with any man she did not love inspired.  There was to her but one in the world to whom she could hold allegiance, and he was forbidden by all sense of self-respect and modesty.  How was it that, strive as she might to fill her mind to his exclusion, the moment she was off guard the image of Errington rose up clear and fresh, pervading heart and imagination, and dwarfing every other object?

“How miserably, contemptibly weak I am, and have always been!  Why did I not stifle this wretched, overpowering attraction in the beginning?” Ay! but when did it begin?

This is a sort of question no heart can answer.  Who can foresee that the tiny spring, forcing its way up among the stones and heather of a lonely hill-side, will grow into the broad river, which may carry peace and prosperity on its rolling tide to the lands below, or overwhelm them with destructive floods, according to the forces which feed it and the barriers which hedge it in?

CHAPTER XXX.

“CIS AND CHARLIE.”

Again the spring sunshine was lending perennial youth even to London’s dingy streets, and making the very best winter garments look dim and shabby.  Hunting was over, and Colonel Ormonde found himself by the will of his wife, once more established in London lodgings—­of a dingier and obscurer order than those in which they had enjoyed last season.

Mrs. Ormonde was neither intellectually nor morally strong, but she had one reflex ingredient in her nature, which was to her both a shield and spear.  She knew what she wanted, and was perfectly unscrupulous as to the means of getting it.  A woman who is pleasantly indifferent to the wants and wishes of her associates, if they happen to clash with her own, is tolerably sure to have her own way on the whole.  Now and then, to be sure, she comes to grief; but in her general success these failures can be afforded.