"DEAR DALE,—""Will you come round this evening at eight? I have somethingof great importance to say. I hope from the bottom of my heartthat it is nothing—that all will prove to be right. But I amvery uneasy. Pray come punctually.""Yours sincerely,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR DALE,—""Will you come round this evening at eight? I have somethingof great importance to say. I hope from the bottom of my heartthat it is nothing—that all will prove to be right. But I amvery uneasy. Pray come punctually.""Yours sincerely,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR DALE,—""Will you come round this evening at eight? I have somethingof great importance to say. I hope from the bottom of my heartthat it is nothing—that all will prove to be right. But I amvery uneasy. Pray come punctually.""Yours sincerely,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR DALE,—"
"Will you come round this evening at eight? I have something
of great importance to say. I hope from the bottom of my heart
that it is nothing—that all will prove to be right. But I am
very uneasy. Pray come punctually."
"Yours sincerely,"
"J. PETERSON."
The second letter bore a date some three or four days later.
"DEAR DALE,—""I have gone into the matter very closely, making the mostcareful examination in every possible quarter; and, grievedas I am to say such words, everything points the same way.No one except yourself has had the opportunity. The wholesuspicion rests upon you, and upon you alone.""I see no other possibility. If a loophole existed, no matterhow improbable, I would give you the full benefit of thedoubt; but absolutely none is to be found. What have youto say? Better far, from every point of view, that you shouldmake a clean breast of the whole!""Tell me that you have been in difficulties; that suddentemptation seized you; that your strength was inadequateto resist; that you have done wrongly, and repent—tell meso much, and I am ready to forgive. Make frank confession,and though I cannot retain you in your present post, I willsee what can be done. I will do my best to give you a fairopportunity to retrieve your character. For the sake ofyour child, as well as for your own sake, I entreat youto confess all.""Yours ever,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR DALE,—""I have gone into the matter very closely, making the mostcareful examination in every possible quarter; and, grievedas I am to say such words, everything points the same way.No one except yourself has had the opportunity. The wholesuspicion rests upon you, and upon you alone.""I see no other possibility. If a loophole existed, no matterhow improbable, I would give you the full benefit of thedoubt; but absolutely none is to be found. What have youto say? Better far, from every point of view, that you shouldmake a clean breast of the whole!""Tell me that you have been in difficulties; that suddentemptation seized you; that your strength was inadequateto resist; that you have done wrongly, and repent—tell meso much, and I am ready to forgive. Make frank confession,and though I cannot retain you in your present post, I willsee what can be done. I will do my best to give you a fairopportunity to retrieve your character. For the sake ofyour child, as well as for your own sake, I entreat youto confess all.""Yours ever,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR DALE,—""I have gone into the matter very closely, making the mostcareful examination in every possible quarter; and, grievedas I am to say such words, everything points the same way.No one except yourself has had the opportunity. The wholesuspicion rests upon you, and upon you alone.""I see no other possibility. If a loophole existed, no matterhow improbable, I would give you the full benefit of thedoubt; but absolutely none is to be found. What have youto say? Better far, from every point of view, that you shouldmake a clean breast of the whole!""Tell me that you have been in difficulties; that suddentemptation seized you; that your strength was inadequateto resist; that you have done wrongly, and repent—tell meso much, and I am ready to forgive. Make frank confession,and though I cannot retain you in your present post, I willsee what can be done. I will do my best to give you a fairopportunity to retrieve your character. For the sake ofyour child, as well as for your own sake, I entreat youto confess all.""Yours ever,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR DALE,—"
"I have gone into the matter very closely, making the most
careful examination in every possible quarter; and, grieved
as I am to say such words, everything points the same way.
No one except yourself has had the opportunity. The whole
suspicion rests upon you, and upon you alone."
"I see no other possibility. If a loophole existed, no matter
how improbable, I would give you the full benefit of the
doubt; but absolutely none is to be found. What have you
to say? Better far, from every point of view, that you should
make a clean breast of the whole!"
"Tell me that you have been in difficulties; that sudden
temptation seized you; that your strength was inadequate
to resist; that you have done wrongly, and repent—tell me
so much, and I am ready to forgive. Make frank confession,
and though I cannot retain you in your present post, I will
see what can be done. I will do my best to give you a fair
opportunity to retrieve your character. For the sake of
your child, as well as for your own sake, I entreat you
to confess all."
"Yours ever,"
"J. PETERSON."
The third letter was that at which Mrs. Cragg had already glanced. It ran thus:—
"DEAR SIR,—""I have received and read yours with the deepest concern,and there is now little more to be said.""Unhappily, I am unable to feel as I could wish to do aboutyour assurances. Everything points in the one direction,and I fear there is no doubt whatever of your guilt.""Since you say that you have not done it, and declareyourself incapable of any such act, I can only reply thatI sincerely wish things may be so. I have resolved notto prosecute, but it is impossible that I should keepyou on in your old post. Much as I regret to haveto dismiss you, after all these years that we have workedtogether, I have no choice.""Your next quarter's stipend will be paid in advance, butI cannot ask you to come again to the counting-house, norcan I wish to see you again. It is a sad ending to so longa friendship. The loss of the money to me personally is aminor matter. If, by-and-by, you come to a different mind,and if you are willing to make full confession, you willfind me ready to act the part of a friend, and forgivenesswill await you. Not, of course, re-instatement. That isimpossible, for the sake of others."I shall mention to no one the reason of your dismissal;but I fear that the matter will to some extent ooze out,through the various inquiries which it has been necessaryto make.""Yours faithfully,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR SIR,—""I have received and read yours with the deepest concern,and there is now little more to be said.""Unhappily, I am unable to feel as I could wish to do aboutyour assurances. Everything points in the one direction,and I fear there is no doubt whatever of your guilt.""Since you say that you have not done it, and declareyourself incapable of any such act, I can only reply thatI sincerely wish things may be so. I have resolved notto prosecute, but it is impossible that I should keepyou on in your old post. Much as I regret to haveto dismiss you, after all these years that we have workedtogether, I have no choice.""Your next quarter's stipend will be paid in advance, butI cannot ask you to come again to the counting-house, norcan I wish to see you again. It is a sad ending to so longa friendship. The loss of the money to me personally is aminor matter. If, by-and-by, you come to a different mind,and if you are willing to make full confession, you willfind me ready to act the part of a friend, and forgivenesswill await you. Not, of course, re-instatement. That isimpossible, for the sake of others."I shall mention to no one the reason of your dismissal;but I fear that the matter will to some extent ooze out,through the various inquiries which it has been necessaryto make.""Yours faithfully,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR SIR,—""I have received and read yours with the deepest concern,and there is now little more to be said.""Unhappily, I am unable to feel as I could wish to do aboutyour assurances. Everything points in the one direction,and I fear there is no doubt whatever of your guilt.""Since you say that you have not done it, and declareyourself incapable of any such act, I can only reply thatI sincerely wish things may be so. I have resolved notto prosecute, but it is impossible that I should keepyou on in your old post. Much as I regret to haveto dismiss you, after all these years that we have workedtogether, I have no choice.""Your next quarter's stipend will be paid in advance, butI cannot ask you to come again to the counting-house, norcan I wish to see you again. It is a sad ending to so longa friendship. The loss of the money to me personally is aminor matter. If, by-and-by, you come to a different mind,and if you are willing to make full confession, you willfind me ready to act the part of a friend, and forgivenesswill await you. Not, of course, re-instatement. That isimpossible, for the sake of others."I shall mention to no one the reason of your dismissal;but I fear that the matter will to some extent ooze out,through the various inquiries which it has been necessaryto make.""Yours faithfully,""J. PETERSON."
"DEAR SIR,—"
"I have received and read yours with the deepest concern,
and there is now little more to be said."
"Unhappily, I am unable to feel as I could wish to do about
your assurances. Everything points in the one direction,
and I fear there is no doubt whatever of your guilt."
"Since you say that you have not done it, and declare
yourself incapable of any such act, I can only reply that
I sincerely wish things may be so. I have resolved not
to prosecute, but it is impossible that I should keep
you on in your old post. Much as I regret to have
to dismiss you, after all these years that we have worked
together, I have no choice."
"Your next quarter's stipend will be paid in advance, but
I cannot ask you to come again to the counting-house, nor
can I wish to see you again. It is a sad ending to so long
a friendship. The loss of the money to me personally is a
minor matter. If, by-and-by, you come to a different mind,
and if you are willing to make full confession, you will
find me ready to act the part of a friend, and forgiveness
will await you. Not, of course, re-instatement. That is
impossible, for the sake of others."
I shall mention to no one the reason of your dismissal;
but I fear that the matter will to some extent ooze out,
through the various inquiries which it has been necessary
to make."
"Yours faithfully,"
"J. PETERSON."
"BY the bye, Pattie, were you out this morning about half-past eleven?" Mr. Cragg put the question at tea-time, nothing leading up to it.
"Half-past eleven! Yes; just about then I took Dot for a walk."
"I couldn't find Mrs. Cragg, so I tried to find you, and your door was locked."
Mrs. Cragg writhed, conscious of a change of colour.
"Was it? I remember. I came back with Dot to get my purse, and I could not get in either. Somebody must have locked it by accident, or else the bolt may have slipped. It seemed all right a little later, when we came back again."
"You don't know who locked it, my dear?" Cragg noticed his wife's uncomfortable look.
"How should I know, pray?" demanded Mrs. Cragg.
"Somebody probably knows. It might be you or any one."
"As if I troubled myself with Pattie's concerns! I'm much too busy."
"Pattie's concerns have to be attended to, like everybody else's concerns, now and then," Cragg said, with a kind look at the girl. Pattie was gazing at Mrs. Cragg, and did not see the look. A recollection had come to mind of finding her cupboard that afternoon in a disordered state. Pattie was very neat, and she always knew exactly where each article in box, or drawer, or cupboard lay. She had supposed that the girl had been turning out her things for dusting purposes. But the discomfited expression and reddened colouring of Mrs. Cragg's face suggested something different. Pattie, however, said nothing. "Anyhow, I'll take a look at the lock, and see if it wants oiling," remarked Cragg,—"eh, Pattie?"
"Thank you very much," Pattie answered; and the subject was dropped.
Now that Mrs. Cragg had gained the information she wanted, the question arose—how to use it? She could not tell her husband what she had learnt, because she dared not tell him by what mode she had learnt it. She dared not refer to Pattie's past in the presence of Pattie. The questions that she had meant to put to Pattie became impossible, in the face of her own secret knowledge. She had small command of feature, and she knew that at any moment her face might betray her.
It was disgusting, she said to herself. To think of a girl, who might have been a convict's daughter but for the forbearance of this Mr. Peterson, fondling and petting Dot half the day, sitting at their table, being called "Miss Pattie" by the servant—for upon that Mr. Cragg had insisted. The whole thing was really too bad.
These thoughts made Mrs. Cragg additionally unpleasant to Pattie, and Pattie noticed the fact with some wonder. She supposed that Mrs. Cragg was growing tired of her presence in the house, and she began to cast about in her mind where to look for work. When she consulted Cragg, he put the matter aside, and said, "No hurry yet awhile." But Pattie did not fall in with this view.
Hers was not a suspicious temperament. Although the idea had flashed across her, in connection with Mrs. Cragg's look and with the fact of her disturbed cupboard, that Mrs. Cragg might have been examining something in her room, and might have locked the door, she had not encouraged the notion, but had done her best to dismiss it. She had a horror of suspecting falsely.
That she would sooner or later leave the Craggs, and go out to make her own way, was settled in her mind, though she knew that it might not be possible for a while. When the time should come, her trouble would be having to say good-bye to Dot. The child had twisted herself in and out among Pattie's heart-strings, and life apart from Dot wore a forlorn aspect.
On Sunday afternoon Dot was always supposed to be in Mrs. Cragg's charge, while the nursery-maid went to church. Of late, being with her mother had really meant being with Pattie. Next Sunday Mrs. Cragg, having eaten a heavy dinner, was, or appeared to be, particularly sleepy, and she sat nodding drowsily on the sofa.
The sleepiness was partly put on, for Mrs. Cragg was deep in cogitation. She had not yet restored the letters to their box in Pattie's cupboard. If she could not put them back soon, she would have to burn them, for fear of accidental discovery; but that she was reluctant to do, for more reasons than one —and by no means for Pattie's sake. There had been some talk of letting Dot go to the children's service with Pattie, and Mrs. Cragg presently asked, with a yawn,—
"Are you going to take Dot to church?"
"Dot would like it, if I may."
"I don't care if you do. You'll have to be in good time. And Dot must sit still."
"Dot will behave like a mouse. Yes, we will go early. It is too soon yet. The bells won't begin for some time."
"Tell me that tory adain," begged Dot. "About wicked naughty Gazi."
"But you know it, Dot. Suppose you tell me instead."
Dot pulled herself upright, and assumed a solemn air.
"Gazi was a naughty wicked tory-teller," she said. "Tory-tellers am always wicked. And when Lisha asked him, 'Where'd he'd been and wented to?'—Gazi said he'd not been wented nowhere. And then he got all twite whited all over him."
"But he had been somewhere, hadn't he?"
"Oh,—m-yes,—he'd been and wented after that other man, what was made well. He was naughty, too, only he didn't tell no tories, and then he was good. And he wanted for to give Lisha fings,—lots and lots of fings, and nice focks and ever so much pennies. And Lisha wouldn't have nofink; 'n so Gazi thoughted he'd go an' get somefink nice. And he wented and telled a lot of big tories—big, big tories," repeated Dot impressively. "And so he gotted all white, all over hims."
"That was his punishment, wasn't it?"
"Him's punishment," repeated Dot.
"Dot, you don't mean ever to tell stories, do you?"
Dot shook her head vehemently.
"Cause I'd get all white."
"I think if you told stories, you would have to be punished in some way. It might not be in the same way as Gehazi. But God is our Father, you know, and a Father has to punish His little children when they are naughty, so as to make them learn to be good. You don't want to be naughty, do you, and to make God sorry?"
Another shake.
"Does drown-up peoples evern tell tories now?"
"Sometimes, I'm afraid."
"Does ma-ma?"
"Hush, Dot. You must never ask such silly questions. The question that you have to ask is, 'Does Dot?'"
Dot was not easily turned from her purpose. She said, in a loud and clear whisper:
"I know twite well when ma-ma telled a wicked tory. When she saided she was out and she wasn't. 'Cause she was in your room, own Pattie darlin'."
Pattie was startled.
"No, Dot, no. You are talking nonsense. Hush!"
Dot spoke more energetically, running her words together.
"I not spawking nonsense. Ma-ma was in, and she saided she was out. Ann telled me. 'Cause Ann saw ma-ma come out."
Mrs. Cragg sat up with a jerk.
"Really, Pattie, if you encourage the child in that sort of impertinence, I shall have—I think the less you're with her the better for Dot. She is growing insufferable, and it is your fault."
Pattie met the angry gaze quietly.
"I am not encouraging Dot indeed," she said.
"Ma-ma angly," remarked Dot.
"If I hear any more such impertinence—mind, Dot, I mean what I say— if you say such things again, I shan't let you be with Pattie. So you'd better take care."
Dot hung her head, and tears came to her eyes.
"I am sure Dot did not mean to be rude, did you, Dot?" asked Pattie, even while it flashed through her mind that Mrs. Cragg had made no attempt to deny the truth of Dot's assertions. But then, perhaps, Mrs. Cragg did not think it worth while. "Come, I think it is time for us to get ready for church. If I take you, will you be a good girl?"
"Vely dood," Dot declared cheerfully, restored to her usual spirits, and the two went off together. Mrs. Cragg remained gloomily behind.
DOT'S words had given something of a shock to Mrs. Cragg, and now she was sorry that she had taken notice of them. For her side of the matter, it might have been better if she had seemed not to hear what was said. Her anger would only serve to fix the recollection upon the child's mind, which otherwise might have passed away; and probably also Pattie would not forget.
When the two had gone to church, she would be secure of a quiet hour, the girl being out also. She meant then to restore the letters. That done, she would have no more to do with Pattie's possessions.
But when a person gets into a coil through wrong-doing, it is not easy to get out again.
Pattie and Dot disappeared, and Mrs. Cragg waited for the bells to cease. Mr. Cragg always went at this time for a country walk, and she believed that he had started.
Just as she meant to move, Cragg came in. While he was within reach Mrs. Cragg dared take no steps. She waited with ill-concealed impatience, answered tartly when he spoke, and asked whether he did not mean to have a walk.
"It's a new plan, your stopping in Sunday afternoon," said she. "I thought you always wanted fresh air, not to sit lounging about here!"
"You seem in a great hurry to get rid of me."
"Well, you always do go out on Sunday. Why shouldn't you?"
"I do generally. I am not feeling quite the thing this afternoon— a little out of order,—and I thought I'd take a quiet time."
"Fresh air's likely to do you good."
"Presently, perhaps. Has Pattie said anything to you about her father's papers?"
Mrs. Cragg reddened.
"Why should she? What have I got to do with them? Of all suspicious men, you are the very most—"
"My dear, what can you mean?" Cragg gazed in surprise. "I do not see anything to vex you in what I have said. Nor do I understand what you have in mind. There is no suspicion. I have asked a simple question. Has Pattie said anything?"
"Nothing particular. Why should she?"
"I do not understand her feeling about that box. She objects to examining the contents."
"Yes. It's ridiculous of her!"
"Then you do know?"
"I didn't see what you were driving at. She told me that. The girl's an idiot. I said it was absurd, and she was as obstinate as a mule. Of course her father's papers are hers now, and she ought to read them."
"I should have said that she ought. There might be something that he would wish done. But she has a feeling of delicacy. Perhaps that feeling might be more frequent—with advantage—as to those who are gone."
"I don't know what you mean. I know what Pattie means. Feeling of delicacy, indeed! Stuff and nonsense! Pattie knows that her father was a scamp, and she doesn't want to make it known, that's all."
"My dear! Do you know what you are saying? What reason can you have for such a notion?"
"I know! There's a lot too much mystery. People don't go hiding up things when there's nothing to hide. I believe he was a downright bad man. And I believe Pattie knows it too. That's why she won't tell us about him, and why she pretends she doesn't want to read his papers. It's because she knows things will come out, and she doesn't want to have to tell."
Cragg was silent. That some mystery existed, that some shade lay over Dale's past, he could not deny. But he thought of Dale's dying words—"Remember! I did not do it. In the sight of God I say that. It was not me. I didn't do it."
"My dear, you are mistaken. Dale may have been unfortunate. He was not to blame, I am sure."
"And I'm sure just the other way, Mr. Cragg. Some day you'll find out that I am right."
Cragg remained lost in thought. Then he stood up slowly, as if disliking further argument, and made his way from the room. Mrs. Cragg watched impatiently for his going out, and she had to wait nearly half an hour.
At last the coast was clear.
The letters and the bunch of keys were in readiness. Mrs. Cragg hurried across the passage, entered Pattie's room, rushed to the cupboard, pulled away the cardboard boxes, fitted in the key, and turned it.
She lifted the lid, and almost fell backwards in her amazement. The box was empty.
Had Pattie emptied it? If so, for what reason?
Mrs. Cragg sat upon her heels, staring bewilderedly. What to do next was the question. Should she restore the stolen letters to the empty box, trusting that Pattie would suppose herself to have overlooked them? Should she take them away and burn them?
After considerable hesitation, Mrs. Cragg decided on the latter course as the safer of the two. She slipped the letters into her pocket, and locked—or tried to lock—the box.
But the key refused to turn.
Mrs. Cragg struggled, and her struggles were in vain. Again and again she strove, and the refractory key had the best of it. Time was getting on. In a few minutes Pattie and Dot might return. Mrs. Cragg waxed desperate. There was nothing for it but to leave the box unlocked. Pattie might forget, and might imagine that she had done this herself. She tried to pull out the key, meaning to decamp with all speed.
But the key refused to be pulled out.
It was attached to a large bunch, well known in the household as belonging to herself. Mrs. Cragg pulled, hauled, coaxed, struggled—all in vain. The key remained firmly fixed. It could neither be turned nor withdrawn. Mrs. Cragg, heated and alarmed, tried to loosen it from the bunch. The ring was of a new patent make, difficult to manage, and in her flurry she could not open it.
Then the front door creaked, and Dot's little voice asked in shrill accents:
"Were I a dood lickle girl, Pattie?"
"Very good, Dot."
"Nor I didn't fidget, nor make no noise, Pattie?"
"No, darling. Dot was the best little girl that ever was. I'll take Dot again to church another Sunday."
The bedroom door opened, and Mrs. Cragg stood up, crimson and defiant. Since she could no longer hope to escape detection, she resolved to take refuge in bluster.
"Well," she said, with a harsh laugh; "so you thought you'd cheat me out of it, did you? You thought you'd keep me from finding out anything, eh? But you haven't. I've been one too many for you this time. I've found out what I wanted to know—just that, exactly —and you'd better have told me at once, and made no fuss. Pretending that you didn't mean to read the letters, and then doing it on the sly, as soon as ever my back was turned! I understand what it all means. But you're too late, with all your cunning."
Pattie grew as pale as if she, and not Mrs. Cragg, had been the guilty person. Her lips parted, and a grieved tremor passed over them. She turned, without a word, and went to the door.
"Dot, dear, run away. Run to the nursery. I'll come there presently."
"I wants to tome into Pattie's loom."
"No, not now. I am busy, Dot."
"P'ease do let me," entreated the little voice.
"No, dear. Dot must be good and run away." Pattie came back, shut the door, and stood looking at Mrs. Cragg, her face full of wonderment. The cupboard door was open, the cardboard boxes were displaced, the bunch of keys hung from the lock of the open and empty tin box.
"You needn't have been at all that bother and fuss—sending Dot away. It don't matter. I don't care who knows," declared Mrs. Cragg hardily, while unable to meet Pattie's gaze. "I told you I'd a right, and so I have. If you don't choose to tell me things, I've got to find them out for myself, that's all. And I mean to do it. I shall do it again next time there's something I ought to know. I've a right, and I mean to do it. It don't matter Dot nor anybody knowing."
"I'm so sorry—oh, so sorry!" murmured Pattie. Tears filled her eyes. "I didn't think you could."
"You took mighty good care to empty the box, anyway. I s'pose you thought you'd make sure I shouldn't find out your secrets. But I've been one too many for you."
"I did not empty the box because of that—because I ever could have dreamt that you would look." Pattie spoke with difficulty. "How could I think of such a thing? Mr. Cragg was speaking to me about the letters a day or two ago. He said I might feel free to read them all, and he advised me to do it. He said he thought I ought. And I could not feel as he did. How could I know what my father would like? I was afraid of being made in the end to do what Mr. Cragg wished—and what I could not feel to be right. And so—I took all the letters out, and— I burnt them. I took them into the kitchen, and put them into the stove."
"Then you're a greater fool than I thought you even!" Mrs. Cragg replied roughly. "Why, there might be money—there might be something written to yourself."
"No. Mr. Cragg said that too, and I looked through all the packets carefully—not reading, but just seeing the names and dates. There was no money anywhere, and there were no papers for me. None at all. All of them were letters to my father, and most were quite old—written a great many years ago. They were not meant for me to see. And you— you would have read them!" Pattie said this in a tone of unbelieving amazement. "You would have read them! You couldn't, surely, have meant to do that!"
A faint sense of shame kept Mrs. Cragg silent. Pattie came a step nearer.
"If Dot had seen—only think, if little Dot had seen!" she said. "Dot—who ought only to know you as true! Think—if she had known!"
"A baby like her! As if it mattered!"
"But it does matter—very much. Promise me that Dot shall never hear about this."
Mrs. Cragg broke into a laugh.
"And you are not sorry! You do not mind! Not in the very least."
There was a short silence. Mrs. Cragg had some ado to keep up her hardness before that grieved face.
"It's all your fault," she said at length. "You've been past everything with your fancies, not telling anything I'd a right to know, and pretending you couldn't read the letters. As if everybody didn't read other people's letters when they're dead! And so of course I thought I'd see for myself. There was no reason why I shouldn't. Mr. Cragg and I are giving you a home, and we have a right to know about you."
"Not to find it out in that way," said Pattie gravely. "And it was no pretending. I have thought it wrong to read the letters. Other people thinking differently did not make it right for me. I could not do what I felt to be wrong."
Pattie pointed to the keys hanging from the japanned tin box.
"Those are yours—not mine," she said.
"I can't get them out. The key has stuck."
"When did you find that you could unlock my box?" Pattie's quietness had a mastery over Mrs. Cragg, subduing her vehemence, and this question received an answer.
"I found the other day that I'd got a key to fit."
"What day?"
"When the boxes first came. I found it out directly."
"And you read—did you read anything?"
"Not then—not that day, I mean." Mrs. Cragg wondered at herself for tamely answering these queries, yet she went on doing so.
"But another day you did?"
"One or two letters."
"That was what you meant just now, when you said you had found what you wanted to know." Pattie had to sit down, for her limbs gave way under her. "And to-day—you meant to read more letters."
"No, I didn't. I meant just to put them back—the ones I had taken. I didn't want to keep them."
"Where are they?"
Mrs. Cragg brought the three sheets out of her pocket, and gave them to Pattie. The girl had grown white.
"You have read these?"
"Yes; I didn't see why I shouldn't,"—with another attempt to brazen it out. "I don't see why I shouldn't,—if you wouldn't tell me anything. It was your own fault—being so obstinate."
"If you have read them, I must read them too."
Mrs. Cragg fidgeted uneasily. Pattie sat motionless, her eyes travelling down one page after another.
"Yes," she said at the end, with a deep sigh. "That was what brought us away. I see it now. He was accused of something—and I guessed it partly. I was told, but of course I did not believe what I heard. And my father never explained. He only said it was a mistake, and he was not to blame. And I believed him—because I knew what he was. I knew he could not have done the thing he was accused of. You did not know him, and so you could not tell. And he wanted to spare me knowing about this. He knew it would make me unhappy, and so he kept it to himself. And you—you could find it out for yourself—you could pry into another's secrets! I can't say much to you, because Mr. Cragg has been so good to me, and because just now I depend upon you. But—after this, I cannot depend much longer. I must make a change as soon as possible. You have been very very cruel!"
Pattie hid her face.
"I don't see, for my part, what you've got to make a fuss about," remarked Mrs. Cragg uncomfortably. "I don't see that you need bother. It isn't more than you knew before."
"It is—much more!"
"Anyhow, I won't tell. There's no need that I should. If you like to burn those letters, nobody will hear a word."
"Ah!" and Pattie drew a long breath. "Yes —to-day you feel like that. But—another day—"
Pattie's tone was sorrowfully distrustful.
"But I promise I won't say anything. If I promise—"
Mrs. Cragg stopped. She knew suddenly that her promise had no weight, could have no weight, in Pattie's eyes. She had shown herself to be deceitful. Pattie could feel no confidence in what she might say. This fact struck home. Mrs. Cragg was unpleasantly conscious of distrust in Pattie's face. Her tone changed.
"You'll go next and tell Mr. Cragg, of course."
"No. Not what you have done. That is for you to tell him—not me. I shall tell him what I have learnt about my father, and nothing more. I shall tell him that I have read three letters, and that all the rest are burnt."
"He'll want to know why you didn't burn those three, too."
"I don't think so. Men are not so curious." Pattie spoke with unconscious rebuke. "If he should ask, I need not say much. I think, if I were you, I should feel that I ought to tell him everything. But that is for you—not for me. I have only to speak to him about what concerns my father and me."
"I can't get that key out." Mrs. Cragg spoke curtly, yet in her voice there was a new note, a something like regret.
Pattie knelt down and worked patiently at the lock. It was a long business. For more than five minutes her efforts were in vain. Then at last the key yielded, and she handed the bunch to Mrs. Cragg. After which she stooped, and pressed her lips to the lid. Mrs. Cragg waited uneasily, longing to escape, yet hardly knowing how to do so.
"Pattie, you have behaved uncommonly nice about it," she said at length. "And—I don't mind saying that I didn't mean any harm. I thought I'd a right—and I say so still. But I didn't mean any harm."
Pattie tried to speak, and failed. Tears were running over her cheeks.
"I don't see, for my part, why you should fuss about it. I don't see that it matters. What difference can it make now—about what those letters say?"
"No difference—to you—or to any one except me. Only I know better what it meant—what he had to go through. He bore it all so patiently—never a hard word about anybody. And all the time he was accused of what he had never done. And I loved him so—I love him! It doesn't matter to you—not the very least. It does to me—more than anything in all the world."
"But—" and Mrs. Cragg came to a pause.
"I don't know how to bear it. And any time it may come out—and people will believe that he did what he never could have done."
"Only, you can't be sure—you don't really know."
"He told me himself. I do know. You cannot know," Pattie said bitterly. "And if it comes out, he will not be here to defend himself. He cannot explain how things were."
"But you don't think I would go and make it known now, do you?"
Pattie stood up. She had been kneeling by the box hitherto. Her lips moved, but no sound passed them.
"Why should I? It wouldn't do any good. I wanted to know—because I thought I'd a right. But you might be sure that I wouldn't tell anybody else."
"How can I be sure?"
"Why, what should make me tell?"
"I do not know what should make you not tell."
"Only, if I promise—"
A look of distrust again.
"You needn't put on that sort of air. If I promise that I'll never tell anybody what I know—and if I mean it—"
"You do not mean to say anything to-day. But another day, if you happened to be vexed, and wished to show that you were, you would tell the whole. It would be only natural—for you!" Pattie glanced at the keys, which still hung from Mrs. Cragg's hand.
There lay the gist of the matter. Mrs. Cragg had deceived her. For a long while to come Pattie could never feel sure that she was not being again deceived by Mrs. Cragg.
If Mrs. Cragg had never been abashed before, she was so now before that tear-stained face with its truthful gaze. There was no unkindness in Pattie's expression, no lack of forgiveness; but there was entire lack of confidence. Her look said plainly what her words implied,—how could she feel sure? Mrs. Cragg had proved herself untrustworthy. That fact once shown, trust in the person concerned becomes a thing impossible. There may be kindness, forgiveness, pity—there may even be an appearance of trust put on, for one reason or another—but real trust is out of the question.
Nothing more was seen of Pattie until half-past five o'clock, when they were wont to meet for a more substantial meal than on other days. Dot was always present at tea-time, and on Sunday she reckoned upon extra sweets and cakes, as well as upon extra leisure on the part of Mr. Cragg to pet and spoil her. Pattie was silent, and looked grave, and her eyelids were reddened, but otherwise manner was as usual. She sat with her back to the light, so that Mr. Cragg did not quickly note the signs of tears. Dot claimed all his attention, as she eagerly related how she had gone to church, and how she had been "dood," and how Pattie had praised her. After which she launched into a description of what a lot the Vicar had "talked," and how Pattie had told her to listen, "so's I can tell you, dadda, all about it," she beamingly declared in the intervals of cake.
"Tell me, Dot, what did the clergyman say?"
"Lots," declared Dot, eyeing the jam.
"Well, let's have it. Make haste, because I'm going to church this evening, and so is Pattie, and I want to hear about the afternoon sermon."
Dot did what some older people are sometimes capable of doing. Since memory failed to recall the address in question, she calmly substituted something else.
"Gazi went and telled a wicked tory, and got hims whited all over," she asserted.
"No, Dot, it wasn't that," Pattie interposed. She felt the subject a dangerous one under the circumstances. "Not Gehazi—you're forgetting. That was what we talked about before we went to church. The Vicar preached something different. Don't you remember? About the little boat on the lake."
Dot declined to remember, and her small head was shaken with a positive air.
"Gazi was a wicked wicked mans, and he wented and telled a wicked wicked tory. And when he done that, Lisha made him all white, and he went off and he was most dreadful sorry; and lots of peoples tell tories, dad, and they'se all got to be whited."
"All right, don't stop the child," said Cragg, when Pattie would have spoken. "I like her to speak out what is in her little mind. After all, the important question is what has made an impression on her, not what might make an impression on you or me. Go on, Dot. What else did Gehazi do?"
Pattie would not look towards Mrs. Cragg, and Mrs. Cragg, remembering former errors, held herself in.
"He wented and he got focks and coats and lots of fings, and he hided them away, and he saided it was Lisha what had sented him, and Lisha didn't. It was all a bad tory, dadda. And Lisha was dreadful angry, and so Gazi got all whited. Poor Gazi! Ain't you sorry for Gazi?"
"But perhaps Gehazi deserved it, Dot."
Dot cheerfully assented to that view of the question.
"Naughty bad Gazi!" she remarked. "And Lisha wasn't naughty, was he, Pattie? Lisha was good. I saw Lisha in the picture, frowning at Gazi most dreadful. It's Pattie's little picture. And lots of focks and coats all hided away."
"But you couldn't see the frocks and coats in the picture, Dot?"
"O no, dadda, 'cause they was hided away, and Gazi telled a wicked tory, and saided he hadn't not been nowhere. 'N then he was whited. Does everybody get whited what tells wicked tories? Does ma-ma when she tells tories?"
Mrs. Cragg was the reverse of white at this instant. Cragg uttered a hasty "Sh-sh-sh!" glancing at his wife as he did so. Something in her face made him repeat the look, even while he said again, "Hush! Hush! Little girls must never talk so. Hold your little tongue, Dot; that won't do at all."
Then his eyes fell upon Pattie. She had moved slightly, under the stress of feeling, and he could see her better than before.
"Why, Pattie, you've been crying!" he exclaimed.
CRAGG welcomed a change of subject. He could not, unhappily, feel sure that no cause existed for Dot's remarks, nor could he throw himself unreservedly into the defence of his wife. By this time he knew, only too well, that Mrs. Cragg was by no means always true in her utterances, that very often she was guilty of what Dot called "a tory." He was therefore the more anxious to divert attention at this moment.
"Why, Pattie, you've been crying!"
"One must—sometimes—cry a little," admitted Pattie, not trying to deny so patent a fact.
"Being a girl, perhaps one must. And it is nothing that I can set right? You are sure?"
"Quite sure," she said, tears in her eyes again. "I'll tell you more by-and-by; but there is nothing to be done."
"Pattie was crying, 'way in her loom," declared Dot, who never failed to put her small finger into every pie that happened to be going.
"You mustn't let Pattie cry any more, Dot. It's bad for her. If she does, come and tell me."
"All wite," nodded Dot cheerfully.
Tea presently came to an end, and Pattie noted as an unusual event that Mrs. Cragg had not flown into a passion. But little time remained for that or for other observations, since she and Cragg had to dress at once for church. Mrs. Cragg seldom troubled herself to go in the evening.
Coming out of church an hour and a half later, Cragg said, as he walked beside Pattie in the twilight:
"What has been wrong to-day?"
"I can't tell you all, but—part, if you like. It is about my father's letters."
"Yes. What have you done?"
"I have burnt them. Not to-day, but two or three days ago."
"You have!"
"I thought it right."
"In that case there's nothing to be said. People must follow their consciences, of course. But why?"
"I was afraid you might persuade me to read them—against what I felt to be right."
"Have I been so positive?"
"No. But you are so kind a friend to me, I might have felt bound to do what you advised. And I could not think it right. I could not feel sure that my father would wish it. So I glanced them through—just to see that there was no money, and that there were no directions to me about things he might want done. And then I burnt them."
"All of them! Every one?"
"I thought I had burnt all, but I found to-day that I had not. Three were in another place. I came across them to-day, and I have read them. I had a reason for doing so, or else I would have burnt those too. And they have made me very unhappy."
"Do you mind telling me what they are about?"
"I think I should like to do that. I think I would rather show them to you, if you don't mind. It would be a comfort. They tell me more about his past than I have known before. I mean, about the reason that we had to leave our old home."
"Poor girl!" he said, at the sound of a sob. "I'm sorry they distress you so much. After all, the thing is over now; and he is beyond the reach of such troubles. Can't you look upon it in that light?"
"Ah, but his name is not cleared," she said, very low.
"You have not got the letters with you, I suppose? You have? Shall we go into this field and sit on the log? It is not too dark for me to make them out. You would like that? Come along. Pattie, do you know that your father said something to me about this when he was dying? I have never told you."
"No. What did he say?"
"He implied that he had been wrongly accused. He said you did not know it, and he did not wish you to know, until the truth should come out; so I am sorry you should have read the letters."
"But you thought I ought to read them all."
"Did I say that exactly? Perhaps I hardly realised that you would discover more than your father meant you to know. In an ordinary case, if a man wishes his child not to know a thing after his death, he does not keep letters bearing on the subject. Now we can sit down, and no one will disturb us. Your father said something more, Pattie. He declared in the strongest manner, as in the sight of God, and as a man facing death, that he had not done the thing of which he was accused. He implored me to believe him; and I did believe him. I believe him still. I do not think any man, as he then was, could have said what he said—deliberately and more than once—if it had been a lie."
"You believe him? I am glad!" whispered Pattie. "Now I do not mind showing these to you. I think you will believe him still."
She handed the three sheets to Cragg, and waited patiently as he made his way through one after another—not an easy task in the waning light.
"Yes," he said at length gravely. "I see."
"You think—"
"My dear, I think things must have looked black. This Mr. Peterson does not give me the impression of being hard or unjust."
"O no; he was always just and kind—before this—always a friend."
"And you had known him for years? You may be sure he would not suddenly have changed without believing that he had reason. But, on the other hand, I cannot think your father guilty. Even the little that I saw of him gave me an impression that he was an upright man; and what he said when dying—No, I do not think him guilty. I believe that some day his name will be cleared. What do you mean to do with these?"
"What ought I to do? May I burn them?"
"Don't do anything in a hurry. Put them in a sealed packet, with a direction outside that they are to be burnt after your death. Then lock the packet up, and do not let yourself dwell upon it. You can do no good to him; and remember that he would wish you to be happy."
Pattie murmured a faint assent.
Neither of the two moved at once. It was a still and mild evening. Now and again a soft twitter showed that not all the birds had gone to roost. Sometimes a sound of voices came from the town.
"Mr. Cragg!"
"Yes, my dear."
"I want to find something to do."
"What sort of thing?"
"I want to get my livelihood. Will you help me?"
"There's no hurry. Some day, perhaps."
"I want it now."
"Are you anxious to leave us? To leave Dot?"
"Not Dot. I shall feel that dreadfully. And you—you are so good to me. But I cannot go on like this. I want to be independent—to make my own way; and if you would help me to find something—I don't mind what—"
"Pattie, I must ask one question. Has my wife tried to bring this about?"
"No," Pattie said at once; "I don't think so. She has not said anything lately about wishing me to go. It is my own thought."
"Not because of anything she has said or done?"
That put the question differently, and Pattie could not reply with a negative.
"It is my own wish," she repeated. "I want to be independent."
"But your father wished you to be with us. I promised him when he was dying."
"Yes, I know. I went in directly after, and he said something to me before he became unconscious. He said you had promised; but I could not agree to that, you know. I could not be a burden on you, except for a little while. Now I have been long enough; and I must find something else. Perhaps I might take care of children, as a nursery governess. Would not that do?"
"We must think about it. I am not in a hurry to get rid of you, though you are in a hurry to go. It is pleasant to have you in the house."
Then he stood up. "I'm afraid we ought to move; it is growing damp."
Not much more passed between them on the way home. Mr. Cragg was thinking what a difference Pattie's absence would make. Now he could always look upon one face not clouded by ill-temper. He dreaded a return to the old condition of things. Pattie, wondering over his silence, feared that she had said something to vex him.
"It isn't that I am ungrateful," she pleaded, presently.
"If I wished you to go, I should be ungrateful," he answered. "You don't know how much you have done to brighten life for little Dot and me, since you came."
"Have I? No, I didn't know it. My mother always said one could do a good deal in that way, if one would take the trouble; and I do try. But it isn't easy. It is very good of you to speak so to me. But still—I think I ought to work for myself."
"Well, we must consider. No need to settle hastily. There's time enough—by-and-by."
Then they went indoors, and had to submit to complaints on the part of Mrs. Cragg, who had been waiting ten minutes for her supper.
Cragg received the complaints in his usual silence, and not much was said during the meal. Dot, the great talker, was in bed, sound asleep; and Cragg and Pattie had had their say. Mrs. Cragg wished to know whatever in the world they had been about; and she requested another time to be told beforehand, if they meant to go dawdling round after church. She wouldn't wait for them in that case—not she! Next time she should begin without them. Cragg and Pattie were willing that she should; but to have said so would have aroused her ire afresh.
Later in the evening, when Pattie too had vanished, Cragg put a direct question to his wife. "Has anything gone wrong with you and Pattie to-day?"
"Whatever should make you fancy that?"
"She has been crying. I saw that at tea-time. And she said something this evening about wanting to find work for herself."
"She says that whenever she's put out. It doesn't mean much."
"I never can see that Pattie does get 'put out,' in the sense you mean. What has happened to 'put her out' to—day?"
"How should I know, Mr. Cragg?"
A little voice in Mrs. Cragg's mind tried to suggest that she should tell her husband the truth, but Mrs. Cragg refused to listen. "You are more likely than any one else to know. Pattie has told me about having destroyed her father's letters. She has not told me everything, though I cannot guess what she has held back. I thought you might know."
Mrs. Cragg was silent.
"I do not gather that she destroyed the letters to-day; but she seems to have come across two or three others unexpectedly, and for some reason to have felt bound to read them. Why should she have thought it right to read these, when she had burnt the others for fear of being persuaded to read them? Are you sure you cannot explain this to me?"
Suspicion was written in Mr. Cragg's face. Pattie had not managed so cleverly as she had intended to manage. Mrs. Cragg took the bull by the horns, which she was capable of doing, as we have already seen.
"It's no such tremendous mystery, after all," she said. "Pattie found that I'd read the letters, and then she said she must read them too."
"You had read the letters!"
"Yes, Mr. Cragg. I had read them! And I'd read them again, if it was all to come over fresh!" Mrs. Cragg tossed her head.
"You read—without leave—letters that did not belong to you? You do not mean it!"
Mrs. Cragg hardened herself against her husband's look.
"Pattie was so ridiculous. Wouldn't tell this, and didn't choose to answer that, and so mysterious! So I just got hold of the letters, and found out for myself. And I'd a right, too. As if we weren't taking her in, and doing for her, all at our own expense—and she, if it wasn't for us, pretty near a beggar! If I hadn't a right, I should like to know who would have! Oh, I'm not ashamed of it! I'd do it over again, this minute. And so I told Pattie."
Cragg was roused for once. He had always been a man of honourable feeling.
"I would not have believed it—even of you!" he said pointedly. "If somebody else had told me, I should have said it was impossible."
"Well, then, it isn't impossible; and you're wiser to-night than you were this morning!" retorted his wife.
Cragg stood up.
"Now I understand!" he said. "I understand—and I do not wonder—that Pattie should wish to live no longer under my roof. I have never been more ashamed—for myself—and for you!"
Then he left the room.
THE household atmosphere was thick and uncomfortable during many days. Pattie heard nothing of that late Sunday evening talk, for Cragg would not complain to her of his wife, and Mrs. Cragg felt that she would gain little by repeating what had passed; but there was a general sense of strain. Cragg had become grave and silent; Mrs. Cragg was much out of temper; and Pattie found skill needed to steer straight. But for little Dot's devotion to herself, she would have felt the condition of things unbearable.
Nearly a week later Cragg, meeting her on the stairs, stopped to say:
"If you are still bent on leaving us, Pattie, I shall not hinder you."
Pattie again thought that the tone meant annoyance. She looked up with moist eyes.
"I don't think you understand."
"Yes, I do. I understand—better than I did last Sunday evening. I'm not surprised that you wish to go. And I have no right to prevent it—if I could. I will help you all I can. Not that I like you to go; but I can say nothing."
Pattie knew then that, in one way or another, the truth had reached him. She was glad and sorry; glad that Mrs. Cragg should have told him, if indeed she had done so; and sorry that he should be distressed.
"But I do not mean that I am in a great hurry," she said. "I do not want to go directly. Perhaps I shall not hear of anything to do for a long while. It is only that in time I ought,—I cannot go on being dependent. And you know this is not a new thought. Ever since I came I have said that it was only for a time."
"Yes, I know. But now—it's natural you should wish it more."
What could Pattie say? She could not deny the truth of his words.
Cragg sighed and passed on. To an upright man, it is a terrible feeling that he cannot trust his own wife, that she has not even so far the sense of honesty as to be ashamed of her own meanness when she has acted meanly.
He went to the room where he carried on his correspondence. He managed to get three business letters done, and then he lost himself in thought. A boy came in, bringing letters just arrived. Several were unimportant, containing orders or inquiries connected with his stock of furniture. But one brought an exclamation to his lips. It was a bill!—and one that he did not at all expect. A long bill, too, weighty in its sum-total. Cragg glanced at the name heading the first sheet. He knew it as that of a large linen-draper in a neighbouring town. His wife often went there for her shopping. Being aware of her extravagant tendencies, he had always insisted that she should pay ready money for what she bought, except in the case of two or three specified Putworth shops, from which quarterly accounts came in.
More than once in the past Mrs. Cragg had broken this rule. She had not done so lately, to his knowledge. He had had to complain of the extent of her Putworth bills; but he thought they comprised the whole of her expenses. Now he knew his mistake. Here were two long pages of items, ranging through twelve months past. The sum-total was startling. Troubles were already crowding upon him, and he could hardly see how to meet his liabilities. He put the paper down, and groaned aloud. Then he examined it afresh. Evidently it had been sent to Mrs. Cragg, and sent in vain. The draper, despairing of getting payment for his goods from her, had decided on an appeal to her husband.
Cragg knew that he would have to pay it.
He could not let his wife remain in debt. Yet—how to spare the money?
A feeling of indignation swept over him. The manner in which she had behaved to Pattie made it harder for him to meet this patiently. The wife who should have been his help and stay was becoming a clog and a burden; something to be endured, instead of some one to be loved. And it was her own fault. Cragg wished to be a good husband. He had borne much patiently. Things now were getting beyond bearing.
He stood up, sheet in hand, and walked to the sitting-room, where Mrs. Cragg was generally to be found. She was there, and so was Dot.
"Dadda!" shrieked Dot in rapture.
Cragg took her up, kissed her, and said: "Run away, my pet."
"What's she to run away for?"
"I want a few words with you."
"If you're going to grumble, I'd rather not. Dot can stay."
"I must have a few words with you," repeated Cragg, his manner unusually stern. "Run away, Dot darling."
"All wite, dadda." Dot trotted off.
"I want you to explain this bill to me." Cragg did not say "my dear." He was surprised and alarmed at his own resentment-a resentment piled up by one thing upon another. It was half for Pattie, half for himself, and it was increased by the sense of his wife's falsity.
Mrs. Cragg looked at the sheet which he laid before her, and, as usual, hardened herself.
"They'd no business to send that to you."
"Where did you expect them to send it? How do you suppose you are going to pay it?"
Mrs. Cragg tossed her head.
"I shall pay it in time—of course."
"There is no 'of course' in the matter. The money that I allow you is never enough for immediate wants."
"Then you'd better allow me more."
"I cannot afford it. I am on the high-road to beggary."
"You're uncommon fond of talking nonsense, Mr. Cragg."
"I am speaking sober truth. At this rate I shall soon be bankrupt."
Mrs. Cragg declined to believe what he said. She took up the bill and glanced it through.
"Those people are cheats. I don't believe it ought to be a quarter as much."
"You mean that you have not had the things?"
"I had some, of course. Not all that list."
"Find something in the bill that you have not had, and I will make complaint."
"Really, Mr. Cragg, I didn't marry you to be kept in as close as this, and lectured as if I was a school-girl. And I don't mean to bear it. You've been worse than ever since Pattie came—and that's the truth."
"I shall have to be worse," Cragg answered coldly. "I cannot afford this sort of thing, and that's the long and short of the matter. If you run into debt, you must manage for yourself. But it's no use speaking to you. You don't choose to understand." And he left the room as Pattie came in.
"Has anything happened?" she asked. "Mr. Cragg looks—"
"He's in a temper," said Mrs. Cragg.
Pattie's lips formed a mute protest. If Mrs. Cragg had said, "I am in a temper," nobody would have questioned it.
"I came to find Dot," remarked Pattie, knowing it was useless to carry on any discussion with Mrs. Cragg. "Do you know where she is?"
"How should I know? Mr. Cragg sent her away."
A shrill cry was followed by a dull thud; and then scream after scream filled the air.
PATTIE knew in an instant that it was Dot—her pet and companion, and the being in the world whom she most dearly loved. Before Mrs. Cragg had got beyond a bewildered "What's that?" Pattie had flown out into the passage, and had dropped on the ground beside a little heap at the foot of the stairs. The nursery girl stood on the landing above, uttering frightened shrieks.
"It isn't Dot! It can't be Dot!" cried Mrs. Cragg, horrified, coming after Pattie. And though she could not be described as an especially affectionate mother, her flushed face lost its high colour, and she had a strange feeling at her heart, as if the whole world were at a standstill. This silent huddled form her little Dot—her bonny merry child!
"Don't move her! Don't lift her yet!" entreated Pattie, as Mrs. Cragg was going to seize Dot's arm. "Oh, don't!" she implored; and she had herself to grasp Mrs. Cragg's hand. "Wait, please! It might do harm. We don't know yet where she is hurt—or if any bones are broken."
Mrs. Cragg recoiled, and stood staring helplessly, while Pattie very very gently tried to stir Dot into an easier position. A faint moan was the only sound in response. The girl who had charge of Dot, a mere child of fifteen, came blundering down the stairs, sobbing, and loudly protesting that it was not her fault; she had tried her very best to stop Dot, and Dot would rush away, despite all she could do.
"I dare say you were idling your time somewhere. You'd no business to let Dot be near the stairs alone," Mrs. Cragg said, in angry distress. "You're always doing that sort of thing. Well, you won't get any character now, I can tell you! How far did Dot fall? All down this long flight! Why, it's enough to have killed her!"
"Eh?—what's this?" another voice asked, breaking into Mrs. Cragg's angry chatter, as Cragg walked through a door. "I thought I heard something fall. DOT!"
Cragg groaned aloud. He looked from his wife to Pattie.
"I think she is stunned. Not—killed!" said Pattie, in a tone which sounded unnatural to herself. There was a sound just now—a moan. "I'm afraid to try to lift her! Please bring her to my room, if you don't mind. That is the nearest. And some one ought to go for the doctor."
"I'll be off myself in a moment."
He raised the child tenderly in his arms, walked to Pattie's room, which was on the ground floor, and laid her on the bed. Again there was a faint moaning, but no other sign of consciousness.
Cragg bent over the pillow with a look of unspeakable sorrow, and then hurried away. Pattie loosened Dot's clothes, and spread a light shawl over her. As Cragg had done, she stooped once to kiss the cold white cheek. Mrs. Cragg stood by, making no offer to help, seemingly stupefied.
"Sweet Dot! dear little Dot!" murmured Pattie; and Dot's eyes half-opened. Though they closed again, Pattie's heart bounded with hope. Perhaps, after all, the child had received little harm.
"Dot!—little pet!" she tried again; but no second response came.
"She don't hear you! She don't understand! She never will again! She's killed!"—and Mrs. Cragg burst into noisy shrieking sobs, holding the foot of the bed, and shaking it with her movements.
"O hush! please, hush! If she comes to, you will frighten her. Did you not see just now that she opened her eyes? I thought you saw! She may be only stunned; not much hurt. Please stop crying, or go away," implored Pattie. "Please, for Dot's sake!"
But Mrs. Cragg, accustomed only to think of herself, paid no heed to this appeal. She went on sobbing loudly, swaying herself about, and still shaking the bed. Dot moaned again; and Pattie, almost beside herself, went to Mrs. Cragg, and resolutely unwrenched the hand which held the iron bar of the bed.
"Mrs. Cragg, you must not behave like this," she said. "It will not do. You are hurting Dot. She cannot bear the movement. Go out of the room, please, until you can be quiet."
Mrs. Cragg's only concession was to move a few paces off, and there to stand, holding now to the table, and sobbing still in a strident fashion. Pattie went again to Dot, and leant over her, and held her little hand very tenderly. Then, to her relief, Cragg came in, bringing the doctor, a young man with a kind manner, who lived in the next street. Happily, Cragg had found him at home.
"No crying or noise here, if you please," were his first words, as he sat down by the bed. He glanced round, and his eyes fell upon Mrs. Cragg. "I think you had better take your wife into another room until she is quiet," he said to Cragg. Then to Pattie—"You can stay."
He asked a few questions as to the manner of the fall, felt Dot all over, examined her carefully, and looked with especial attention at her head. She opened her eyes, as she had done before, not seeming to know any one. He asked for a lighted candle, which he held close before the child's face. She flinched, and turned away, with a little fretful wail.
"That will do," presently remarked Mr. May; and he went into the next room with Cragg. The latter soon returned.
"The doctor wants a word with you, Pattie. I'll stay here," said Cragg. He had left his wife elsewhere, still violently sobbing, half with genuine distress and half with annoyance at being ordered away.
Pattie found the doctor alone.
"Is Dot badly hurt?" she asked.
"It is too early to say much. We shall know better in a few hours. I do not find tokens of actual injury, beyond a blow to the head— hardly severe enough to account for the symptoms. At all events, no bones are broken. My fear is that the spine may have sustained some injury. At this moment she is suffering from shock, and quiet is essential. She will need great care during the next few hours, and the question is—who will give it? A nurse cannot be got at once."
"A stranger would startle Dot, if she came to herself. I think I could keep her as quiet as any one."
"But—" The doctor hesitated, looking Pattie over.
"I am older than you think. I am nearly seventeen, and I have nursed people since I was ten. Our old doctor used to say that I was born a ready-made nurse. Will you let me take Dot for to-night? You might not find a regular nurse so soon. Then you will see if I am able to manage."
"Unhappily there is much illness about, and nurses are difficult to find. But you do not look strong, Miss—"
"My name is Dale. I am strong enough for nursing. It comes to me naturally."
"Mr. Cragg gave me to understand that he could not ask it of you— that—in fact—"
"That I am no relative," suggested Pattie readily. "No, I am not. But Mr. Cragg has been a kind friend to me; and I love Dot. I would do anything for her."
"Well, I confess you relieve my mind. I do not imagine Mrs. Cragg is capable of much. And I am told that there is not a servant in the house who can be trusted. If you are willing to sit up this night, it will be a great help. I shall telegraph to know if a nurse can arrive to-morrow. If Dot does not improve quickly, you must of course have help. A nurse for night-work would be needful. Meanwhile, we must depend upon you."
"Is Dot likely to get better soon?"
"Impossible to say. I will look in again later. She must be put to bed, and kept absolutely quiet. Absolutely—you understand? I should prefer that only you should be with her. There must be no crying, no talking and discussing of her symptoms, no whispering. If Dot rouses and shows an inclination to talk, you must discourage it. I will come again in two or three hours, and then you shall have fuller directions."
"Wait—one moment." Pattie was thinking seriously. "I will do my best, but I cannot make Mrs. Cragg do as I wish. Before you came in, I had asked her to leave the room if she could not stop crying, and she would not go. If that sort of thing is bad for Dot—"
"It mustn't be allowed for a moment," declared the young man. "I shall speak to her and to Mr. Cragg. If you undertake the nursing, you must have the entire management of the sick-room until a hospital nurse comes."
Pattie evidently had no fears as to what she was undertaking, and she soon proved that her confidence was well-founded.
As she had told the doctor, she had been early trained in nursing; and though she could not be reckoned equal to a fully trained nurse, she had by nature a gift in that line. She was quiet, placid, not easily flurried; she had much self-possession; her manner was gentle; she knew how to be firm; she did not worry her patient; she did not think of herself; and she recollected all directions given to her by the doctor, following his orders implicitly. He came again that night; and when in the morning he reappeared, he expressed himself satisfied with all that she had done.
"There is certainly some improvement," he said. "No,—I consider her by no means out of danger. It is impossible to say what turn may come next. Her state is not satisfactory; and I have little doubt that the shock to the spine has affected her brain. But on the whole she has gained rather than lost ground."
"You think you can trust me?" asked Pattie.
The doctor looked gravely at Pattie, before replying.
"I think you may take your full share," he said. "My own impression is that we may be in for a long illness. That means of necessity two nurses. I hope to have one here in three or four hours. She will want to sleep in the day-time, and some one then must take her place, following out her directions. If you are willing to do this—"
"I am willing to do anything."
"Then that, no doubt, will be the best plan. It may be only for a few days—it may be longer. You had no difficulty last night, I hope—as to keeping the room quiet?"
No; Pattie could assure him of this. Cragg, warned by the doctor, had taken the matter in hand, and had insisted on his wife's compliance. The doctor had spoken to Mrs. Cragg also, telling her plainly that Dot's life might hang upon the question of absolute quiet, and desiring that Pattie should be allowed to decide who might or might not be present. "She seems a sensible girl," he said, "and evidently knows a good deal about nursing. Let her use her commonsense, and I do not think it will lead her astray."
But if Pattie had had no actual difficulties, she foresaw very actual disagreeables. Mrs. Cragg's look, when she did enter the room, was by no means pleasant.
"You've got your way, and you can manage my husband and the doctor as you choose," she muttered.
"But what can you mean? I am only trying to do my best for Dot," said Pattie, in a low voice.
"Oh, I know!" retorted Mrs. Cragg. "Some folks are never happy without they’re managing everybody. I know."
Then Cragg, hearing the loud whisper, interposed:
"Now, my dear, this is just what doctor forbids!" Mrs. Cragg walked grumbling to herself; and Pattie turned again to the bed, her eyes full of tears.