Mary had not done with the matter yet. When she was in bed, I always slipped in to say a last good-night, and she liked it. Often she was sleepy, and said only a word. But that evening she was wide awake, and she took my face between her hands, and looked at it.
"Kitty, you are getting pale," she told me.
"O no," I answered.
"Saying no doesn't alter things," she said. "Are you poorly?"
"No," I said.
"Poor little Kitty!" she whispered, and she kissed my cheek.
"I'm only come to—say good-night," I said.
"Yes, I know," said she; yet she wouldn't let go. She pulled me down till I lay beside her, with my face against hers, and then she asked— "Kitty, do you ever pray?"
"Yes," I said, "every morning and evening."
"You say your prayers, don't you?" said she. "But is it real praying?"
"I—don't know," I whispered.
"Because there is no such comfort in anything else," she said. "When one is troubled or puzzled, there's nothing like going straight to God, and telling Him all about it. Not only telling, but putting the whole thing into His hands, and asking Him to arrange everything. Do you remember how the disciples went and 'told Jesus' directly they heard of St. John the Baptist's death?"
"Yes," I said faintly.
"And we can do the same about everything—we ought to do the same," she went on. "He is always near—always kind and ready to help. He always answers if we really call upon Him."
I only said "Yes." The words didn't come home to me particularly then, though perhaps they did later.
"I think you are troubled now about something, and puzzled too," said she.
"Oh, I don't know," I said.
"You see, I know so well what that is," she said: "I have been so often puzzled and troubled. It couldn't be otherwise, having to stand alone early, as I have had to do. Sometimes it has been about money matters; sometimes about somebody else's wrong-doing; sometimes about my own wrongdoing; or, perhaps, just not knowing what to do, not being sure which step was right or wrong. And you know, Kitty, one may always come to God, with every wrong, and ask Him to set it right or to help one through. Always! always!" she repeated very earnestly. "If we can't see our way, He will show it to us. And if we don't know what we ought to do, He will make it clear. We only have to be willing, and to wait for the showing."
But did I want to have it made clear? That was the question. I wanted to have my own way. I wanted to keep Mr. Russell's secret. I wanted to feel myself bound by the promise I had spoken. I did not want to be shown God's will, unless it were my own will too. So how could I honestly pray for God to guide me to what was right, if I wasn't willing to do what was right when I saw it?
Mary said no more, and let me go, which was wiser than if she had kept on talking at me. People commonly don't know when to stop, and they'll spoil the best advice by nagging on too long at it; but that wasn't Mary's way. She had said what was needful, and she said no more. And her words didn't fall to the ground, though at the moment they didn't seem to weigh with me.
I wonder if any words ever do really "fall to the ground." There's a deal of power for good or evil in a word. And there's no measuring the effect of any word. Like a stone thrown into a pond, it sends circle after circle outward, even when it has disappeared itself, and the water over it is smooth.
Once speak a word, and you can't stop circles. They'll go on and on, till they're done. That's the meaning of "least said, soonest mended." And it's true even of good advice, as well as of other sorts of talk. Piling on words don't do good in the end.
I thought a lot of what Mary had said; but I always came round to the same point. I didn't want to be freed from my promise.
It was curious how many things happened together that year. Sometimes it does seem so in life; ever so many uncommon events near after one another, and then a long spell with nothing particular.
There was Rupert's asking me to marry him; and the narrow escape of a bad collision; and the Earl giving me his watch; and my silly little head being turned. Then there was Mary Russell's illness; and her brother always about; till my silly little heart was turned too. And then Mr. Russell bidding good-bye, and Rupert running away.
It didn't seem likely anything more would happen out of the common yet awhile. But one never can tell. That's the strangest part of life. However steady the days seem to go on, one never can be sure of a single day ahead.
No, I don't know either that that is the strangest. There's something stranger yet in the way we manage to go slipping and sliding along, never able to see if a precipice don't lie just ahead, and yet not troubling ourselves, but expecting things to keep on always the same. At least, that's how it is with some people. Some are over-anxious, and some don't think enough. It's right to trust God for our future; but it isn't right to be reckless and indifferent.
Something lay ahead that summer, which mother and I little dreamed of. If we had—but, after all, isn't it a mercy that we don't see what's coming? Only I do think we should be wiser to live more as if things might come, so that we shouldn't need to be saying afterward with a heart-ache— "Ah! if only I'd guessed, how different I'd have behaved to him or her!"
But I've got more to tell first, before coming to that sorrow.
About a month after the evening when Mr. Russell and I said good-bye to one another in the lane, Mary Russell left us. She was ever so much better by that time, and Mr. Baitson was quite willing she should travel. He'd have given leave a week sooner, I believe, only mother wouldn't let Mary go.
For days before she went, I was all in a quake and stir, thinking how Mr. Russell would run over to Claxton to fetch her. He wouldn't surely let her travel alone, after such an illness.
But nobody seemed to think of such a thing, and not a word was spoken about it. I wanted to ask Mary if he didn't mean to come, and I couldn't, for the words stuck in my throat. It wasn't till the last evening before she left, when she and I went for a turn in the garden, after dusk fell, and I knew she couldn't see my face, that I managed to say—
"Is Mr. Russell coming to take you home, Mary?"
I wanted to speak careless-like, and as if it was a thing I didn't mind about either way; but I have a notion that my voice told what I was feeling.
"Walter!" she said, as if surprised. "No, Kitty; why should he?"
"I—don't know. I only—only thought he might," I said, stumbling over the words. "He seemed to think—at least he said—"
"That would be a needless expense—no object in it," said she. "My illness has cost us enough already. Walter is hard at work, I hope—" and she made a little stop, as if she didn't feel quite sure. "Hard at work, I hope," said she again. "He ought not to think of another break before Christmas."
"There's Michaelmas," I said.
I saw her give a little shake of the head, dark as it was getting.
"Perhaps you'll come to Claxton at Christmas?" I said; and all at once there were tears running down my face. Mary couldn't see them—and even if she did, she would only think it was because of her going away.
"Hardly," she said. "No, that is very unlikely. Walter and I have to be careful now about every penny we spend. I think we shall have a snug Christmas together at home this year." Then she stooped to kiss me—she was the tallest, you know. "Kitty, you must be brave," says she. "You and I will feel very much being parted, after so many weeks together, and I shall miss your mother sorely. But we have to be brave, dear. After all, though friendship brings with it the pain of saying goodbye, one wouldn't be without the friendship, would one?"
"No," I said; and I was thinking of Mr. Russell. I was so glad she took my distress as having only to do with herself—if she really did, which I have my doubts about now. I've a notion she and mother thought it was a case of "least said" about her brother being "soonest mended."
We saw her off early in the afternoon of next day; and oh, how I longed to send a message to Mr. Russell; but I didn't dare. A word of remembrance would have been natural enough, only I knew I could not say it without flushing up and perhaps crying. And mother didn't speak of him either. She never seemed to give him a thought, no more than if there hadn't been such a person alive. And father only said: "Mind, Mary, you are to come again. You'll always be welcome." She was "Mary" to all of us by then.
How strange the house did look without her! She had grown to be part of it, part of ourselves; and I didn't guess how much I loved her till she was gone, nor what a gap her quiet face would leave.
Mother was more silent than usual that afternoon, and hardly said a word about Mary going. I wondered at first, knowing how fond those two had grown of each other. Then when mother had to speak about putting the bed upstairs again out of the parlour, she choked, and couldn't go on for a minute.
"I'm a stupid," says she. "Kitty, you run off and get a blow on the common. That'll do you good, and when you come back I'll be myself again. I'll make you a cup of tea, and then you needn't hurry," says she. "Father won't be in till late to-day."
"But you'll be dull, mother," I said.
"I don't know as there's any harm in being dull," says she. "When it comes in the way of one's duty, I mean. Folks have got to go through dull times, as well as lively times; and maybe they're none the worse after."
"Only, if I stay in—" said I.
"That's no good," says she. "Two dull folks don't make one cheerful one, however much they're mixed. You put on the kettle, sharp, and cut a slice of bread-and-butter. Yes; you've got to eat that; it don't matter whether you want to eat or don't want; and then you'll go and get a big bunch of wild-flowers. Mind you don't sit on the grass and brood."
It was late in the afternoon before I set off, and I didn't walk fast. A sort of tiredness was on me those days, and not caring much for anything; so I hadn't the spirit to run and be gay, as I'd have done a few weeks back. I loitered through the village, finding my way to the common by slow degrees, and then I loitered round it, getting ragged-robins out of the hedge, and blue speedwells, and meadow-sweet.
For a good while I kept near that part of the common where the big village boys were playing cricket; but presently I left them behind, and got away to a lonelier part.
The sun was low by that time, shining with a yellow light through the branches of the trees; for there were many trees scattered about by ones or twos, and in little clumps, divided by open spaces. I liked to feel myself alone, to know that nobody was watching me. If mother hadn't said what she did, I should have sat down on the grass and given myself over to thinking—not of Mary mostly, though I did feel her going, but of her brother. I could always sit and think of Walter Russell, for any time, and never want to be disturbed. It's wonderful how little I thought of poor Rupert in those days.
But I knew mother would question me when I got home; so I walked on, till I was so tired I had to stop. And then I stood, leaning against the trunk of an old elm, with the sunbeams shining full on me, and a gold light all over the grass. It was a pretty evening; one of the prettiest I have ever seen.
I wondered what Mary was doing just then. She would have reached home some time before,—the little home she had often described to me, till I seemed to know every corner of it. Most likely she had unpacked and put everything away, and she and her brother would be sitting down for a long talk together, one on each side of the round table in their parlour.
How happy they would be! He was such a kind good brother, and Mary so devoted to him. She might sometimes find fault with "Walter," but she loved him with all her heart. I didn't think that any wonder either.
So happy together: talking, smiling, laughing, telling everything that had happened, making merry little jokes. Yes, I could picture it all! And I, out there on the common, away from them both, felt so lonely.
These thoughts were filling my mind, and I think I sighed more than once, with the longing to see Mr. Russell again.
I had shut my eyes, that I might the better picture those two in their parlour. Something made me open my eyes—I don't know what, unless it was the sound of a step on the grass, which I could not have said I heard—but I looked up.
And he was there; in front of me!
For a moment I felt stupefied, dazed! I couldn't believe what I saw. I couldn't believe he was Mr. Russell himself.
He said "Kitty!"
And then I had no more doubt.
"Kitty!" says he. "Why, Kitty, don't you know me?"
I think I said "Oh!" It didn't seem as if any other words would come at first. Such a rush of joy filled my heart, that I was almost afraid to look up in his face. I didn't want him to see all I felt. But I believe he did.
"Poor little Kitty!" said he. "So you are glad to see me, eh?"
"Oh—glad!" I said, and stopped again.
"And I'm glad to see you. So we're even there," said he.
I wonder now that the words could satisfy me: yet they did.
"How ever did you come here?" I asked him.
"How? Why, by train part of the way, and the rest I walked," said he. "No, I didn't come to Claxton Station. I wanted a word with you, and nobody else. I should have been too well known at Claxton Station." Then he stood and looked at me. "Kitty, you are prettier than ever," says he. "You dear little thing! I've never seen a lovelier girl. No, never. When I saw you just now, with your back against the tree in the sunshine, you looked just like a little angel," says he.
I suppose it was natural I should be pleased with this rubbish, being, as I was, only a silly girl, and nothing at all of the angel in me. I might have told him it wasn't, to my knowledge, the way of angels to stand leaning against tree-trunks, doing nothing. But I only dropped my eyes, and felt happy.
"Just like a little angel," says he again.
"I like you to think me pretty," I said, in a whisper. And then, with a start, I went on: "But you are too late. Mary is gone."
"Yes, I know," said he. "If I'd come to see Mary, I should have come to Claxton Station, and not have walked six miles for nothing."
I'd forgotten that for the moment.
"Kitty, I mustn't stay long," said he. "I've something very particular to say, and I've got to make haste and be off."
Such an unhappy look came over his face as he spoke. I was facing the sun, and he had his back to it; but even so I couldn't help seeing his look nor how pulled and haggard he was. It flashed on me that something had happened, and I was frightened, thinking at once of Mary.
"I've not seen Mary yet," said he, when I asked. "I have been away for hours. I couldn't see her till I had seen you first. The fact is, Kitty, I'm in dreadful trouble, and if you can't help me nobody can."
"Oh, what can I do? I would do anything," I cried. "Then doesn't Mary know you are here?"
"Nobody knows," said he. "I left word I meant to be home as early as I could. But I don't know, I'm sure, whether—"
"Then she is all alone there," I said, thinking how I had pictured the two making merry together.
"Yes, I suppose so," said he. "It can't be helped. I meant to catch you earlier somehow, and I couldn't. I was watching from the hill, and I saw you go out, and come this way, so went round and got to the common too. But it was ever so long before I could find you."
"And if you hadn't found me at all?" I said, wondering.
"Then—" and he stopped. "But I have—so that doesn't matter," says he. "Kitty, I want your help."
"What help? I'd do anything to help you," I said.
"Anything! Would you?" says he.
"Anything except what's wrong," I said. "And you wouldn't ask that."
"No, no, of course not," said he, in a hasty way, not looking at me. "Of course not."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Why," he said, "the fact is, I've got myself into an awful muddle, and I don't know how in the world to get out of it."
"Can't Mary help you?" I said.
"I wouldn't tell Mary for the world," says he. "I'd sooner never see her again."
It seemed very strange to me. I didn't like to think how strange it was. For surely the natural way would have been to tell his trouble to Mary, who had been sister, mother, friend, everything to him. And yet the very thought of his turning to me was a joy that made my heart flutter and the whole place seem bright. I didn't so much trouble myself with thinking what the "muddle" was that he had got into. He wanted me to help him! That was the joy.
"Don't say that," I begged. "Mary is so sweet and good."
"Mary is goodness itself," he said. "But she has a hard side. You haven't seen Mary yet in one of her stern moods, sitting in judgment on a poor chap."
I wouldn't have believed that Mary ever sat in judgment on anybody, if they had been any lips except Walter Russell's that said it. But I could not contradict him.
"What is it I can do for you?" I asked, and I looked up in his face. "Tell me!" I said.
"Kitty, you are a little angel," he exclaimed again, and most likely I blushed.
"Well, but tell me," I said. "It'll be getting late soon."
"So it will, and I haven't a moment to spare," says he. "Kitty—" and there he stuck.
"Yes. What is it?" said I.
"Kitty, I want—" said he.
I couldn't help thinking of Rupert asking me to marry him, and a wonder came whether, perhaps— But no, I could see it wasn't that with Mr. Russell. Being in a "muddle" couldn't mean that he was going to try to get a wife.
"Yes, you want what?" said I, to encourage him.
"I want—money," he blurted out at last.
I won't say it wasn't a blow. Somehow I had never thought of his coming to me for money. It seemed so odd. I couldn't help a sort of feeling that he lowered himself by it.
"Kitty, don't you misunderstand me," says he earnestly, seeing, I suppose, that my face fell. "I wouldn't have you think ill of me, Kitty, for anything. It's just a thing that I—that I can't help, you know. And I don't know where to turn; so I felt I must come to you. The truth is, I've been very much pressed; you know, Mary's illness has been such a pull, and I—well, in fact, I had to borrow a small sum. Only a small sum for a short time, just to tide me over a time of difficulty. And it has to be repaid now, and I don't know how to repay it. Don't you misunderstand me, Kitty," says he, and he looked at me so soft and kind that my silly little heart beat fast, and I felt I would do anything for him.
"Only I have no money!" I said.
"No; but I thought—" said he, and stopped.
"If only I could! I haven't five shillings of my own," I said. "Shall I ask father?"
"No, no! not for the world," says he. "Not a word to him nor anybody. Promise me you'll keep it quiet, Kitty! Promise."
"I won't say a word without you give me leave," I said, not at the moment thinking how I was making a second wrong promise; and yet I ought to have thought. He had a strange hold upon me, and I was willing to be in his power. I didn't want to break loose.
"That's my own little Kitty!" said he, and my heart bounded again with joy at the words.
"But I don't see what I am to do for you," I said. "Won't the person you have borrowed from wait a bit, till you can save up enough to pay him back?"
"Why, no; you don't exactly understand," says he. "It's not exactly that, you see—not exactly borrowing from a person."
"Not a person!" said I, wondering, and he gave a laugh.
"Why, no. Properly speaking, it's only using what I've got."
"I don't think I know what you mean," I said.
"No, I was sure you didn't," —and he laughed again. "Only just that I'm in need of the money. That's enough too!"
I didn't speak, I felt so puzzled; and, after a minute, he burst out—
"Well, I'd best make a clean breast of it! I can trust you, Kitty. Not a word 'll go a step farther, I know that! I can trust you, as I wouldn't any other living creature."
And I was foolish enough to be pleased at his saying so.
"You see, it really isn't exactly borrowing," he went on. "The fact is, a lot of money comes through my hands—children's school-pence, and so on—and I've got to account for it all. It's paid to me, and I've got a right to do as I like till the day I have to pay it over, which isn't just yet. But Mary is awfully fussy about such things, poor dear! and she always will have every penny put straight into a cash-box and kept apart. Well, she made me promise I'd go on the same while she was at your house; and I did mean—but somehow I got so close run, I couldn't, and I had to spend it all. The thing doesn't matter in itself; of course, I shall pay up all right when the proper time comes, but there'll be such a row when Mary finds her beloved cash-box empty! That's where it is, you see! I want to put in the money all right before I give it back to her. There's another purse, with money put by for the rent, and I had to borrow some of that too, for I was short, and I couldn't write and bother her. It's not borrowing really, you see, for what's hers is mine. Only I know there'll be a dreadful rumpus when she finds out. You haven't a notion how hard Mary can be!" He gave a sigh as he spoke. "She's a good creature, but she can be hard and no mistake; and somehow she never has any mercy on me. So now you understand why I've come to you, eh? I knew you wouldn't be hard, Kitty," says he.
If I did "understand" it was with blinded eyes. I would not have any shadow cast upon my idol. I would not let myself take in what all this truly meant.
"Kitty, you see, don't you?" says he again. "I've nobody to go to except you. It's just a few pounds I want, just to tide me over this pinch. Only a loan, not a gift. I'll repay it faithfully. I declare I will."
"But—" I said.
"No, you haven't the money, of course," said he. "But I've been thinking, there's something else you have, which wouldn't be missed for a few days—something one might raise a few pounds on, only for the moment, you know. It seems such a shame to think of such a thing, and if I wasn't in desperation what to do I would not! Still, if you didn't mind—if it were possible, just to save me from ruin and disgrace, and poor Mary from a broken heart, not to say another illness—yet I'm sure I don't know how to ask it of you. I really don't."
I was so bewildered, I stood and looked, wondering whatever he could mean.
"Don't you understand yet?" said he, his face falling.
"No," I said. "Something that I have!"
"Your watch!" says he, half in a whisper.
"My watch!" I said; and what he meant began to dawn on me. It made me feel queer, I can tall you.
"If you could, just for a few days or so," said he, and he spoke pleading-like. "Is that so very much to do for a friend, Kitty? It's only the loan I ask. You see, I could raise a few pounds on that watch, for the moment, just to tide me through; and then in a few days or so I would buy it back all right from the—the jeweller—and get it back to you. There'll be money coming in soon, one way and another, only I can't wait for that. If I haven't a few pounds now, either to-night or to-morrow morning, I don't know whatever I'm to do. I can't stand telling Mary, and that's flat. If I can't get the money, I can't go home, and then you'll never see nor hear of me again, Kitty!"
I felt a cold chill all through me at the thought.
"Oh, don't say that, please don't!" I begged. "It sounds too dreadful. I do wish you hadn't used up the money."
"Why, Kitty, as if I hadn't the right!" says he, quite short.
But had he the right? For strictly the money was not his. If he knew himself to have the right, and to be doing right, why should he mind speaking out to Mary? I tried not to see this, for I didn't want to blame him.
"I would lend you the watch for a few days," I said; "only I don't know what father and mother would say."
"They mustn't know, of course," said he. "You've promised not to tell, not to let slip a word."
"Yes," I said. That promise was lying heavy on my conscience. "But if they asked me to fetch the watch and to show it to anybody?"
"Oh, they won't. I dare say it doesn't happen once in six weeks."
"I don't think it's so seldom as once in six weeks, and it might be any day," I said.
"But you don't wear it commonly?"
"No," I said.
"Oh, well, it'll all come right," says he. "They won't speak of it, or if they do, you must just put them off somehow. You can say you can't find it, and that'll be true enough. Only mind you don't let out where it is."
The marvel is that my eyes weren't opened. For wasn't it plain as daylight that he cared not a rap about my feelings, but only for his own? So long as he could get things straight for himself, I might have any amount of worry and difficulty. Besides, there was the untruthfulness of what he wanted me to do. He might be sure that I should find myself obliged either to betray him or to deceive.
He knew I wouldn't betray him. That meant that he expected me to deceive.
But he had got the mastery of me, with his soft looks, and his threat that I might never see him again. I had given in to temptation earlier for his sake, so it was doubly hard to conquer now. I hardly thought of conquering. My one wish was to help him. That came first, and the question of doing right or wrong came second.
"Kitty, will you save me?" he asked. "Will you save me from—" and he stopped. "From Mary!" says he.
And I was overcome. I burst into tears and said "Yes."
He told me I was an angel again, and said a lot of absurd things. Then he comforted me, and said I mustn't cry, for "all would be right now," and he hoped very soon to come again. I asked, "When?" and he said, "Oh, very soon indeed—in fact, it must be soon, for he would have to bring back the watch."
"Please don't be long about that," I begged. "Father thinks so much of the Earl giving it to me, you know. I don't know what I shall do if he finds out."
"Oh, he won't find out. There's no fear," Mr. Russell said. "You've just got to shirk the subject. But I shan't be long. I'll just turn up with it as I've done to-day."
"In a week?" I wanted to know.
"Oh, well, perhaps in a week or two," says he.
"It's only the watch you want, not the chain too?" I said.
"Why, I don't see the good of dividing them," said he. "And they mightn't be willing to give me—lend me, I mean—quite enough on the watch. I'd better have both."
I made no resistance. Having let him take his own way so far, he had matters in his hands, and I had only to obey.
He would not walk homeward with me, lest he should be seen; but we settled that I was to take the watch out into the garden after dark. And all the time I tried to hold myself from seeing how very very wrongly I was acting.
It didn't take me long to reach the station. Mother met me indoors with a smile, and I could see she was better for her quiet time. She told me I looked better too, and there's no doubt I was flushed, and not so tired.
"I didn't expect you to be so long, Kitty," said she. "But no matter, if it's done you good."
Another half-hour brought darkness, and the puzzle then was how to get away. I had slipped the watch and chain into my dress, all ready; and I was in a tremble of nervousness. Mother wanted me to settle down to some mending, and she seemed uncommon disposed for talk.
"Why, Kitty, you're all in a fidget," says she. "What's the matter?"
"I don't feel like sitting still," I said.
"No more did I, but it don't do to give in to that sort of thing," said she. "It's Mary's going: nought else. Saying good-bye does unsettle folks. But you've had your walk, and now you'd best be busy."
Mother got out her work, and took a chair opposite: so I knew she meant to keep me at it.
"I wonder what Mary is doing now," says she.
Poor Mary! I couldn't but wonder too, thinking of all those hours spent alone. And every minute that I put off seeing Mr. Russell kept him longer away from her!
"She is having a talk with her brother, I don't doubt," mother went on. "He's no favourite of mine, that young fellow, for I don't trust him; but all the same he's fond of Mary, and he'll give her a welcome. I shouldn't wonder if they're having a merry time together."
Mother hadn't spoken of him before, since I don't know when. It took me by surprise, and I said, "O mother, don't!"
"Why, Kitty!" says she. "Poor little woman! Can't you bear to speak of Mary yet?"
I couldn't bear to hear her spoken of so, knowing how different things really were. I would not let myself blame Walter Russell, yet I could have no happy thoughts of him, after what had passed. For a minute I tried to keep on at my needle, but it was no use. I couldn't; and I just dropped the work and went to the window, where it was grown too dark to see anything outside.
Mother said nothing at first. She let me stand there for awhile; and when all at once I walked to the door, she only asked— "What now, Kitty?"
"I'm going for a turn outside," I said. "It's quite warm."
"Yes, so it is; but put on my shawl, and don't stay," says she. "Just leave the fidgets behind you, and come back."
The moment I had shut the door I set off running, and reached the back corner of the garden, where Mr. Russell had said he would wait for me, close to the lilac bushes. I was barely able to see him, and I said "Mr. Russell!" under my breath.
"I thought you didn't mean to come at all," says he, in a whisper.
"I couldn't sooner," I said; "and I mustn't wait now." Then I put the gold watch and chain into his hands. "Take care of them, please!" I begged. "And oh, please don't keep them long! I shall be so frightened till I have them safe again."
"Not a minute longer than I can help," says he. "Good-bye, little Kitty—I can't thank you enough. You've saved me from no end of bother," says he.
Then he was gone, making no sound, but stealing off like somebody in disgrace; and I went back with a heart as heavy as lead. I knew I had let him draw me into a tangle of wrong-doing, out of which I could see no way of escape. I could only rest my hopes on his promise not to keep the watch long.
As I had told Mr. Russell, it was not so seldom as only once in six weeks that I had to show the Earl's present to somebody. Still, for some time past the watch had been allowed to lie undisturbed; and it didn't seem likely I should be called upon in a hurry. Most friends in the neighbourhood had seen it; and father wasn't one to make a great fuss and talk about the matter.
But only two days after I had parted with the watch I found myself in difficulties.
Mother had a note from Mary that morning by post: a short note, saying that she was at home, and sent love to us all. She spoke gratefully of all the kindness we had shown her, but she never mentioned her brother. I could not understand this: for the note was written next day after she left us, so of course he was at home with her. Mother seemed puzzled too, though not exactly about that.
"Mary is in trouble," she said. "I wish I knew what is wrong."
Well, in the afternoon of that same day, Mr. Armstrong came to call. That was nothing unusual; but he had a lady with him, a stranger to the place. The moment I saw them walking up the garden-path I had a sort of sinking with fright, for I guessed what would follow.
If I could have run away, I would have made my escape. It was no use to think of that, though. I should only have met them at the door, as I went out; and besides, I was holding a big skein of grey yarn for mother to wind, which kept me fast to the spot.
Father had just come in with a newspaper in his hand, and he had sat down to read it.
Mr. Armstrong was sure of a welcome in our house. He had been a kind friend to us for many a long day.
Mother laid aside the grey wool, and set a chair for the lady, while I got another for Mr. Armstrong. He told us he had brought his sister-in-law, Mrs. Withers, to make our acquaintance; and then he thanked me for the chair, shaking hands. "Why, Kitty," said he, "you don't look well, child. What's the matter?" For indeed the fright had made me queer.
"Kitty don't seem just as she should be lately," mother said. "She has a sort of turn like that once in a way. Sit down, Kitty," says she.
I did as mother told me, trying not to let them see how I shook, and getting a little less frightened as the minutes went by, and they only talked of things in general.
"So your invalid has gone at last," Mr. Armstrong said to mother.
"Yes," said she; "and sorry we are to lose her. There's not many folks like Mary Russell."
"I am sure of that," said he. "She carries her goodness in her face."
"It's genuine out-and-out goodness too," father said. "Why, now, she's been like a mother to that young brother of hers."
"And he is grateful for it?" Mr. Armstrong spoke as if he was putting a question, not as if he was sure.
"No doubt," says father.
"He talks gratitude," mother says quite low.
"But doesn't act it, perhaps," Mrs. Withers said.
"Talk is easier than action, any day," Mr. Armstrong added, with a smile.
"Yes, sir. I can't abide talk," mother answered him.
"You don't like talk of the wrong sort," says Mr. Armstrong.
"It's sure to be wrong, when there's much of it," says mother.
"Too often, I'm afraid—yes," Mr. Armstrong said. "'In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,' you know."
"That's just it," mother said.
And then what I was dreading came all of a sudden.
"Mrs. Phrynne, I saw a friend of yours last week," says Mr. Armstrong.
Mother waited to hear more.
"I mean Lord Leigh," said he.
"His lordship wouldn't thank you to call him my friend," says mother.
"I'm not so sure," says Mr. Armstrong, smiling. "He asked most particularly after you and Kitty, and he said he wished there were more mothers like you in the world."
"I'm much obliged to him, sir," mother said; and though she tried not to look too pleased, she was pleased.
"And that reminds me," says Mr. Armstrong, "I want Mrs. Withers to see the Earl's present to your Kitty—the famous gold watch. Would you have any objection?"
"Not a bit," says father. "Run and fetch it, Kitty."
I got up and went, though going was no good. At least it would give me time to think what I was to say or do. It's a wonder they didn't all see how dazed I was, and how I could scarce stand, for my knees were knocking together; but somehow they didn't. Father was talking to Mr. Armstrong; and mother was listening to Mrs. Withers; and nobody happened to look.
I can't explain the sort of odd feeling that crept over me—a feeling as if I really had to look for the watch, even while it was no manner of use. I walked upstairs to my room, going slow because I couldn't go fast; and I opened the drawer where I always kept the watch, and peeped into other drawers as well. It must have been a temptation to deceit, though at the moment I seemed to do it in a sort of natural way.
Then I went to the glass, and saw my own face, without a scrap of colour, and the lips all yellow-white. I didn't wonder; I felt so shaky and sick.
What would they say downstairs? What would they think? How could I keep from saying what wasn't true and yet shelter Mr. Russell?
"But I mustn't betray him! I have promised! Nobody is to know!" I said aloud.
I didn't dare to go back, though I knew they were expecting me. I stood leaning against the table, counting the moments, in a sort of dull, half-stupid state. Perhaps if I waited long enough, Mr. Armstrong would get tired, and go away.
All at once father shouted "Kitty!"
I said "Yes," so as he couldn't possibly have heard.
"Kitty, make haste!" he called again. "What are you after, child? Come along!"
There was no help for it. I had to go. I went downstairs step by step, holding on to the banisters. As soon as father saw me, he said— "Make haste, child!" and went back to the others; so I had to follow alone.
Mr. Armstrong was the first to catch sight of my face. "Why, Kitty! what is wrong?" says he. "The child is ill, surely."
Father got bold of me, and the next moment I was sobbing as if my heart would break.
They were all in a puzzle at first. Mother thought I was taken sick, and Mrs. Withers brought out a bottle of smelling-salts. Father seemed to understand better, for I heard him say,— "Something is worrying the child."
"It's Mary's going," mother answered. "She hasn't been right ever since."
"Well, but that wouldn't make her cry like this, all in a moment," says father. "What is it, Kitty? Eh, dear? Don't you feel well?—or anything gone wrong?"
"Come, cheer up, Kitty," Mr. Armstrong said. "You'll see Mary again soon, I don't doubt. Come, where is the pretty watch you were going to show us?" I suppose he thought that would take my thoughts off my trouble, whatever it was.
"Yes, where's the watch, Kitty?" says father.
I managed to get out— "It—it—isn't there!" and cried harder than before. The crying wasn't put on; for I did feel it to be dreadful that I should deceive them all like this.
"Not there! You don't mean to say the watch is gone!" father exclaimed.
"Kitty, you must tell us plainly. Is the watch gone? Cannot you find it?" Mr. Armstrong asked gravely.
"No," I sobbed.
"Where did you look? In the place where you always keep it? Anywhere else?" father asked.
"I know where Kitty keeps it. I'll go and look," mother said.
She was gone some minutes, and they put more questions, while I hid my face, and said as little as I possibly could. Father seemed very troubled, and so did Mr. Armstrong. It would be a grievous thing, Mr. Armstrong said, if such a theft had taken place. He could not help hoping that I had merely mislaid the watch.
"That don't seem likely either," father said. "Kitty wouldn't let the watch lie about anywhere."
"When did you have it out last, Kitty?" Mr. Armstrong asked.
I could say truly that I had held it in my hands a few days ago. But when Mr. Armstrong questioned whether I was quite sure I had put it safely back, I burst into fresh crying, and couldn't answer him.
Then mother came back, looking downright pale with worry.
"No," she said; "the watch isn't in its right place, nor anywhere else that I can see. We'll have a turn-out of every corner, before I go to bed to-night. But I'm very much afraid—" and she stopped. "Though who could be the thief I haven't a notion."
MOTHER was as good as her word. She didn't leave a corner of the house unsearched. There wasn't a cupboard, nor a drawer, nor a box that she didn't empty. But of course it was no good.
I was poorly enough all the evening to have a good excuse for not helping her. Not being strong, any sort of worry was apt to put me into an ailing state. Nobody wondered that I was worried at the watch being gone: though mother did tell me I needn't cry so every time it was spoken about, or a question was asked me. I couldn't help the crying, for I felt downright miserable; and, besides, it was a sort of protection. If I hadn't cried, I should have had to answer a lot more questions; and so, as was natural, the tears came.
As for helping mother in her search, I couldn't, and that's the long and short of it. I hadn't the face to go about turning out drawers, and pulling everything upside down, when all the while I knew where the watch was. At least, if I didn't exactly know where the watch was just then, I knew in what direction it had gone, and how one might hear of it.
Another thought had come to me, which somehow I hadn't got hold of before. I didn't see how in the world I was ever to get out of the muddle I was in.
Supposing Mr. Russell brought back the watch in a week or two, as he had promised—and as I tried to feel sure he would—what was I to say to father and mother?
Was I to pretend I had stumbled upon it somewhere by accident, and make up a story of where it had been hidden? But that would be a carrying on of miserable deceit, a course of evil through and through. Was I just to bring it out, and obstinately refuse to answer any questions? But that would puzzle everybody, and be a great distress to father and mother. Then what was I to do? I couldn't see my way at all.
When mother had come to the end of her hunting, she walked into the parlour—we had the use of our little parlour again, which was the only good thing to do with Mary's going—and she says, "It's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of."
"It's a case of thieving, I'm afraid," father said. He looked bothered, for he had valued the Earl's gift not a little, and no wonder.
"I shall have to put it in the hands of the police," said he; "and the sooner the better." So he got up. "I'll wire to-night for one to come in the morning," said he; for we hadn't a policeman actually living in Claxton, though there was one who went to and fro through the place as part of his beat.
That terrified me. I had a notion that the police could always ferret out anything; and the thought of the questions which a policeman would ask me, and which I should have to answer, was too dreadful. I started up out of my chair and cried—
"O father, don't!"
"Don't—what?" says he.
"Don't go to the police," I begged. "Please, please don't, father!"
Father almost laughed, for all he was so worried.
"Why, you little goose of a kittenkins," said he; and then he patted me on the cheek. "Don't you want to get the watch back? For if you don't, I do."
But I could only say, "Please, please don't."
"Why not?" said he.
And I hung my head, and muttered, "He'll ask such a lot of questions."
"He'll be bound to do that," father said. "The more he asks, the better, so as he finds the watch. Why, Kitty, what's come over you to-day?"
"I shan't be able to answer him—I know I shan't," I said. "I shall be so—so—"
"So what?" says father.
"So frightened," I said. "O father, don't—please don't send for a policeman."
"One would think the child had made away with the watch herself," father said; and all this time mother stood watching us in her silent way, "I declare I wouldn't have believed you hadn't more sense, Kitty. Frightened at a policeman! I never heard of such a thing."
Then he patted my cheek again, and gave it a kiss.
"Come, come, Kitty, you've cried enough for one day," says he. "We won't have any more nonsense. It's a trouble losing the watch, no doubt about that; but we don't blame our Kitty. Somebody's managed to steal in, and to walk off with it, and we've got to find that somebody. I shall send for a policeman, of course: why shouldn't I? The thief isn't going to get off so easy, I can tell him! It wouldn't be right for me not to act; and what's more, it wouldn't be right for the sake of other people. And as for the policeman's questions, you just take your time, and answer him slow, and don't get into a flurry. Take care you tell him the very exact truth, and not a word more nor less. That's all you've got to do, and then you'll have no call to be frightened."
But to tell "the very exact truth, and not a word more nor less," was the trouble; for there was my promise to Mr. Russell; and more than the promise, there was my wish to shield him from blame. More than the promise, I say; for if it came to a question of breaking that, promise, or telling a lot of other lies, I'm sure I should have done best in breaking that promise. One crooked step had landed me where a straight step was hardly possible, and the quickest way out of the coil was the wisest. But I couldn't bear to think of bringing blame to him.
It's hard to say, in such a coil, what one ought or ought not to do. Only, there's no doubt I had given a promise which I had no right to give; and my father and mother had a right to hear the whole. All the same, it's a terrible thing to break through one's pledged word. I've learnt from those days how slow folks ought to be to pledge their word, and how wrong hasty promises are. "Least said, soonest mended," you know.
Father went away, leaving me in tears, and mother came to the table. She didn't speak at first. She had such a fashion of weighing her words. I remember how she smoothed the tablecloth, and put straight one or two books on it that had gut awry. Then all of a sudden she said—
"Kitty, are you hiding anything from us about the watch?"
Mother's eyes had seen deeper than father's. Such an idea hadn't come to him. The words seemed to take my breath, for I didn't know what to say. I remembered again that I had to shelter Mr. Russell, and I saw that if I went on crying like this, I should not be able. People would begin to suspect.
She didn't put the question again, but waited, standing quiet, and I dried my eyes and tried to be more cheerful.
"If only father wouldn't have a policeman!" I said. "It does seem so horrid—a policeman hunting all over our rooms. And I don't believe it'll do any good."
"You nor I can't judge of that," mother said.
"If father was to speak to people, and advertise," I said—feeling that I must talk, or mother would ask again the question I hadn't answered.
"Advertise for the thief to bring back stolen goods!" Mother gave a little laugh. "Kitty, have you taken leave of your senses?" says she.
"I do hate the thought of a policeman coming," I said.
"Maybe it's not what we would have chosen," said she. "But if I'm willing, you needn't worry. Don't you think father knows best how to manage?"
We didn't go on talking, and mother let alone the question she had put; but I knew she hadn't forgotten it.
At family prayers that evening father read the chapter in Acts about Ananias and Sapphira: not by choice, for it came in regular order. I couldn't help shivering as I listened; and when we got up from prayers, father said—
"That's a fearful chapter, isn't it? I always think so, every time I read it. Shows so plain what God thinks of untruth. And it wasn't even as if Ananias had told a downright outspoken lie. It was just shuffling and deceiving."
I thought over those words of father's, lying in bed, and pictured the awful end of husband and wife, struck dead in the very act and word of falsehood. I couldn't bear to remember the untruths I had already been led into, and I made up my mind that I would not say another word that wasn't true. I would only refuse to answer, and take the consequences.
But it is no easy matter, if one steps down into evil, to keep one's self from going farther than just a certain point.
The policeman came next morning: a tall man, with a grave face, almost as sparing of his words as mother. He listened to the whole story from father, and then he went upstairs to see my room, paying particular attention to the way of getting there. He looked into the drawer where I had always kept the watch, and made mother turn everything out that was in it; and then he examined the other drawers, as if to make sure that I hadn't slipped it in elsewhere by mistake. He put a question now and then to mother by the way, and I waited in a fright, knowing my turn must come soon, as indeed it did.
"Quite sure you always kept the watch and chain in this drawer?" says he at last, looking at me.
"Yes," I said, under my breath.
"Speak out, Kitty. Don't be afraid," says father.
"And the drawer wasn't locked?" says the policeman.
"No."
"Never?"
"No," I said.
"Anybody except yourselves know where the watch was kept?"
"No."
"Yes," mother put in; "Mary Russell knew."
Mother gave a little laugh. "But she is one of ourselves."
The policeman wanted to know all about Mary— who she was, where she lived, how long she had been with us, when she had left. Mother answered these questions; and the name of Walter came in too. I wouldn't say a word.
"Then the watch was missed two days after she left?" says the policeman.
Mother smiled.
"Oh, you needn't think anything of that," says she. "I'd as soon suspect myself as Mary Russell—if not sooner. We know her well."
The policeman didn't look quite so certain, but he only asked—
"What about the young fellow, her brother?"
"A schoolmaster: clever young fellow, and most respectable every way," father declared.
"Didn't know where the watch was, of course?" says the policeman.
Mother said "No," and so did I; but I could see the policeman's mind to be hankering after Mr. Russell.
"When was he here last?" says he.
I wanted mother to answer, but neither she nor father spoke, and I had to say—
"He went away a whole month before his sister."
"Never been to the place since?"
"Not to my knowledge," said mother; but the policeman kept looking at me, and I couldn't help my colour getting up.
"Never been since?" said he.
"He meant to come and fetch his sister—but he—didn't!" I said, almost whispering. In a sort of way that was true, for sure enough he hadn't been to fetch Mary. But, on the other hand, it was not true, for I was trying to make the policeman think that he had not been at all, when he had been.
The policeman made an odd sort of a click with his tongue.
"When did you see your watch last?" says he.
"Not long—" I said.
"How long ago?"
"Just a few days."
"How many days?" says he, as determined as he could be.
"The day Mary Russell went," I said.
"That's three days ago," says father. "Why, Kitty, you didn't tell us that," says he. "I thought it was ever so much longer."
"Did you see the watch last before that young woman left, or after she was gone?" says the policeman.
"After," I said; and I heard mother give a sort of sigh of relief.
"Sure?"
"Yes," I said.
"What hour did the young woman leave?" says he. "Two-fifty-five train," mother said. "We saw her off ourselves."
"And you saw the watch—when?" says the policeman to me.
"A good deal later," I told him. "After I came in from a walk."
"What hour?" says he again.
"I don't know—exactly," I said, though I could have told pretty near. I was frightened at all this questioning.
"When you went to take off your hat?" says mother.
I said "Yes."
"Then it couldn't have been before six," says she. "I know it wasn't long after you were in before it got dark, for you didn't sit many minutes over your work, before you took a turn in the garden, and it was dark then."
"Took a turn in the garden after dark!" says the policeman, and he had his eyes on me.
"She was upset about Mary Russell going, and wanted a breath of air," mother said. "I spoke about Mary, and she couldn't stand it."
"Had a walk just before," says the policeman.
"Yes. She wasn't five minutes in the garden," says mother.
"And when you saw the watch," says the policeman to me, "was between the walk and the five minutes in the garden, eh? When you went upstairs to take off your hat, eh?"
I said "Yes."
"You didn't take the watch into the garden with you?"
Here was the point where the real pull came. If I said "Yes," how could I shield Walter? The temptation was too much for me, and no wonder, for I'd put myself in the way of it, and couldn't look to be kept from evil.
"No," I said, under my breath.
But I had waited a moment, and the colour came red and hot to my face. The policeman looked hard at me.
"You saw the watch just before you went into the garden," says he. "How did you happen to see it? Did you open the drawer?"
"Yes," I said.
"On purpose to look at the watch?"
"Yes."
"And you took it out, and handled it?"
"Yes."
"And put it back in the drawer—watch and chain too?"
I couldn't answer him straight off; but after a moment's stop, I said "Yes" again. Another lie!
"Sure you didn't put on the watch and chain to wear?"
"No."
"Nor have them anywhere about you?"
"No," I said.
See how one falsehood dragged other falsehoods in its train, and how every untruth I spoke made it harder for me to go back! It's a horrible slippery road I was on. And it was Walter Russell, the man I loved, who had led me there!
"Then you can say positively that you left the watch and chain safe in your drawer that evening, three days ago, somewhere between six and seven o'clock?" says he.
And once more I said "Yes," though the word seemed to tear me in half, and my colour was gone, and a shivering came over me.
"You didn't look again in the drawer, nor miss the watch, till yesterday?"
I burst out sobbing, for I didn't know how to bear it, and said "No."
The policeman didn't ask any more; he turned and went downstairs with father and mother. I stayed behind at first, but after a moment I thought I would go too, and I went to the top of the stairs, and there waited again, not certain what to do. The parlour door was wide open, and I could hear father saying—
"Well, what do you think of it?"
The policeman's answer was a deal lower, yet it came to me quite distinct—
"Mr. Phrynne, that girl of yours is not speaking the truth!"
"Eh! What! Kitty!" father exclaimed. "Why, our Kitty has always been as open as the day—hasn't she, mother?" says he.
But mother made no answer.
"True as steel," says father. "Poor little Kitty!"
I couldn't go down after that; and at the moment I couldn't make up my mind to go back into my room, though I knew it was mean and wrong to listen. But I didn't gain anything by it, for the parlour door was shut before any more was said.
So then I just sat down on the top stair, and leant my head against the banisters, and felt as if I didn't want ever to move or do anything again, I was so miserable.
I suppose being unhappy makes most people poorly. It always did me. When mother came upstairs a good while later, and found me there, I was so queer and sick, I could hardly stand.
She made me lie down on my bed, and brought me a cup of tea, and was so good, it went through me like an arrow to think how I was deceiving her and father. Mother wasn't used to turn stiff and cold in manner if she wasn't pleased, like some people; and she was never in a hurry to speak out; she could always bide her time. At all events, she didn't say a word to me that day which sounded like distrust. Of course she could not guess that I had overheard what the policeman had said.
I wasn't able to go down to dinner, and I lay on my bed all the afternoon, most of the time crying softly. Father was very busy—only just in to dinner, and out again.
A little before tea-time, mother came and said I had better go downstairs. I would rather have stayed where I was, for I felt afraid of everything and everybody; but it was no good to struggle against what mother thought best. So I got up, and found my way into the parlour, and managed it better than I had expected.
Tea was ready, and father sitting at the table. He didn't say much, except just to ask how I was; and there was a look in his face—which I couldn't remember seeing there before—a sort of pained disappointed look. Once or twice he sighed, and I saw mother glance across at him. He would talk a deal at tea-time commonly, and it was our brightest meal, mother seeming to like to listen, though she mightn't say much. But we had no talk that day, and if anybody said a word to me, I was ready to burst out crying.
After tea was done, mother took away the things to wash in the kitchen. She wouldn't let me help, but said I was to keep quiet, and presently she shut the door, leaving me alone with father.
He had got a book, and was reading while mother cleared the table. When she had done, and we two were alone together, he put down the book, and turned to look at me across the corner of the table.
"Better, Kitty?" said he.
"I don't know, father," I said.
"There don't seem to be enough in the loss of a watch to make you sick and unhappy," says he. "It's a misfortune, and I'm sorry for it. That's all. Not worth breaking your heart about."
"No, father," I said in a whisper. If only that had been all!
"Kitty," says father suddenly, "I think you had best see Mr. Armstrong."
"See Mr. Armstrong, father!"
"Yes," said he. "I think maybe you'd tell Mr. Armstrong what you won't tell mother nor me."
I didn't suppose father meant more than just what I had heard the policeman say, and I answered—
"O no!—please!"
"There's something you've got to tell somebody, eh?"
"No, father," I said, all in a shake.
"Nothing at all?" says he. "Are you sure, Kitty—quite sure?"
Father reached across the table to pat my hand, and he spoke in his kindest tone, sorrowful, but not angry.
"No, father," I said.
"Nothing you're hiding from us, Kitty?"
I suppose it was easier to cry than to speak, and so T burst out sobbing again. But father didn't pay so much heed to the tears as he commonly did, for he was intent on what he had to say.
"Kitty, are you hiding something from mother and me?" says he. "Don't cry, but look me in the face, and tell me! Kitty—" and his voice wasn't steady— "Kitty, if you'll just look me in the face, and speak out, and tell me you're hiding nothing, I'll believe you. I'd believe your word if things was ever so against you. Only look me straight in the face, and speak out firm and strong."
But I couldn't do that. For all the lies I had told, I couldn't look him in the face and tell another. I just sat and sobbed.
"Then there is something," says he to himself.
"I wish the watch had never been given me at all," says I.
"So do I too, if it's changed our Kitty like this," says father.
And then he made one more try. He pulled his chair nearer, and looked at me anxious-like, as I could see.
"I'm very much afraid there's something wrong," says he again. "I'm very much afraid you've not been altogether open and above-board. It don't matter why I think so, for I do. But it's not too late yet. If you'll speak out now, and tell the plain truth, mother and I will forgive what's wrong. We'll forgive, and we won't talk of it again. Won't you, Kitty? For your mother's sake and mine—and most of all for the sake of doing what's right, and pleasing to God. . . . You won't be happy going on so. . . . Kitty, haven't you a word to say to me? . . . Not one word!"
I sat still, staring down on the table-cloth, with a big lump in my throat, but making no sign.
"Won't you, Kitty?" says he once more.
But I made no answer still, for I didn't know what to say, and my tongue seemed stiff, as if it wouldn't stir. So then he got up and walked out of the room, and I heard him say to mother in such a heavy sad tone—
"No use! She won't speak!"
Ah, if I had but spoken! If I had but told him I was puzzled, and didn't know how to act! If I had but replied to his loving words and looks!
The moment he was gone, I wished with all my heart I had done differently: yet I didn't run after him. I was so afraid of being betrayed into letting slip about Walter Russell.
I didn't see father again that evening, for mother made me go to bed early, and in the morning she wouldn't let me come down to breakfast. When I did come down, father was gone to his work. He would be busier than usual, we knew, for there were a lot of excursion trains running that day having to do with some races a few stations off.
Mother seemed just the same as always in her manner, only she was so silent and so grave—silent even for her. She hardly opened her lips at all, and I could see a sort of grieved look: not vexed—only grieved. And I knew it was about me. I longed to tell her I was sorry; yet I said nothing.
I hadn't been downstairs an hour, when something took us both by surprise. Mother was washing up the breakfast china, and I was drying the cups, when all of a sudden the kitchen door leading into the garden was pushed gently open, and Mary Russell walked in.
Mother just said "Mary!" and I let slip the cup I held, so that it fell and was broken.
"No need for that either!" mother said.
Mary stood still, looking at us with such sorrowful eyes, and her face was more worn and pale than when she went away. One could see she had had trouble or worry of some sort, since leaving us.
Mother picked up the three pieces of the cup, and put them on the table. Then she went forward, and gave Mary a kiss.
"My dear, you're always welcome," she said. "But why didn't you tell us you were coming?"
"I didn't know—till—" Mary said.
"Till when?" mother asked.
"Till late last night."
"And you look as if you hadn't slept all night, neither," says mother. "Sit down, and Kitty shall make you a cup of tea. You must have had breakfast early."
"I didn't have any breakfast," Mary said, with a sort of smile. "Nor any sleep, either."
"None at all!" says mother.
"I didn't go to bed. I had a lot to think about."
"If I was you, I'd have thought about it lying down," says mother. "That wasn't like your wisdom, Mary."
"Maybe not," Mary said, with a strange look. "But I've got to tell you—"
"You've got to tell me nothing till you've had some breakfast," says mother, making Mary take a seat. "There's boiling water all ready, and Kitty shall see to the tea sharp. Cut some bread and butter too, Kitty. No, I won't have you talk, Mary, till you've taken something. It isn't long to wait."
It mightn't be long to mother, but it was long to me. I wondered so, what could Mary be going to say? Was it about her brother? Had something happened to him? I didn't know how to bear the putting off, and I hurried all I could with the tea and bread and butter, so as I might hear the sooner.
Mary sat still, looking from mother to me. There was a pitying look in her eyes that I couldn't make out.
"Did you see my husband in the station, Mary?" mother asked, when I had brought the tea, and put it in front of Mary, and she had begun to sip.
Mary gave a sorrowful glance up in mother's face.
"Yes," she said; "I saw him at the further end of the platform. I didn't stop to speak to him, and he didn't see me. I thought I'd come here first."
Mother made no answer, and showed no haste to know why, and I felt half wild with impatience: yet I had just to go on drying the cups and saucers, for mother went back to her washing, and kept handing them to me. I couldn't think why mother didn't at least just ask if anything was wrong with Walter. But I didn't dare ask it myself.