"My husband has a lot to do to-day—all these excursion trains," mother said. "It's on account of the races."
"I came by an excursion train," says Mary.
"They don't all stop here, but some do," says mother. "He's got a deal to see to, and won't be in till dinner-time."
"No," Mary said, in a dreamy-like tone.
She was getting near the end of the last slice, and I watched her, as greedy as could be for her to have done, that I might hear what she had to say.
"Another slice, Mary?" says mother.
"O no, thank you. Not any more," says Mary.
"You're better for that, aren't you?" mother said.
"Yes—much, thank you."
"And you'll have a second cup of tea, my dear?"
"No; not any more. Nothing more at all," says Mary.
Mother had finished the washing up, and I was at the end of the drying. Mother carried away the wooden bowl, and emptied it, as quiet as if nothing at all out of the common was happening. She made me put away the china, and she rubbed the table dry; and all the time Mary sat watching, without a word, and I was in such a fret, I didn't know how to bear myself.
"Now," mother says at last, drawing down her sleeves to her wrist; "now you've had something: so you're fit to speak, and I'm free to listen."
Mary looked up into mother's face, and then at me—oh, so sadly! I couldn't think whatever in the world she meant.
"If you'd rather Kitty should go—" says mother.
"No; Kitty may stay," says Mary.
And then we could just hear the ticking of the clock, the room was so still.
Mother stood with her eyes on Mary's face.
"My dear, you've had a lot of worry since you went," she said.
"Yes," Mary answered.
"And you're going to tell us all about it now, my dear."
But Mary didn't speak. I could see her lips working, in a way they had—not as if she wanted to cry, but as if she was troubled, and didn't know how to put into words what she had to say.
"It's something to do with your brother," mother says—not as if she was asking a question, but as if she was sure.
"Yes; it's something to do with Walter," says Mary; and how my heart did beat!
Then all of a sudden Mary turned to me.
"Kitty's not looking well," she said.
"No," says mother.
"Nor happy."
"No—nor happy," mother answered.
"And you've all been worried too, Mrs. Phrynne."
"Yes; we've been worried," mother says quietly.
"About the lost watch!" says Mary.
That did take us aback, both of us. I know I jumped as if I was shot, and mother says quite sharp—
"Why, Mary! how ever did you hear about that?"
"A friend of yours came yesterday, asking questions," says she.
"A friend! Not the policeman?"
"He was in plain clothes, but he was a policeman."
Mother had actually got tears in her eyes.
"I didn't mean you to have that bother, my dear," said she. "I didn't think the man would, after all I said."
"The man only did his duty," says Mary. "He was quite right to come. Walter was out; but I had a long talk with him. That was the first I heard of the watch being lost."
"And you're come to tell us you're sorry," says mother.
"Not only to say I am sorry," Mary answered.
A sudden stab seemed to go all through me from head to foot. I never felt anything like it before. I didn't half know where I was, nor what I was doing. For Mary drew out of her pocket a little rolled-up parcel, and laid it on the table, undoing the string. And when she opened the brown paper, there lay my gold watch and chain.
MOTHER didn't say a word. She sat down, and a queer grey look came over her face.
I stood leaning against the dresser, feeling—but I couldn't tell what I felt. All the wrong I had done, all the falsehoods I had spoken, had been for nothing. I hadn't even the poor little reward that I had sinned for! I had not shielded Walter from blame. Somehow or other the matter had come to light.
Mary said nothing either. She looked so sad, so pitying.
We couldn't all have kept silence many seconds, I suppose, but it seemed an age. Before anybody spoke, father walked in.
"I haven't a moment," says he cheerily, "but somebody tells me Mary Russell has come, and I wanted to make sure. Why, so she is! Well, Mary, how d'you—Hallo!"
For his eyes fell on mother's face, and then on the watch and chain lying just in front of Mary.
Father forgot to finish his greeting, and the hand he was reaching out to Mary dropped down by his side.
"Hallo! How's this?" says he.
"I have brought back Kitty's watch," says Mary.
"Brought it back!" says father. "Back from where?"
Mary turned to me, speaking under her breath— "Kitty, if you haven't told yet, tell now! tell now!" whispered she.
But father heard, and such a look of pain came into his face as might have made anybody's heart ache. I never can bear to think of his look that moment.
"No—no!" says he. "Too late for that! I'll have no more questioning of Kitty. I never would have believed that the word of a child of mine mightn't be depended on! Tell me yourself, Mary, and quick, for I must be off. Where does the watch come from?"
"From Walter," she said sorrowfully. "He has been the tempter."
"Whose tempter?"
Mary spoke clear and firm, as if she wouldn't mince matters, either for Walter's sake or for mine.
"Walter was the tempter," she said; "and Kitty has been wrong to give in to him. Walter was in difficulties, and he got the watch from Kitty to raise money on—borrowed it, he says! But—"
Father stood like one struck by a bolt, his head hanging down.
"And Kitty gave the watch to Russell. Our Kitty!" says he, in a dazed way. "Kitty! And she making believe she didn't know aught of where it was! Telling a pack of miserable lies! Our Kitty! I wouldn't have believed it!" says he.
"I blame Walter most," said Mary. "He is the oldest. If he were not so weak!"
Strange to say, even in that moment, it angered me to hear her speak so of him. She might call me weak, if she liked; but not Walter.
"Well, I must be off," father said, fetching a heavy sigh. "I never could have believed it of a child of mine. I'll see you by-and-by, Mary, and hear all about the matter. But it's not you that's to blame."
"The first I heard of it was yesterday," says Mary, looking up into his face.
"Yes, yes—I know," says father.
Then he was gone, walking like an old man, and never casting one glance towards me: not one.
Mother spoke next. She said in a dry sort of tone, "It'll half kill him. He's always thought so much of his Kitty."
And I felt as if my heart would break: as if I couldn't bear any more: yet I wanted to hear all that Mary had to tell. I craved to know how she'd found out about the watch; and I was frightened for Walter, with a fear that he might have to go to prison for it. Being half-strangled with sobs, I made a sort of movement like going away, not knowing whether to go or stay; and mother said in that same dry voice—
"Kitty, you are to stay."
"I think Kitty ought to know the whole," Mary says gently.
"I'll have everything open and above board. Kitty is to stay," said mother, looking at Mary, not at me.
Then the tale came out slowly, bit by bit, as much as Mary knew. I think I'd best tell it, partly at all events, in my own words; for there were some things I heard later, not just at that moment, and I couldn't well separate them in memory.
When Mary went home from Claxton, Walter didn't meet her at the station, as she expected; and when she got home, he wasn't there. The little maid that they kept to help, and to set Mary free for dressmaking, told her he'd had to go off somewhere, directly after dinner; she didn't know where, only he said it was business, and he'd be back as soon as possible. It was a half-holiday at the school, so he was able to get away.
Mary had all the afternoon and evening alone: for he never turned up till quite late, somewhere about eleven o'clock. When he got in he was vexed to find Mary sitting up still. "It was absurd," he said, "after her illness!" and he would only talk of that, but wouldn't tell her where he had been. "Just a matter of business," he said. "What did women know of business?"
If Mary had not been so worried, she must have smiled; for she had twice as good a business-head as he. But she was in no smiling mood. She knew too well that secrecy on his part meant mischief.
As Walter had told me, Mary always kept a sharp look-out over the money that came into the house, more especially school-money. She told mother and me this, telling too her reason frankly, though with shame. She seemed bent on hiding nothing. When they first went to Littleburgh, she had left things more in Walter's hands; but very soon she had found it would not do. He never could keep from spending what he had in hand; and he never cared to look forward beyond the present moment.
"Not that he means to be dishonest," she said. "Walter never means to do wrong; but he is so easily bent. There is no strength of will. Sometimes I think weakness is the worst of evils, it leads to so much wrong-doing."
Then she told us how she had set going a cashbox for every penny that wasn't strictly their own, but would have to be accounted for; and every week she went into accounts with him, and paid the right amount into this box, keeping the key herself.
Before he went back to Littleburgh, leaving her ill in our house, she made him promise to go on with the same plan. Walter gave his word easily enough; and he broke it as easily. While she was away, and he was free, he spent every penny that came to him.
Then the day was fixed for Mary's return.
Up to that moment he had not troubled himself, never looking forward; but the news of Mary's coming sent him half desperate. He hadn't the courage to face her displeasure. Before Mary he was a coward. I don't think I wonder—now! There was something in those honest eyes of hers which might well make him shrink; and she had the mastery over him too, of a strong over a weak nature. I didn't believe him to be weak then; at least, I wouldn't let myself allow that he was; but one's sight gets clearer as one goes on.
Well, as I say, Walter was in despair. There was the money short; and Mary would go into the matter straight, and every penny would have to be accounted for to her. If not to her, it would have to be accounted for to others, only a few weeks later. But Walter never looked far ahead, Mary said, speaking of this. He lived just in the present, and put off anxieties, and always expected everything to come straight somehow.
In his dread he fled away from the sight of Mary, building his hopes on poor little me, and resolving not to go home at all if I failed him. Getting hold of my watch wouldn't really help him out of his trouble, of course; but all he thought of was just being tided over the moment's pinch, and so long as he could put off the evil day he was content. Anyway, he was sure I wouldn't betray him.
I didn't fail him; more's the pity! for by giving in I was helping him along an evil road.
So he went home, telling Mary not a word; and next morning he shirked giving over the money-box to her, until he'd been to a jeweller's and had raised money on the watch, enough to pay back all that was missing; enough, too, for a good sum to be in his own pocket as well.
Mary found nothing wrong when she looked into money-matters, which was a great relief to her; and Walter was in high spirits— "particularly affectionate," she told us. And yet she couldn't help an uneasy feeling that things weren't right; and Walter would not let drop a single word about where he had been, the day she went home.
Two or three nights went by, nothing out of the way happening, and all seeming to go smooth: only she got puzzled at Walter having more money than he ought to have had. He wasn't "deep," though he was deceitful, and he'd often let slip things that he meant to keep to himself.
Mary found him buying a new tie, which he didn't need, and then some smart new studs turned up. When she asked how he'd been able to afford them, he said something about having been "careful," and next he told her the studs were "a present from a friend," only he wouldn't say what friend.
There was a good deal altogether, you see, to worry her.
On the afternoon of the day before Mary brought back the watch, the policeman called to speak to her. She knew him at once for a policeman, though he was in plain clothes. He said he went so, because he didn't wish to make a stir, nor to draw attention, but there were a few questions he must ask.
"Do you want to see my brother? He is out now," says Mary, wondering what it could all mean.
"It'll do if I can speak to you first," says the policeman.
Then he put some questions about us—how long she'd known us, when she'd left us, and so on.
Mary gave him the date of the day she was hurt, and, quite natural-like, spoke of me stopping the train with holding up mother's red shawl as a danger-signal.
"Yes, to be sure," says the policeman. "She had a reward for that too" —meaning me.
"The best reward was knowing of all the lives she'd saved," said Mary. "But the Earl of Leigh gave her a gold watch and chain too."
"And you've seen 'em, no doubt," says the policeman.
"Many times, while I was in the house," Mary answered.
"And know where they were kept," says the policeman.
"Yes; quite well," says Mary.
Then of a sudden it darted into her mind what all this meant.
"Has Kitty lost the watch?" says she.
"That's just it!" says the policeman.
"Did they send you to tell me?" says Mary.
"No; they don't know I'm come," says he.
Mary said "Ah!" to this, and a little smile came over her face. She looked up at him with that same smile—you see, we heard the story after, from him as well as her, so I've got both sides of the picture, so to speak—and she says, "You don't think I've had anything to do with that, I hope!"
"No," says he, "I don't. I'm sure you haven't."
"I didn't know of the watch being lost till this moment," says Mary.
"No," says he, "I'm sure you didn't. It isn't you!"
And there was something in the way he stopped a moment, and then said the "you," as if to mark that though it wasn't her it was somebody. It brought up the thought of Walter with a blow. What did he mean? Mary's smile went, and she said—
"I don't understand."
"There's one or two things I don't understand neither," says the policeman. "And I've come to you to help me. Maybe you can explain 'em."
"I'll try," Mary said; and a fear crept over her mind. Was it Walter—Walter? She kept saying this to herself.
"Can you tell me where your brother was the afternoon of the day you came home?" says the policeman. He was very civil and kind all through. He couldn't have been more so, Mary said. There wasn't a rough word.
"No," Mary said; and her heart did sink, for she had suspected mischief of some sort all along.
"He wasn't here, eh?" says the policeman.
Mary never thought of such a thing as shuffling, or trying to put him off. She always was as open as the day. If I had but been the same! Mary would never say a word that wasn't true, to shelter anybody.
"No," she said, "he wasn't here! I thought he would be, and I was disappointed. He had gone off for the afternoon."
"Gone off where," says the policeman.
"I don't know where," says she.
"He didn't tell you."
"No," says she; "he only told me it was business."
"And he didn't let out he'd been to Claxton."
Mary gave a regular jump. Somehow she'd never guessed that.
"You hadn't heard it," says the policeman.
"No," says she, looking quiet still, for all she was upset. "What makes you think he went to Claxton?"
"I know he did. He was seen," says the policeman.
"What time?" Mary asked.
"Just before dark, in a lane near the line."
"Near the station?" says Mary; and he nodded.
"I can't think why he shouldn't have told me," says Mary, thinking out aloud.
"Something he wanted to hide, that's plain," says the policeman.
Mary went as white as a sheet.
"O no, not Walter! O no, not that!" she cried, and a big sob came from her heart. "He never would! He never could! How dare you say such a thing of my Walter?"
The policeman wasn't vexed. "I didn't say it," he answered. "Maybe I didn't think it, either."
"But you said—" and Mary stopped.
"No," says he, "I didn't say that. If I thought anybody had gone and stolen the watch, my duty 'ud be plain. I shouldn't need to stand talking here."
Mary sat down and waited, not speaking a word; and he went on—
"I don't say it's that. But I've a notion there's something between Mr. Phrynne's daughter and your brother. I've a notion they both know where the watch and chain are."
"Kitty!" says Mary.
"That's it," says he, grave-like. "Easy to see she wasn't speaking truth to her father nor me; and folks say she was wonderful taken with him. Now if so be she gave him the watch, he didn't steal it, and yet maybe he's got it! More than that I don't say—only I've got to find out where the watch is; and the quieter it's done, the better pleased Mr. Phrynne'll be."
Well, that wasn't all that passed, but by this time Mary pretty well understood how things were.
The worst of the matter was that she couldn't help fearing the policeman was in the right. Putting two and two together, it seemed likely.
You see, she'd no manner of security about Walter. She might cry out in hot defence of him: "He never would! He never could!" but to say the same words in quiet certainty was another matter.
After a while it was settled that Mary should have a talk with her brother the same evening, and the policeman would call again later. It showed his trust in Mary, that he was willing to wait. She told him she knew she had more power over Walter than anybody else; and she thought she could bring him to confess. She promised for Walter that he should be there, when the policeman called.
"Well, I'll risk it," said he at last. "I'll risk it. Don't seem to me there's been downright dishonesty: though there's been a lot of deceiving. Anyhow, I've got to get to the bottom of the matter. And the quieter it's done the better; only mind you, Mr. Phrynne is bent on getting back the watch."
Then the policeman went away, and Mary knelt down just where she was, all alone, to pray to be made to say the right words. It must have been a sorrowful hour that she passed, waiting for her brother; only she had the comfort of praying.
Walter had his tea when he came back, and he seemed uncommon lively, as he'd been the past few days. Mary couldn't eat nor talk through the meal, but Walter did plenty of both.
"What's the matter?" says he at last. "You look dumpish."
Mary had not made up her mind when nor how to speak; but in a moment she resolved not to put it off.
"Walter!" says she, looking at him, "why didn't you tell me you had been to Claxton the day I came home?"
Walter went as red as fire.
"So Kitty's let that out, has she?" said he. "The little ass!"
Well, you can suppose I didn't like to be called an "ass," even by Walter. Mary told it out quietly, telling the story.
She did not at once say that he was mistaken.
"Why should Kitty keep your going there a secret?" said she.
"Why, of course—because—oh, only because—well, of course she needn't!" said he, floundering.
"Wouldn't it be natural she should speak after she'd seen you?" says Mary.
"Natural!" says he; and he muttered again, "The little ass!"
"Did you see Kitty alone, or all of them together?" Mary asked.
"Only Kitty!" says he sulkily. "It wasn't anybody else's concern."
"Then that was the business you went after," Mary said. "I don't see why you should make such a mystery of it," says she.
Walter wouldn't answer.
"However, you needn't blame Kitty, for it was not Kitty who told me," Mary went on.
"Not Kitty!" says he, staring.
"No," said she, "Kitty never said a word—more's the pity."
"Then what did you mean by telling me she did?" said he.
"I didn't tell you so, Walter. It was you accused Kitty, not I," says Mary. "I heard in another way. It has made me very unhappy," says she.
"Rubbish," says he. "I'm not bound to tell everything to everybody."
"No," said she. "But you are bound not to run after Kitty without her parents' consent—not to see her in secret—and not—"
Mary couldn't go on.
"Well! anything else?" says he gloomily. "I suppose you'll go and make a fine tale of all this to the Phrynnes."
"It's too much of a tale already," says she. "I've no need to make any more of it." And then she said, "Walter, how could you?"
"How could I what? See Kitty! Stuff and nonsense!" said he. "If I did have a word with her, what's the harm? 'All's fair in love and war!'" says he, and he tried to laugh.
"Wrong-doing is never fair," Mary told him. And she said, "If you loved Kitty, you could not wish to make her deceitful."
"Well, you needn't bother," said he.
"And that is not all," Mary went on. "How could you—"
"How could I what?" said he, very short. "Tell Kitty she had a pretty face?"
"How could you rob her of her watch?" Mary said.
He was taken by surprise, and Mary's words struck home at last. He turned as white as paste, and a frightened look came into his face. If she'd asked him whether he'd done it, he'd have said, "No;" but she didn't ask him that, and no doubt he felt sure she knew a deal more than she did know.
"Why—why—why—" says he, stammering, "I declare, Mary, that's a—a nice thing to accuse a chap of! 'Rob,' indeed! When she gave it me!" says he.
"Did Kitty make a present to you of her watch and chain?" Mary asked.
When Mary came to this part in her story, I could understand what Walter had meant by calling Mary stern. As she said the words, telling mother all about it, she did look stern.
"Well, not exactly a—present, perhaps," says he, stumbling over his words. "But she gave them over to me. I do assure you she did, Mary," says he, as if it was an excuse for himself.
"Gave them over to you—what for?" says Mary.
Walter wouldn't tell at first, and then he shuffled. I'd given them over to him to do what he liked with them—at least, it wasn't exactly a present, but a loan—at least, it was just to tide him over a difficulty, when he was hard-pressed—at least—
Mary got out of patience with him, I suppose, for she cut sharp into his talk. "At least, you wheedled poor little Kitty out of them!" says she.
Mother hadn't looked at me once for ever so long, and I don't think Mary had either. I stood leaning against the dresser still, feeling like one stupefied, yet able to take in every word that Mary said, so that I never could forget any of it again. I had stopped crying. I was listening too hard to leave any time or power for tears.
I heard a sort of catch in my own breath, when Mary got so far; and Mary must have heard it too, for she turned round towards me, and said—
"Kitty, did you give the watch and chain to Walter?"
I was startled by the sudden question, and I said, "O no!" —not stopping to think.
"Then you lent them to him! But what for?" said she.
"He—asked me!" I said.
"Come here, Kitty," said she, and I came close. Mary took my hand in a grave sort of way, not stern now.
"But if you lent him the watch and chain, you did not mean him to sell them?"
I was startled again into saying "O no!"
"No; so I supposed. He talked to you about loans, and raising money, and passing difficulties—did he not?"
It was so exactly what he had done, that I hung my head.
"Poor silly child!" Mary said.
I couldn't bear to have them both looking at me, and I dropped down on the floor, hiding my face in Mary's dress. Somehow her touch was a comfort, even while it made me more ashamed.
"Then he sold the watch," mother said, in a hard voice.
"Yes," Mary told us. He had sold the watch and chain—sold them, after all his promises to me! To be sure, he had spoken to the jeweller of "pressing difficulties," and of hoping to buy them back in the course of a few weeks; but anybody might know what that was worth.
Mary had had hard work to get at the truth of the matter. Walter had shuffled and doubled, and tried every means in his power to put her off with half-answers. But she had refused to be put off.
"What on earth made the girl tell of me?" Walter burst forth angrily at last.
Then Mary explained how things had oozed out; and when Walter heard of the policeman's call, he turned yellow-white again, and was like a terrified child.
"I can't see the man, Mary! I can't see the man!" says he, shaking with fright. "You'll see him, there's a dear! I'm going to bed," says he.
But Mary wouldn't let him off. She had given her word to the policeman, she said.
Walter gave in then, and made a clean breast of everything from first to last—all about how he'd got into difficulties, and how he'd used all the money he could lay hands on, and how he'd begged the watch and chain from me for just a few days, meaning to take them to a pawnbroker's, and how the temptation had come over him to sell them outright, and how of course he was very miserable, and never, never, would do anything of the sort again.
But the miserableness wasn't repentance! Walter minded being found out—not being in the wrong!
The policeman was so far satisfied with what he heard, that he left it in Mary's hands to get back the watch and chain from the jeweller's in the morning: which she was happily able to do, since he had not sold it. I did not hear till long after that Mary had to pay a good deal over what Walter had received for it. Thanks to his extravagance, the only way in which she could do this was by parting with the two or three trinkets of value which had come to her from her mother.
"Kitty, it has been a foolish business—worse than foolish," Mary said, when her story was ended.
And that was true enough. It did look very foolish, very wrong. I felt as miserable as Walter could have felt: partly knowing how I'd been in the wrong: partly a sort of disappointment in him. I did think, after I'd done and borne so much, he needn't have been so ready to say hard words of me. I'm almost afraid that was the uppermost thought with me, as I sat on the floor, hiding my face in Mary's dress; and yet there was real sorrow below.
"You'll stay here to-night," mother said to Mary. She spoke still in a hard sort of voice, as if she couldn't trust herself.
"O no—only to dinner. I must go home early," Mary said.
Mother didn't press for more. She seemed too down-hearted to care.
"Kitty, you'd best be about your work. You've sat there long enough," says she.
It was the first time in all my life mother had ever spoken to me in that tone—almost as if I was a stranger. Mother wasn't given to showing anger in her manner, as I've said earlier. But then she'd never before found me out in a course of deceit, and she was bitterly disappointed in her Kitty. She and father too—ah, poor father! If I had but been able to look forward, and to see what was coming!
When mother spoke, I got up, and stood still in a dazed way. Mary said, almost whispering—
"Haven't you a word to say to your mother, Kitty?"
But mother broke in, sharp and short—
"No, Mary, I won't have Kitty prompted," said she. "If Kitty don't know what she ought to do, she needn't do it! Saying at somebody's bidding don't mean much. And I don't know either as Kitty's words 'll be worth anything to me ever again," says she. "I did think I could trust her; and I can't."
"Kitty will win her way back to your trust," says Mary.
"Maybe," mother said. "It'll take a lot of winning, though. I wasn't easy persuaded that she could deceive me—not even when the policeman said so, for I thought it was a mistake. And I shan't be easy persuaded to trust her again."
"But you love her still," pleaded Mary. "A mother always loves her child. You'll help her to get back into the right path." And then Mary turned to me again, and said, "Kitty!" —pleading-like.
I knew she meant I ought to beg mother's pardon; and it's hard to tell now why I didn't. Mother's manner kept me off, partly, and I felt stupefied, and the real pain at my heart was about Walter, not so much yet about mother and father.
"You can go and finish the bedrooms," mother said to me. "And take that watch away; I don't want to see it again," says she.
But I wouldn't touch the watch; and Mary took it up.
"No," said she; "I think you had better keep the watch for a time, Mrs. Phrynne, until Kitty has proved herself trustworthy."
Mother let Mary put it into her hands; and then I ran off.
Some days do seem long compared to others; and that was one of the longest I've ever known. The minutes crawled so, I didn't know how to get through them.
I made the work upstairs last as long as I could, and then I sat mending, not speaking a word to anybody. It is strange now to remember how silent I was; and I do remember it, and how when Mary spoke to me I hardly answered; yet at the time I didn't feel silent. My thoughts were so busy, going round and round in a whirl.
Walter—Walter—Walter—just filled my mind. I felt as if a great wall had grown up between him and me; and I longed to get beyond the wall. I couldn't respect him for the way he had gone on, and I was angry with the way he had spoken of me, and yet I couldn't bear to think that most likely he thought I had broken my promise and had betrayed him. Somehow that weighed upon me more than anything. I did long to make it all clear to him, even if he and I were never to meet again after; and the thought of never meeting made my heart come into my throat, as it were.
One moment I was vexed with him, and felt how meanly and unworthily he had acted. Then the very next moment I'd see his face, as he had looked when he called me "his little Kitty," and I seemed ready to cry out with longing to have him near me again—even while in my conscience I couldn't but condemn his deceit and cowardice. Not that I let myself use any such words about him at that time. I only felt: I didn't say.
A little while before dinner, father came in. I had gone upstairs again, for I was so restless I couldn't keep still; and I saw him from my window. I knew he and Mary would have a talk together about me; and I didn't go down, but left mother to get the dinner. Mother never called me, as she'd have done usually. And when I went down, father scarce looked at me. That did pierce deep, for I was used to such tenderness. It was as much as I could do to bear the change in him.
I don't know much of what was said by anybody at dinner. I only know how sad and down-hearted father seemed, and how Mary looked as if she did feel for him so.
But he never said a word to me all dinner-time. For I hadn't so much as told him nor mother yet that I was sorry for all I'd done.
Father went off again the moment he had finished; and mother was called out to speak to somebody in the kitchen. That left Mary and me alone.
I thought in a moment that she would begin by finding fault with her brother, and that I would not agree.
But her first words were not what I expected; they took me altogether by surprise.
"Kitty," says she, "what am I to say to Walter from you?"
I was so taken aback with the question, I sat and stared at Mary. For it was about the last thing in the world I looked for, that she should offer to take a message from me to her brother.
"Am I to say—nothing?" she asked.
It rushed over me then how I'd been longing all the morning to let him know that I had kept my promise. And I never waited to think if that was the sort of message Mary had in her mind.
"Yes, please," I said, trembling. "Please tell Mr. Russell it wasn't my fault."
I don't think I shall soon forget the astonished look that came over Mary's face. She had got something she didn't expect; that was clear.
"What wasn't your fault?" said she.
"About—about its getting known," I whispered, twisting a corner of the tablecloth into a little rope, and dreadfully afraid mother would come back before I could explain. "I'm afraid he'll think it was me, and indeed it wasn't. I never let out a word."
"Is that all you care for, Kitty?" said she, in a sad tone.
"No," I said, and I found it hard to speak. "No, I do care, and I am sorry. It's been wrong, I know. Only—I can't bear him to think—"
"Walter's thinking either way is worth very little, poor weak boy that he is," said she. "Kitty, have you never thought how all this has been in the sight of God?"
I said "Yes," very low; and it was true, for I had not forgotten that. Only it had weighed second with me, not first; and so Mary understood.
"Perhaps you have thought in a passing way, but you have not cared," said she. "At least, not much. Not half so much as you have cared about what people may say of you."
If she had said "Walter" instead of "people," she would have been in the right.
"I don't know," was all I could answer.
After a minute, she began again.
"What am I to say to Walter about your watch?"
I began to see what sort of a message Mary had meant, and I didn't speak.
"Mind, Kitty," said she, "your words may have power one way or another—for good or for evil. I don't say they will have, for I'm not sure whether you have any power at all over Walter; but they may. Most people have some sort of power over pretty nearly every one else. Walter has robbed you. What am I to say?"
"Oh, not robbed," I said.
"He has robbed you," she said again firmly. "It is no thanks to Walter that you have the watch again. He has acted with downright dishonesty, and nothing less. He got the watch from you on false pretences—yes, false!" she repeated, as I whispered "O no!" again. "He is my own brother, but that is no reason for explaining away the sin. Because I love him, I am only the more grieved. Loving him can't make me love evil. I want you to look the truth in the face; not to mince matters. No good is ever gained by saying that black is white. Walter robbed you of your watch, under pretence of borrowing it."
Yes, she was stern; she could be almost hard. At least, I tried to think so, trying still to defend Walter in my heart.
"But he didn't mean—" I murmured.
"Didn't mean to rob you! My dear, he meant to get a certain amount of money somehow; he cared very little how. What you might lose or suffer was quite a small matter. Kitty,—if I could open your eyes to understand him!"
I had a sort of side-peep of mother putting her head round the door, and going away again. It flurried me so, I didn't know what to say. And I was angry with Mary too. Why must she make the very worst of everything to do with Walter?
"He meant to bring it back to me," I said.
"To bring back the watch! After he had sold it!"
"Perhaps he didn't really quite sell it," I whispered.
"He sold it, quite and really," says she. "How could he sell it only half? You are fighting against truth, trying to believe in him still," says she. "Will anything persuade you, short of coming to the jeweller's with me?"
I said "O no!" to that.
"No, you don't want to go—is that it? Then will you take my word? He sold the watch and chain for more money than he was in need of, and spent a lot in useless nothings. That is Walter all over! Do you think I don't know him now, after all these years?"
I didn't make any answer.
"It is the old story," says she sorrowfully; "only worse. And I did hope things were going to be better. Kitty, you have been helping him along the downward path, deeper into evil. If you really cared for him, you could not have done so."
"O no!" I said again. "Not—"
"Helping him downward into evil," said she. "Nothing less! Helping him farther along the road of deceit and dishonesty, and letting him teach you to deceive. If only you had stood firm when he tempted you, there'd have been sin spared on both sides. It is one of the saddest tales I have ever heard," said she. "One of the saddest, after the training you have had—and with such a father and mother! Perhaps you fancy you gave in because you like Walter. He's nice-looking, and he can say pretty things to girls. But it's a poor sort of 'liking' for a person, that can make you help forward the evil in him. And I, his sister, don't thank you for the harm you have done. Some day you will repent it too."
Then she stopped, as if to give me time to speak; and I said nothing. I was angry still, and shamed and unhappy; and if I might not defend Walter, I would not answer at all. So after a minute she said softly—
"Good-bye, Kitty. I shall pray for you."
Then she went away out of the room, leaving me alone; and I didn't follow nor see her again, for she went by the train that passed in a quarter of an hour.
Mother brought her work in soon, and sat down at the table. We had a lot of mending to got through, and I knew it had to be done. I felt half wild, as the minutes dragged on, and the clock ticked, and not a word was said. It seemed to my fancy as if mother wouldn't trust me, and was keeping guard. I longed to get away somewhere alone, for a good cry; yet I didn't dare to stir.
I can remember how mother looked, sitting still sideways towards me, her fingers stitching on and on steady as a machine, and her eyes never lifting themselves. She had such a quietness in her face, as if she was waiting and expecting something.
It must have been near two hours that we kept like that, both of us working, and not saying a word. But at last I couldn't bear myself any longer. I was aching all over, and restlessness wouldn't be held down. I dropped the table-cloth I was mending, and leant back in my chair.
Mother looked up then slowly, and fixed her eyes on me, like one coming out of a dream. She didn't ask if I was poorly, nor say I'd better go for a run, as was her way commonly; but she seemed to be trying to find out something; and all at once she said—
"Kitty, have you promised Mr. Russell to be his wife some day?"
"No, mother," I said, getting as red as fire.
"He has asked you, I suppose?" said she.
"No, mother," I said.
Mother gazed at me still, and sighed. "It's not much use putting questions," said she. "How am I to know it's truth you tell me?"
"Oh, but—" I said. "I wouldn't—"
"You wouldn't tell more fibs than happens to be convenient," said she; and I hadn't often heard harder words from mother. "No, I dare say not," says she. "But you see I mightn't know when it was convenient."
"Mother, I wish you wouldn't talk so," I said, feeling wretched.
"I dare say," says she. "And I wish I had a child again that I could believe in. I could have stood anything better than that—anything, I do think," said she. "It's like losing my Kitty that I've always trusted, and having somebody else instead."
"I'll never tell a story again," I said earnestly. "Never! I won't really."
"No," said she, sorrowful-like. "You don't mean to—maybe."
And I saw she hadn't a grain of confidence in me. Was it any wonder?
"You say Mr. Russell never asked you to marry him. Then what did go on between you two?" said she. "If you are minded to begin speaking the truth, tell me all out plain now."
She looked so anxious, leaving her work, and waiting to hear. And I was all in confusion, not knowing what I might or mightn't say. Perhaps I ought rather to put it, that I was puzzled between my wish to please mother and not to say a word that Mr. Russell could mind.
"He was—so good to me," I whispered.
"How?" said she.
"He was—kind," I said.
"That won't do, Kitty. I must hear more, if I hear anything," said she. "Did he ever ask you to marry him?"
"No," I said; and that was true. "He only—"
"Well? He only—what?" said she.
"He only seemed—to think—to think—I liked him," said I, stumbling.
"That's truth, I don't doubt," said she; and she repeated the words: "Only seemed to think you liked him! I'd like to have seen the man, when I was a girl, who'd have dared to seem to think I liked him, before he'd made it pretty plain how much he liked me! But I don't know what's come over the girls nowadays. They haven't a scrap of self-respect."
"O but, mother, he did seem—" I began, and stopped.
"Did seem what?" says she. "Did seem to think he liked you too? Is that all?"
I wouldn't speak, for I remembered how I'd promised not to tell.
"There's a deal of 'seeming,'" said she. "Seeming this and seeming that! A few honest-spoken words would be worth a lot more than all the seeming. Kitty, did he ever tell you he loved you?"
"Not—not exactly," I whispered.
"No, not exactly, I'll be bound," says she. "Just enough to win a silly girl's heart, and just little enough to leave himself free! I know the ways of that sort."
And wasn't it true?
"But I'm sure he did mean—" I began, and stopped again.
"Did mean what?" said she.
"He did call me 'his own little Kitty,'" I whispered, in a shamefaced way. Mother's questioning put my promise out of my head again. I was getting to feel all in a whirl.
"And you let him!" said she.
I shan't soon forget the quiet tone, and the contempt of it.
"You let him call you that, before even he'd asked if you would marry him!" says mother.
"I thought—he seemed—" I whispered.
"There you are again, with your thinking and seeming," said she. "Nothing open nor aboveboard."
"He did say—something," I muttered. "He did say something—something about—he hoped some day—and if he was to ask me—"
"If he was to ask you what?" says she.
But I didn't go on.
"If he was to ask you to marry him?" says she. "But he didn't ask you! That's the last thing you said. Whichever am I to believe?"
"He didn't ask me to marry him—really—truly —mother," I answered. "He only said something about—he'd like some day—and—and if he was to ask me—would I—"
And then I fell into a fright.
"O I oughtn't to have said so much. I promised him I wouldn't."
"That's a nice state of things," says she. "A man making you an offer, and you not to tell your own mother!"
"Only not just yet," I pleaded. "And it wasn't—that—it wasn't truly, mother. He didn't ask—that! He only said—if he was to ask—by-and-by—"
"Piece of impertinence!" said she.
"Mother! you don't understand, and I can't make you," I said.
"I understand part," says she; "and that is, he took precious good care to keep himself free. 'If he was to ask you,' indeed! Impertinence!" says she again, and I don't know as I'd ever before seen mother so hot. "Catch a man in my young days," says she, "asking if I'd hold myself ready to say 'yes,' the moment he chose to ask me—if so be he ever did ask! I'm in doubt whether to be most amazed at him or at you, Kitty," says she.
"I oughtn't to have told; I promised him I wouldn't. Mother! don't tell father," I begged. She sat looking at me in a sort of wonder.
"Asking me not to tell father!" says she. "Kitty, are you crazy? or d'you suppose I'm crazy?"
Then, between one worry and another, and having had so much on my mind, I turned queer and ill again, worse than the day before. Mother helped me upstairs, and made me lie down on my bed. She was kind as could be, and did all I needed; only there wasn't the tenderness I was used to, and I did miss it.
I couldn't go downstairs again that afternoon nor evening. I couldn't, partly because I felt bad, and partly because I dreaded what father would say. Mother let me do as I wished. She didn't press me either way. And father never came to my room at all. It was the first time I could remember father not coming to see how I was, when I had not been well.
Next morning I had breakfast in bed, for I couldn't sleep much; and I didn't hurry going down after, so father was off first.
Half-way through the morning Mr. Armstrong came in. He had heard from father something of what had happened, and he said he had called to ask me all about it. Mother just said, "Yes, thank you, sir. Kitty 'll take you into the parlour."
I didn't like that, but I had to go. Mr. Armstrong was very gentle, and never spoke hard words; but all the same—perhaps all the more because of the gentleness—I cared a deal more for what he said than for most people.
He had been a kind friend to me all my life, and he had prepared me for Confirmation only two years sooner. Somehow when he sat down near me, I couldn't help thinking of the time I had seen him alone just before my Confirmation, and how he had spoken of the life I was to lead as a "servant of Jesus Christ;" and how I was to obey Him, and love Him, and set myself to please Him in everything I did. I had little thought then how soon I was to be led into a crooked path of deceit. It was curious the remembrance of that time coming just then into my head. I expected Mr. Armstrong to begin asking me a lot of questions, and I was determined I wouldn't let out more than I could help about Walter Russell. But instead of beginning with questions, Mr. Armstrong kept silence a minute, as if he wanted to give me time. And then he said—
"'My duty towards my neighbour is—to be true and just in all my dealings—to keep my tongue from lying!'"
I knew those words well enough, of course.
Mother had taught me the Catechism through and through from almost my babyhood, and I knew my way about in it blindfold, if one may speak so. As I say, I was thinking already of my Confirmation, and all the teaching I'd had before; and these words seemed to bring back a great wave-like of the feelings I'd had then, and how I had longed and resolved always to do right and to please God.
"I think you have forgotten that lately, Kitty," says Mr. Armstrong.
I whispered a "Yes."
"Forgotten everything except just having your own will," says he. "Nothing surer to land one in evil than putting first how to please self. If the thought of pleasing God comes second, it soon ends by being nowhere."
And I said "Yes" again, for I knew it was true.
He spoke most beautiful to me after that, not putting a great many questions, but talking in a gentle way, like a father might talk. He said how grieved and disappointed my father and mother were, and how good they'd always been to me, and how sad it was I should grieve them. That made my tears come fast, and he stopped and looked at me.
"No," said he. "She is not hardened. It isn't hardness." And then he says, "Kitty," says he, "you want to get back into the right road, don't you? I know you do," says he.
"Yes," I whispered.
"And you are sorry too," says he.
I said "Yes" again.
"And you'll tell your father and mother so, Kitty?"
"Yes," I sobbed; "only—"
"But there mustn't be any 'only,'" says he. "You've got to give up your own way, and be ready to have God's way—and that means submitting to your parents," says he. "No good to talk of being sorry without submitting too. You must tell your father and mother you won't go against them, nor hide anything again. Repentance means turning from evil. It doesn't mean just saying you're sorry, and going on still in the same way."
I knew this; but still the thought of Walter came up.
Mr. Armstrong went on next to speak of the sin of my conduct towards God. He spoke of the dreadful nature of untruth, and how God looked upon falsehood. He told me of the danger of it, and how if I got entangled in paths of deceit, I should be dragged down and down, nobody could tell how low. Then he reminded me of my Confirmation, and how I had solemnly promised to serve Christ the Lord.
"But this isn't serving Christ," he said sadly. "This has been serving the evil one." And he said how I must have grieved the gentle Spirit of God by what I'd done, till I felt as if my heart would break with listening to him.
"Kitty, don't you be half and half now," said he; "don't let it be a sham repentance. Be real and thorough, whatever else you are. Make up your mind to give up all, to let everything go, rather than grieve the Holy Spirit any more. Don't cling to your own way. It isn't worth while! The things you have cared for lately are not worth having when you get them. The cost is too great. It is not worth while, Kitty," says he again, and I couldn't afterward forget the tone of those words. "There's so much to lose on the one side, and so little to gain on the other."
But the bonds were holding me yet. While I listened I was touched; still I felt that, if the choice was mine, I couldn't choose to give up Mr. Russell. Mr. Armstrong's words pulled hard; and in the midst of them came a great pull the other way—a sudden thought of Walter's voice calling me "his own little Kitty." And I was dragged in half between them—poor silly child that I was—turning from gold to hanker after common dust!
I did promise faithfully to beg father's pardon next time I saw him; but Mr. Armstrong couldn't get me to say all he wanted.
The rest of the morning I was in a quake, thinking what I had said I would do, and so restless I didn't know how to settle to work.
Mother left me pretty much to myself: only I always felt she had her eye upon me, as if I wasn't to be trusted out of sight.
Father came in at dinner-time, and I was tongue-tied, as if I couldn't speak a word. Which was nonsense, for of course I could speak. It was want of will, not want of power, that held me back. And I had not prayed for help—at least, not freely and fully. I had the feeling still that I couldn't give up Walter.
Dinner was another silent meal. Father helped me, but he didn't talk, nor did mother. He looked so sad and downhearted, and once or twice I heard him give a great sigh.
Well, at last he got up to go, and a sort of desperate feeling came over me, that now was the turning-point, and that if I didn't speak then perhaps I never should. Besides, if I didn't keep my promise to Mr. Armstrong, nobody would ever believe me again. And with all this I felt too, so strangely, that I couldn't make myself, but God could make me; and I think I cried out in my heart for help.
Oh me! to think what I should have felt, after, if I hadn't said a word!
"Father!" I whispered, in a shaky sort of voice. He was near the door, but he heard me, and he turned round, straight.
I've often thought since how much that one word means, and how if we're sad or downhearted, or in trouble, or in temptation, it's often enough to cry out, or even just to whisper— "FATHER!" For that means everything, and the answer is sure.
I didn't say more. I was half choked, and couldn't. And perhaps there was no need.
He seemed to understand in a moment all I meant to say. Quick as possible he came back to where I sat, and took me in his arms, and held me tight—oh, so tight—like as if he was taking me into his heart. And the tears ran down his cheeks, dropping on my face.
"Kitty, you'll never do it again—never again!" says he hoarsely.
"No, no, I won't," I sobbed.
"And you're—sorry?" says he.
"O father, I'm so sorry," I got out, clinging to him.
I heard him mutter, "Thank God!" and then he broke down, and sobbed too.
"There, that won't do," says he, trying hard to get over it. "I must be off to—to the station," says he, while there was another great heave of his chest, which I felt all through me. "Kitty, say that once again; say you'll never—never—"
"O no—never!" I sobbed.
Then he put me from him, and started to go; and he came back, unexpected, from the door, to catch me in his arms again, and hold me tight to him—a thing he wasn't given to doing commonly.
After that he was gone; and I couldn't so much as look at mother. I just rushed away up to my room, and cried there, fit to break my heart.
For I knew it meant giving up Walter Russell. I knew father wouldn't allow anything between him and me, after the way he had acted. I knew I oughtn't so much as to wish for it—and yet I did wish. Now and again the wish rolled up in a great wave, that seemed like to swamp everything else; and then Mr. Armstrong's words would come,— "Not worth while! not worth while! So much to gain, so little to lose!" And I did pray to be kept straight, and not allowed to go back.
It must have been a good two hours I was upstairs alone, mother never coming to interrupt me. Perhaps it's well she didn't. I was learning something, alone there with my own thoughts and with God—something maybe that had to be learnt to prepare me for the sorrow that lay ahead.
When at last I went down, it was with red eyes and changed feelings. Mother looked up at me from her work, and I saw a difference in the look, more like I was used to.
I wanted to tell her too that I was sorry, and meant to do rightly; but when I reached her side, I couldn't speak, I could only cry.
"Yes, I understand," says she, in her quiet fashion; "I understand, Kitty."
But she didn't take me straight into her arms and to her heart, like father. Mother was so unlike to father. I knew it would be a good while before she'd feel for me as she was used to feel, or give me the old trust. And I knew that would be my punishment.
"It's not good for you to cry so much," says she. "Come a turn in the garden with me. That'll make you feel better."
Mother took up her red shawl, and we went out together. The fresh air always did me good, and I knew mother was showing forgiveness too in her own way. We didn't say anything, but went along the path on the embankment to the end.
"This is where you were when you saw the truck that day," said she.
It wasn't the spot where I stood when I saw the truck first, but I didn't see any need to contradict.
"I'm always thankful you had the sense to do your duty," says she. "But I'm none too sure it was good for you—all the fuss that was made about it."
"No, mother," I said.
"I don't hold with that sort of fuss," says she. Then, after standing a minute, and looking at nothing particular, mother said—
"It isn't my way to make a lot of talk about what's done, and can't be undone. But I've one thing to say."
"Yes, mother," says I, meek enough; and I knew what was coming.
"About that young Russell," says she.
"Yes, mother."
"Mind, Kitty—it's all over between you and him. If there ever has been anything, which I've my doubts upon," says she, "it's over now."
I didn't speak a word, for I was that choked, I couldn't.
"He's shown himself a liar and a cheat. I'd sooner see you in your grave, Kitty, than give you over to him. Mind, I say it, and I mean it," says she.
And then she touched my hand in a kind-like way, and said—
"It won't be long. You'll soon leave caring. There can't be love without there's respect."
"I do love him," I sobbed. "And oh—I don't know how to bear it!"
"Catch me, when I was a girl, saying I loved a man before he'd said he loved me!" I heard mother mutter to herself. "Whatever has come over the girls nowadays! Not a scrap of proper self-respect."
But she touched my hand again, and patted it.
"Come! you've got to be brave," says she. "I wouldn't give in too easy."
"I do mean—to try," I managed to say.
"Yes, I'm sure you do," says she. And she walked me back along the path, and then again to the end, and back a second time.
How quiet and natural everything did seem! Looking back to that hour, it is wonderful to me to think of us two, loitering out to and fro, getting the fresh air, and having our talk, with never so much as a fancy of what was just about to happen.
Isn't that how we go through life: step by step onward, none of us able ever to see where the next step will land us? If it wasn't for the thought of a Father's Hand over all, managing and arranging for us, we should have good reason to be frightened.
Sometimes one does get frightened trying to peer ahead. But it was not so with me just then. Nothing was farther from my mind than the fear of any fresh trouble. It seemed to me I had enough to bear.
I was stepping along slowly beside mother, gazing down on the ground, when suddenly mother stopped short, and I heard such a strange sound from her! It was as if she wanted to speak, and couldn't. I looked up quick, thinking she must be taken ill; and she was the most extraordinary colour, not white, nor grey, but a mixture of both, and her lips parted and stiff.
"Mother!" I began, in a frightened way; and it flashed over me how if she was going to die it would be my fault for grieving her so. But before I could say another word, the sound came again; and I saw her eyes staring, and her hand pointing at something —something down below, on the line, nearer the station.
Quick as lightning I turned my eyes down there, and saw the whole! Folks say moments are all of the same length. I don't know. It don't seem to me they can be. For that next moment was the longest I ever lived through in my life. It stretched out and out in an awful way; and yet it couldn't have been more than a moment. If it had been, things would have ended different. There would have been time, which there wasn't.
There's a danger to men always, near and about the line, which outside folks don't understand. They're always within hearing of trains, and they get so used to the sound that at last they don't hear it, hardly. If they are not on the watch, a train might rush by within a few yards, and they wouldn't notice the stir. It's natural, seeing we get used to pretty near everything which we have always in everyday life; but it means danger. Many a poor fellow has been maimed, or even killed, just through being overmuch accustomed to the station sounds, and so not hearing the train that was bearing down upon him.