"Oh, that is Rupert Bowman, our ticket-collector," I said, foolishly ashamed that anybody so plain and awkward should be a friend of ours.
Rupert walked straight in at the open door, as he always did. When he saw Mr. Russell sitting at our table, holding the gold watch, and me standing near, his face grew as black as midnight. He scowled at Mr. Russell, and shuffled more than ever.
What a contrast the two were, to be sure!
"I say, Kitty—" he burst out.
Then he stopped. I knew why. I didn't like him to speak so to me before Mr. Russell. It sounded rude; and, besides, I did not like him to seem so much at home—calling me by my name, and putting on that angry manner, as if I was a child to be scolded! Well, I was but a silly lass, and my head had been pretty well turned that day.
I suppose I showed pretty plainly what I thought. Rupert always said I could toss my head, and could be scornful, for all I was so humble and bashful. Not that I was humble really, only folks said it of me.
Mr. Russell showed plainly what he felt too. He put down the watch and tilted his chair, leaning back on it, and he fixed his eyes hard upon Rupert, lifting his eyebrows with a sort of disdain, as if he was looking down upon a lower animal altogether.
I don't now think that kind of manner from one man to another anything grand, and I know well enough it is not gentlemanly. A true gentleman is kind and courteous all round, just as much to those beneath him as to those above him.
But I had seen then very little of life, and Mr. Russell's manner seemed to me uncommon fine and dignified. I grew more and more ashamed to think how awkward and clumsy Rupert was, and how that very day he had dared to ask me to marry him.
I began to feel, too, that I never could nor would marry Rupert,—no, not if he asked me fifty times!
Rupert turned away from me and glared at Mr. Russell. I don't think "glared" is too hard a word. Rupert had a temper naturally, and sometimes it got the better of him, though he did fight to keep it down. Mr. Russell's manner was enough to try it; and Rupert always had cared for me as he cared for nobody else. I suppose it was hard for him to see me with this stranger, so different from himself, and me seeming already taken with him.
"Mr. Phrynne told me I was to show you the way to our cottage," he says in a short angry tone.
"Thank you," Mr. Russell made answer. "When I'm in want of a conductor, I'll apply to you."
It didn't strike me at the moment, that this was not the way he ought to have taken my father's message.
"Mr. Phrynne said so," Rupert said again gruffly.
"You can be so good as to tell Mr. Phrynne that I already know the way," Mr. Russell answered. "When I have had a stroll, I shall make my appearance at your mother's." Then he turned to me, speaking in a different tone, like to an equal, while his manner to Rupert was like an inferior. "I have kept you too long, I'm afraid," says he; "but I suppose I may look in again by-and-by, just to ask after my poor sister?"
Rupert stood and glared at him still. Mr. Russell didn't seem disturbed. He lifted his cup to drink off the rest of his tea, and I remember how he stuck out his little finger as he held the cup, in a way I thought elegant then, though now I can see it was affected. Isn't it odd, the little stupid things that come back to one's mind, years after, when much more important things are forgotten? Everything that happened on that day is clear to me still, just as if I had pictures of it all laid up in my mind.
Mr. Russell got up to go, and as he gave back the watch to me, he said in an undertone—
"What could your father have meant?—sending such a chap as that!"
Rupert must have heard; he could not help hearing. He stood like a stock till Mr. Russell was gone, and then he turned sharp round upon me, and said—
"You ought to know better, Kitty!"
"Oh, ought I?" said I, getting very red. And of course, it wasn't the way for Rupert to speak to me. He had no business to call me to account in any such tone. But it didn't improve matters for me to be angry. I've often thought since that it was one of the times for mother's favourite saying. Less hot words would have been sooner mended. But we were both young and impatient.
"Oh, ought I?" says I. "I think you ought to know better by this time, and not behave as if you'd never learnt any manners."
"How do I behave?" Rupert asked in a fierce way.
"Treating me like a child!" I said. "I'm not a child any longer, and it's time you should know it. And standing staring at Mr. Russell as if you were out of your wits!"
"That—puppy!" said he, and the words came in a smothered fury, not against me but against Mr. Russell. I think he was angry with me too, though only a sort of dull sore anger. "How much do you know about that—puppy!—eh, Kitty?—with his airs and graces! And nobody in the village ever set eyes on him nor heard of him till to-day!"
"I know more than you do," I said. "Calling him names won't make me think any worse of him nor any better of you."
"That's not calling him names. He is a puppy," says Rupert. "With his oiled hair and his put-on manners and his conceit! D'you think I don't know his sort at first sight?"
"I wish you were half as much a gentleman as Mr. Russell," I said.
"A gentleman!" Rupert burst into a grating laugh, as if he felt choked. "Call that a gentleman?"
"Much more of one than you, at any rate," I said.
"I'm not a gentleman, and don't pretend to be; don't want to be, neither. A man's capable of being honest, I hope, without using hairdresser's scent and wearing kid gloves. That's what Mr. Russell's gentlemanliness means—nothing more and nothing less. Hairdresser's scent won't stand in the place of honesty, nor kid gloves in the place of—of—" Rupert's voice shook, and he could hardly get out the words— "of real true love, Kitty." He came a step nearer, looking hard at me. "Kitty, don't you be taken in!" says he. "Say you won't!"
"I shall not say anything of the sort," I said, and I tossed my head, for I could not get over the way he had spoken to me. "It's no business of yours!"
"No business of mine who you care for? You don't mean that!" said he.
"Yes, I do. It's no business of yours at all," I said. I'd never spoken so to Rupert before, but the doings of that day seemed to have changed me somehow. "I shall care for who I choose," I went on, "and not ask your leave. And if you mean to plague me like this, why I shall think better of Mr. Russell than of you. He does know how to behave, and you don't."
Such a pity to say so much, wasn't it? What was the good? I might just as well have held my tongue. Of course, if I could not marry him, the sooner I made him understand, the better. But there's different ways of making folks understand; and words spoken in a pet are never the right sort.
"You don't like him best, now, Kitty!—say you don't!" begged Rupert.
I got up and turned short off, as if I was tired of the talk. If only I had got tired and run away sooner!
"Say you don't," begged Rupert again. "Kitty, I'll be as civil to him as ever you can wish, if only you'll just say you don't, nor won't, like him better than me."
But I was vexed still, and I said—
"Why shouldn't I? You are so disagreeable, Rupert. I like Mr. Russell much the best."
Rupert looked like somebody who has had a sharp blow in the face. His eyes grew dull, and he went slowly out of the kitchen without another word. I turned my head to see him go, half minded to call him back,—and there was Mrs. Hammond in the doorway.
"That's right, Kitty," says she, laughing. "Keep the young fellows in their place, and don't you be put upon."
Seeing Mrs. Hammond frightened me, for I knew that whatever came to her knowledge was sure to be over the whole place. She couldn't keep a thing to herself; and that was partly why mother distrusted her. I did wish I had not said so much. I felt that I wouldn't on any account have others know what I had said to Rupert about liking Mr. Russell. I made light of it all to Mrs. Hammond, and at the same time begged her not to repeat what she'd heard. Mrs. Hammond promised fast enough; but I might have known what the promise was worth.
Then she asked how Miss Russell was, and wanted to see my watch and chain. She had heard all about what had gone on at the station from Mabel Bowman, who was told everything by Rupert himself. That was how I knew that he was the first to see me standing by the clock, and how he had watched me come forward with such wide-open eyes.
While I listened to Mrs. Hammond I was sorry I had been so sharp upon Rupert; and yet, when I thought how he had spoken to me, I was as vexed as ever again.
* * * * * * * * *
Things went on the next few days as they had begun. Rupert scarcely ever came near, and when he did, if Mr. Russell was by, I felt ashamed again of his plain face and awkward ways. And I liked to know that Mr. Russell admired me.
Mrs. Hammond told me one day I ought to marry a gentleman; and it pleased me to hear her say it, even though I guessed she meant Mr. Russell—and I knew he wasn't a real gentleman.
Mother was very busy with Miss Russell. It didn't seem as if she could know much of what was going on outside the sick-room, she was so much shut up in it. I never could be sure, though. Mother had such sharp eyes; she seemed able to see through anything. Her not speaking meant nothing, for she wasn't a sieve, like many women, always letting everything in her mind run out. If she didn't think the time was come for speaking, she'd wait till it did come.
Miss Russell was very ill for several days. She had to keep still, and at first she might not talk. Mother seldom left her. I think those two took to one another at first sight, as people sometimes do.
She was wonderfully patient, and never complained. She didn't even seem to be in a hurry to get well. I used to go and sit by her sometimes, and watch her quiet pale face. Often she looked as if she had very happy thoughts; but that wasn't always.
One evening, mother had gone for a few minutes into the garden, and I was there instead. Miss Russell was asleep, when all of a sudden she stirred, and put out both hands.
"Don't, don't! oh, Walter, don't!" she says, in such a sad voice.
I kept still, and didn't speak, only wondering what she meant.
"O Walter, don't!" she said again, and then she woke, and her eyes met mine.
"I think you were dreaming, weren't you?" I said.
"Yes, I was dreaming," she said, and sighed. "Such an uncomfortable dream! I am glad you roused me."
I had not roused her, but that did not matter, and I only asked—
"What was the dream about?"
"You, partly," she said, with a little smile.
I was puzzled, thinking how she had called to her brother; but, of course, she did not know me to have heard that.
"What about me?" I asked.
"Nothing much. A foolish dream," said she. "I hope it will never come true. I only dreamt you were going to make a very unhappy marriage, and I was trying to prevent it." She looked at me earnestly, and said, "Not likely to come true, I think. You have been brought up so well and sensibly. Kitty—" and she stopped— "Kitty, you are a very pretty girl. You can't help knowing it. Don't you marry the first foolish young fellow who is ready to run after you just because of your pretty face. That wouldn't mean being happy."
Mother came in and put a stop to the talking. I could see she was not pleased with me for letting Miss Russell say so much. She had heard our voices going, and that brought her back.
Miss Russell was allowed to see her brother once or twice a day, for just five minutes. It always seemed to me those visits did her no good. She used to look so worried after, in her quiet way. Yet I could not find out why.
We had learnt that the two were off together for a fortnight's outing; and I shouldn't think they could well afford the expense, from little remarks that were made. There had been some sort of crank in the plan. Miss Russell said one day, "Walter was bent on it!" And another day Mr. Russell said, "Poor dear Mary was so set on it!" Between them I was puzzled. I felt sure Miss Russell must have been in the right, and tried to feel sure Mr. Russell couldn't have been in the wrong.
He was in and out of our cottage a great deal,—more than father and mother liked, I am sure, though I don't think they knew quite how often he came, and I suppose they hardly knew how to stop his coming. It was so natural that he should call to ask about his sister, and when he called it was natural he should sit down for a few minutes.
Somehow, he very soon knew exactly the times when father had to be at the station, and mother was busy with his sister, and I was at work in the kitchen; and those were the times he chose for coming. I didn't mean to make any secret of his calls, but still I am afraid I did not speak out so plain as I ought.
Things went on so for ten days at least, and I saw little of Rupert. He seemed to shrink into himself, and to keep away from me. I suppose my words that day had cut deep, and he couldn't forget them.
I don't think he and Mr. Russell met often, though they slept under one roof. Each did his best to avoid the other.
As the days went on, I thought less and less of Rupert, and my mind was more and more given to this new friend. Ought I to call him "friend?"
We had little chats together, and I began to feel how well I knew him. I could not help feeling, too, how much he liked me. His face would light up at the sight of mine. I wondered often how I could ever have thought that I might some day marry Rupert. Poor dull Rupert! so different from this handsome Mr. Russell, with his nice manners!
Nearly a fortnight had gone by, and Miss Russell was doing as well as possible, when all at once she had a relapse.
The afternoon was hot and sunny, and she seemed better than any day yet. Mother sent me to sit with Miss Russell, and took the kitchen work herself. I would rather have been in the kitchen, for Mr. Russell was pretty sure to look in; but mother was determined, and I had to do as I was bid.
At first I felt cross; only it was not possible to be cross long with Miss Russell—she was so gentle always. Somehow she got to talking about her own young days, and the parents she had lost, and the struggle life had been. She must have worked hard, very hard, to support her brother and herself; and to have him educated for a schoolmaster.
"But hard work doesn't seem so hard for those one loves," she said. "I have always loved Walter dearly—almost as a mother loves, I think. He is more like my child than my brother."
"And he is so fond of you," I said.
"Yes,—I suppose so," she said slowly. "I am not sure that I look much for the return love. It is enough for me to be needful to him. Still,—yes, he is fond of me."
"I am sure he is! He was dreadfully unhappy about you when you were ill," I said.
She smiled, and said— "Poor Walter! always up and down."
"I think it would have broken his heart if you had not got better," I said.
"O no!" and a curious look came into her face. "No fear of that. I love my Walter dearly—more dearly than you can tell. I love him as one loves only where one has brought up and sheltered and toiled for another through years. But love does not blind me to his faults. Perhaps I see them the more clearly just because my love is so strong."
I wondered what she meant; and feeling her eyes upon me, my colour went up.
"He has his faults," she said, "and his weaknesses. Don't you think so, Kitty?"
"Yes, of course. Everybody has faults," I answered. "I shouldn't think he has so many as some people."
"Quite as many." And Miss Russell sighed. "It was a difficult thing for me," says she, "very difficult, left alone with him, and I—his sister—only a girl. To be sure, I was many years older; still, I did find it hard to control him properly. I am afraid I didn't. I let him have too much of his own way,—a great deal too much. One sees the ill effects now: he can't understand being denied anything. Yes, that is true, though he is a man, and a clever man, and good at managing boys,—at least, pretty good. He can never understand being opposed. It's a bad look-out for his future wife, whoever she may be. I little thought, when I spoilt the boy, that I was so cruel to other people as well as to him."
I kept silence, sure that Miss Russell must be wrong. It was strange that she should judge her brother harshly—she, of all people, so gentle as she seemed. And why should she say all this to me? Why—? But a thought came in reply which turned me hot all over. Did she think, or know, that he wanted to have me for a wife? Was that it? I couldn't look up or meet her eyes.
She laid her cool hand against my cheeks, which were burning.
"Little Kitty, you are very young," she said. "Don't—don't be in a hurry. Perhaps some day—"
Then she stopped and thought, and presently she asked—
"What of young Bowman? I hear you and he are great friends."
"He may call himself so," I said, and I could have cried.
"Is that all? I fancied—"
"We know him very well," I said; "and he likes us. So, I suppose, we are friends. Only he gets so—"
"So what?" she asked.
"So cross," I said— "and disagreeable. I hate people to be cross and disagreeable."
"You would like to bask in sunshine always, wouldn't you?"
"I like people to be good-tempered, and not silly and jealous," I said.
"Jealousy is always silly, isn't it?" she said; "but when people love very much, with a love not very unselfish, perhaps—"
I made a sort of movement of impatience.
"He is a steady young fellow," she went on; "your mother tells me so. He has right principles and a warm heart. Kitty, don't you think, some day—?"
I only said, "No!" but I meant it from my very heart.
"Poor fellow!" she said. "Well, you are right not to make up your mind quickly to—anything. I did once, and I had reason to be sorry. O it was just the old story, dear. He thought he loved, and he won my love; and then he grew tired of me, and went off after somebody else. That so often happens."
"With some men, I suppose," I whispered.
"Yes, with some men; not with all. I could fancy that young Bowman would be constant, not changeable, if he once cared thoroughly for anybody, he would go on caring. Walter is different. He does not mean to treat anybody with unkindness, of course, but it seems as if he never could know his own mind."
What did make her say such things of her brother? I was growing angry.
"I have seen it in him again and again," she went on; "so I really have almost given up believing in his devotion to anybody. He is so easily caught, and he so easily breaks loose. I wish I could persuade him to go home now. It is not good for a young man to be staying in a strange place, with nothing whatever to do."
"Father thinks it wonderful how quiet and contented Mr. Russell is in such a dull village," I said.
"And your mother quotes old Watts about 'idle hands.' A woman often sees farther than a man, Kitty. My brother finds amusement of some sort, or he would not be so willing to stay. The question is, what sort of amusement? An idle young fellow has it in his power to work mischief, unless—"
"I thought you were so fond of him," I said. And I did feel hurt for Mr. Russell—not there to defend himself.
"Yes—more than fond," she answered. "I love him with more than a sister's love, my dear. It is like a mother's love, I believe, for it can see his faults and look to what is for his good."
That was all that passed, for she had talked more than she ought. I felt rubbed the wrong way by her words. I knew she meant them as a sort of warning to me, and I didn't like it; I didn't want to be warned; I wanted to be let alone. My head was getting more and more full of Mr. Russell, and his soft words were fast winning my foolish little heart. I didn't want to be warned off from him; and I dreaded lest she should say anything to father or mother. She had not done so yet, I knew.
An hour later father happened to ask— "Russell been in to-day?"
"Yes," says mother, who was with us both for a moment, and she spoke drily. "He came to ask after his sister, and I was in the kitchen."
"Ah!" says father.
"I've no notion of him dangling about when you and I aren't there," said she.
"No, no; quite right," said he. "But, all the same, I like him, Kate. He's a nice young fellow, I do believe."
"I don't!" mother said to herself; and she spoke no more. She never would argue with father, and wisely, too. Nobody is convinced by arguing.
Well, it was perhaps an hour later still, and getting dark, when mother called to me. And when I ran in, there was a dreadful sight! The bleeding had come on afresh, almost as much as ever. Miss Russell did look bad.
"Send or go for the doctor, Kitty, and don't lose a moment!" says mother, and I rushed off, only stopping to seize my hat. There was nobody at hand to be sent just then, and I could not wait to find any one.
The doctor was out, but the servant promised to let him know as quick as possible.
MARY RUSSELL was as near as possible gone that night. I'd better stop calling her "Miss Russell:" for mother always spoke to her as "Mary" by that time, and she had told me to do the same, though I wasn't altogether in the way of it yet.
Mother would not let me sit up late, but I was down early next morning. Needful enough I should: for there was everything to do, and mother not able to be five minutes out of the sick-room.
The doctor came in before breakfast, and he seemed better satisfied; but she wasn't to stir nor to speak, and the brother wasn't to be let in. "No, certainly not! keep him out!" Mr. Baitson said, speaking quite sharp, when mother asked. I was puzzled to hear him, for Mr. Baitson wasn't given to speaking sharp.
At five o'clock I left my bed, and I worked hard too; so things were well on by the time father had done his breakfast. I had to go upstairs then for a time; and when I came downstairs I wanted a bit of parsley from the garden, and I ran out.
It was a lovely morning; all a blaze of sun-shine, and such a blue sky overhead. Every leaf was sprinkled with big drops of dew wherever there was shade; and the birds were singing like wild. It did seem sad that the poor thing indoors should suffer so much. I stood still a moment, thinking of her, with a feeling as if it was selfish of me to enjoy the sweet air as I did. Then I saw the morning express was signalled, and I waited to see it rush thundering past, though there was no need this time for me to wave a red flag of warning.
When the train was gone, I thought I would take one little run to the end of the path on the top of the embankment, just to freshen up myself for the rest of my work. I was so used to a breath of fresh air early, when mother could spare me.
So I ran, not looking ahead; and all at once I found myself close to Mr. Russell.
He was sitting on the bench beside the gate; the same bench where I had found mother's red shawl that other day. He seemed perfectly wretched. I never saw any man look more miserable than he did just then, dropping the corners of his mouth, and hanging his head, as if he'd got no spirit to sit up.
The moment when I caught sight of him was just the moment when he caught sight of me, and that wasn't till I was near.
"Kitty!" says he, and a sort of groan came with the word. He had never called me so before, but I suppose he forgot. "Kitty," he said, "how is my poor Mary?"
"O I think she's a little better," I said. "Not worse, and that is something."
"Mr. Baitson been again?" he asked.
"Not since breakfast," I said.
"Poor Mary!" says Mr. Russell, and he sighed like a furnace.
"I hope she is going to get on now," I said, for I thought he wanted cheering.
Mr. Russell sighed again.
"And I would make her come this journey," he said, self-reproachful like. "If I had been content to stay at home as she wanted, she might have been all right now, and as merry as a grig."
Somehow I could not fancy Mary Russell exactly merry. It wasn't her way.
"You could not know beforehand what would happen," I said.
"Well, no, that's true," he said, and he brightened up. "Nobody can know beforehand what'll happen. That's true enough. It's a horrid thought that if she didn't get well— But after all, I'd got my reasons for coming away, just as much as she'd got her reasons for wanting to be at home. She needn't have been with me if she hadn't wanted. As you say, one can't tell beforehand how things are going to turn out. Kitty, you're a little comfort!" and he looked up at me, sitting on the bench still, while I stood on the path. "May I call you Kitty'—sometimes?"
I said, I shouldn't mind if he did. What else was I to say? Easy enough now to know how I ought to have answered, but not easy at the moment.
"Kitty, I wish I could have you for my little comfort always!" says he, fetching another sigh.
My cheeks got as red as fire, and I didn't say a word.
"I've never seen anybody like you," says he softly, looking at me again. "No, never! Kitty, do you know how pretty you are?"
"I mustn't stop. I've got all the work to do," I said, knowing mother wouldn't like this. And yet I did not want to go. His soft words took hold of me. I thought that to be "his little comfort always" would be the best happiness I could have.
"So busy!" says he. "Ah! I should like you to be where you needn't work; able to sit still and amuse yourself, and have folks to wait upon you."
Little goose that I was, I thought this sounded first-rate. As if anybody was ever the happier for being idle! There's different kinds of work, no doubt; and everybody is happiest doing the sort of work for which he's best fitted by nature and training. No; I don't know as I've put that rightly either: for everybody's happiest doing the work which God has set him to do; and if he isn't fit for it by nature, God can shape him into fitness. But to have no work at all to do means nothing but discontent and unhappiness.
"That's what I should like," he said again. "To have lots of money, and a nice house, and you to sit there in a pretty parlour, with pretty dresses, and plenty of servants, and nothing ever to bother you."
Easy to see he had never kept house. If he had, he wouldn't have talked in the same breath about "plenty of servants" and "nothing to bother." But I didn't see through his words then.
"Well, I may be rich yet one day," he went on. "Who knows? And when I am—you may be sure I'll not forget. Kitty," says he slowly, "supposing some day I was to ask you to cast in your lot with me, when I'm a rich man? Or supposing I didn't wait to be rich?"
It was not an easy question to answer. For mind you, he didn't say, "Will you cast in your lot with me?" but only, "Supposing I was to ask you?" That might mean anything or nothing.
My heart went pit-a-pat, and I hung my head. His next words were not what I looked for. "Kitty," he said, "you mustn't tell anybody what I said just now. If you do, I shall have to leave by the next train, and never come back. Promise you won't."
And I, like a little goose again, frightened at the thought of driving him away, and never waiting to consider what was due to my father and mother, was so in his power that I said, "No, I won't!"
The moment the words had passed my lips, I knew they were wrong; yet I did not try to take them back.
"That's my own little Kitty!" he said. He spoke in an undertone, but I heard the words; and I felt as if all the world was changed to me. His own little Kitty! Was I to be that? It wasn't till later that I noticed he hadn't asked if I wanted to be anything of the sort. He seemed to take all that for granted, which no man has ever a right to do with any woman. But at the moment I could only be joyful.
The next instant Mr. Russell was saying in a careless loud voice—
"Yes, I'm going for a stroll, and then I shall call again to see how poor Mary is getting on."
The change of voice gave me a sort of stunned feeling. I couldn't think what he meant, and all that had gone before looked unreal. Then I understood, for Rupert was walking along the path straight toward us.
"Your mother wants you, Kitty," he says in a short gruff voice, as he came up. He always spoke to me now in that voice; and he didn't so much as cast a look at Mr. Russell.
"Indoors?" I asked.
"Where else?" Rupert answered.
"Well, you might speak civil when you bring a message," I said, foolishly enough, for where was the use of angering him?
"Civil!" burst out Rupert, and something in the tone frightened me, it was so sore and fierce. I just said, "I'm going," and ran straight off, my cheeks burning still, and a strange new happiness beating at my heart.
Not all happiness, though. It could not be all happiness for a girl to be sought in such a fashion. For it was as if Mr. Russell was afraid or ashamed to speak out.
I could not see why he should fear. Father had taken to him from the first; and if mother didn't do that, at least she never snubbed him, which was, I suppose, because of his trouble about Mary, for mother could snub, and no mistake!
But why should he not go to them, and say plain out that he wanted me? That was the question.
He had not so much as asked whether I cared for him! I could have been vexed to remember this, if only I had cared for him less. He seemed so sure that he only had to ask me, and I would jump at it. At least he had only said, "Suppose," in a way that mightn't mean anything.
And I was not to tell a word to my father or mother. That was hard. I had never had a regular secret from them before; and I was so used to speaking out. It didn't feel natural to have to hold my tongue.
But I had promised! I had said I wouldn't tell! And I had been brought up to think a deal of keeping my word.
Many a time mother had said to me, "Mind you, Kitty, a promise is a promise! Don't you ever make one lightly; and when it is made, don't you ever break it lightly."
Right enough too. To my mind there's judgment on the breaking of a promise; no matter how small a one. It's "least said, soonest mended," in the matter of promises, as well as in most other things. A promise once given can't be taken back, without the consent of the person it's given to; and a broken promise can't be mended.
I can remember once, when I was a little child, mother was away for the whole day, and she promised to bring me a packet of pink candy. Somebody said to me, "Oh, you mustn't count on that; she's pretty sure to forget!" And I stamped my foot, and said, "Mother won't forget! Mother always keeps her promise!"
Well, and I was in the right. She kept her promise, and brought the candy. But she did forget for a while; for there was an accident, which upset her, and drove it out of her head. On the way home she recollected. Some would have said, "Oh, it's too late now! It can't be helped, and Kitty must wait!" But mother wasn't that sort. She went near a mile back to the only shop where the pink candy could be got; and we all wondered what was making her so late.
If she hadn't! Well, of course, she could have said she had forgot, and she was sorry.
You don't think, though, do you, that I should ever have felt so certain sure again, when she promised? I should always have thought, she might forget!
Ah! mother was a rare one. There's not many like her. She wasn't overmuch given to promises at any time; but once she did promise, she'd do it.
And I had promised Mr. Russell not to tell. I had promised lightly—that's to say, without weighing it first. Was I to break the promise lightly?
Something whispered to me, as I went back, dropping into a slow walk—something whispered, "Tell out plain to Mr. Russell that the promise was wrong, and that you can't keep it."
But I did not like the idea. I knew he would be so vexed, and I could not bear to vex him. I feared it might drive him away from me for always. The wish to please him stood out first, not the wish to do what was right.
I began to have a feeling that all my happiness was bound up in him. For days past I had let myself think a deal too much about Mr. Russell; and now the words he had spoken had taken me altogether captive. Rupert was nothing to me any more. I was ready to leave father, mother, home, everything—for him.
It is natural for a girl to feel so; natural and not wrong, when other things are right. If Mr. Russell had been a man of the right stamp, coming openly and honestly to seek me, with my parents' consent, there was no reason why I shouldn't be willing.
Only, I didn't know him at all to be a man of the right stamp; and he had not said a word to my father or mother. He had got me to promise not to tell them either. That was wrong to begin with. And if the first step into a path is wrong, then each step after which takes one along the path is only a going more astray.
Mother saw me pass the window, and she came into the kitchen. I felt her eyes on my face, and I could not look up to meet them.
"Where have you been?" asked she.
"In the garden, mother," I said, hanging my head, and wishing my cheeks didn't burn so.
"That's nothing to be ashamed of, is it?" says she. "What took you into the garden?"
"I—wanted some parsley," I said. For a moment I couldn't recollect what had taken me first.
"Did the parsley keep you all this time?" says she, as quiet as anything.
"No, mother," I said; "it wasn't only the parsley. It was—I went along the path. And Mr. Russell was there. He came to ask —"
"To ask about Mary, I suppose?" says mother, in her dry-like tone. "Yes; but he heard about her just an hour ago, Kitty. He's in a great hurry to hear again."
"She's so ill," I said.
"Yes, that's true. She's been worse," mother said.
"And he seemed—he seemed—so unhappy," I went on. "I just stayed a minute—to—to comfort—" And then the thought of the way he had used that word, calling me "a little comfort," rushed up, and my cheeks burnt redder than ever.
"To comfort him!" says she. "Yes, that's very pretty. But you're a young woman now, Kitty, and he is a young man. So next time you find him unhappy, you had best come straight and tell me, and I'll do the comforting."
Mother meant it for a rebuke, I knew, though she didn't speak angrily; for it never was her way to show anger.
But she did not suspect how things really were. That was plain enough. If she had had the least suspicion, she would not have taken it so quiet. She was afraid of me getting to like Mr. Russell overmuch; yet all the same she trusted me. It went to my heart with a stab that mother should trust me so, when I wasn't worthy of it. I longed to speak out plain and tell her everything; yet I couldn't bear to do what would vex Mr. Russell. So I clung to my secret, though it made me miserable.
I had told her the truth, but not the whole truth, and mother had a right to know the whole. My promise to Mr. Russell could not undo her rights nor father's rights over me, a mere girl of seventeen. The promise was wrong; and whether I kept it or whether I broke it, either way I should be doing wrong. That's the sort of muddle that hasty speech gets one into. Once plunge into a quagmire, and whichever way you get out there's sure to be some of the mire sticking to you.
The question for me was—Which of the two ways would be the most wrong, since neither could be altogether right? But I didn't care to look that question in the face. I didn't want to find that I ought not to keep my promise. I liked to feel that I was bound to silence, even while it grieved me not to be open with mother.
Mary Russell began to get better much faster from this second attack than from the first. Still, for a few days, mother was a deal taken up with her; and I'm ashamed to say how often I saw Mr. Russell.
He was always meeting me somehow—out of doors or in the garden, or else calling to ask after his sister just when he knew he might catch a word with me alone. I didn't see then that this was deceit, or that I was helping forward the deceit; at least, I didn't let myself think that I saw it so.
I got so to feed upon his looks and words, so to crave for another and another glimpse, that there seemed to be no room for anything else in my head. Work was hurried over or left undone many a time those days. Mother said nothing in haste; she only watched and waited. I don't think she had an idea how far things went; but she was afraid her Kitty's silly little heart was being caught in a net, and she was on the look-out to prevent it.
Ah, but she could not, for I was not open and true with her; and no mother's love, or any other love, can guard against the evil results of deceit.
When Mr. Russell and I were alone he would call me again "his own little Kitty," and the words made my heart spring with joy—only it was a secret trembling joy, which feared to be found out. But he took care not to call me "Kitty" before anybody.
Sometimes I was on the very edge of asking him to let me tell mother, and yet again I was afraid. For all this while he had never once exactly put the question—Would I promise to marry him? He only seemed perfectly sure that if he did put it I should say, "Yes."
That wasn't a state of things father nor mother would have allowed.
"Kitty," he said one day, all of a sudden, "I've got to go to-morrow."
Mother had sent me to a shop for some thread, and Mr. Russell came upon me just outside the station, in the little lane that ran round the back of our garden. I suppose he must have been expecting me there. Nobody else was in sight. We stood under the high hedge, on a patch of grass, and I can remember now the feel of the grass under my feet, and the sunset light that came through the hedge opposite, and how handsome Mr. Russell looked—at least, I thought so then; but, you know, girls' tastes do change as they get to womanhood, and it isn't only black hair and eyes and an air of being somebody that makes good looks—more especial if it's a case of being nobody.
"Must you?" was all I said, and I turned queer all over, as if I was ready to drop.
"Yes; it's a 'must,'" says he. "I shall have to be at work again in a few days, and there's a lot of things to do first. I've been here too long as it is."
"But you couldn't help it, with Mary so ill," I said.
He gave a sort of little laugh.
"Well—yes," says he. "But Mary's been getting on all right some days past. You don't think it's that has kept me, do you? eh, Kitty?" says he. "Can't you guess what has been the real tie? Not good old Mary, but somebody younger and prettier and sweeter?"
Yes, I guessed what he meant, of course. I couldn't do otherwise, and the colour came back to my face.
"It is very hard to say good-bye to that somebody, I can tell you," said he. "But never mind. You'll soon see me again."
"How soon?" I asked, with such a heart-sinking: for it seemed as if all the world was going when he went.
"Oh, soon," he said. "As soon as ever I can get away. Those little school brats take up a lot of time, you know. But I shouldn't wonder if I had to come and fetch Mary soon."
"Will it be next week?" I tried to say.
"Next week! Dear, no! not so soon as that. Why, the doctor says it won't be safe for Mary to go by train for another month; and I mightn't be able to get away just then, you know. But I'll come, never you fear! Why, Kitty, you dear little pretty silly thing," says he, "I'm not worth crying for!"
It was true, but did he mean it? I've often thought of his face since, as it was that moment, and wondered if the look meant real pity or was only just put on.
"I shan't know how to get on without you," I whispered.
"Well, but it won't be for long. I'll be sure to come again," says he. Then he added, "Mind you keep my secret, Kitty!"
"Mayn't I just tell mother?" I begged.
"Tell your mother!" he said; and I couldn't understand his face. "Tell her what?" says he.
I was struck dumb. For what had I to tell? That he wished me to be his wife? But he had never asked me if I would, never once outright! That he called me "his little Kitty?" But he had no right to call me so.
"No, it won't do yet," said he. "I can't let you speak out yet, Kitty. You don't understand why, of course; but it won't do. I'm not in a position to have it known yet, and till I am, you mustn't let it be thought that we—" He bungled there, and didn't finish his sentence. "I should only be told I wasn't to see you again, and you wouldn't like that, eh? No, we've got to wait a while."
"But if it isn't right—if I ought to tell?" I got out feebly. You see, I'd given in so long, it was doubly hard to make a stand then.
He laughed at this.
"Wrong!" says he. "Why, you dear little goose, what's right or wrong to do with it? And, in point of fact, there's nothing to tell," says he. "We've not settled anything; only you're a dear little charming Kitty, and—well, you like me, don't you?"
"How do you know I like you?" I asked.
"That's not so hard to see," said he, laughing again. "I mightn't have been so sure at first, if I hadn't had a word from a friend of yours; but I can't feel any manner of doubt now."
I knew he meant Mrs. Hammond: yet I could not be angry just then, with him going away next day.
"And I like you too, of course," he went on. "So it is give and take, isn't it? All fair and square, you know. You're the prettiest and sweetest girl I've ever seen in all my life. That's saying a good deal, isn't it? And some day—Well, you've got to go indoors now, I suppose, and you can tell Mary I shan't be able to see her in the morning, because I must be off by the early train. I've seen her this afternoon, and she knows I'm going."
The sharp change of voice took me all aback, as when there had been the same once before; and the cause was the same too; for once again Rupert stood staring hard at us, with a strange look, as if his mouth was made of iron.
I heard a sort of mutter from Mr. Russell, which sounded like— "Meddlesome chap!" Rupert said nothing. He only stood stock-still, and stared.
"Well, it's getting late, and I must be gone. Good-bye, Kitty," said Mr. Russell.
He must have been flurried by Rupert's sudden coming, to call me "Kitty" before another. I saw it was a forget, by his start; but the word once said couldn't be unsaid, and I suppose he thought he'd better carry it off well, so he gave a little laugh, and repeated, "Good-bye, Kitty!" in a tone as if he'd been speaking to a child.
Then he was gone; and Rupert and I were left together. I would have run away, but I did not.
"You've been crying," Rupert said, very short.
"It's not your business if I have," I said.
"About that worthless chap, I suppose? And he daring to call you 'Kitty!'" Rupert looked as if he was ready to foam at the mouth, and yet it was in a sort of dead-quiet way, not like a man in a regular passion.
"You call me 'Kitty,'" I said, "and I'd rather you wouldn't."
"Kitty, this can't go on," says he in a hoarse voice.
"No. I would rather you should leave off calling me 'Kitty,'" I said, not knowing what he meant by "this." "I'm not a child now," I said, "and I don't like the way you behave."
"Behave!" Rupert burst out, and then he pulled himself in, and spoke quiet again: "What will your mother say, Kitty?"
"Say to what?" I asked.
"When I tell her I found you two here! Sort of tender leave-taking, wasn't it?"
I could not guess how much he had seen or heard, and I would not stoop to ask him not to speak: so I did not say a word.
"Kitty, this can't go on!" says he again.
"What can't? I don't know what you mean, and I don't care!" I said, in a pet with him, because I was so unhappy. "You are cruel to me, Rupert; and I hate you when you plague me like this."
"You—hate—me!" Rupert said the words slowly. The light fell full on his face—only a rough plain boyish face; but such a look of sorrow and love came into it that moment as I had never seen before, and it seemed to change the whole face. He put out both his hands towards me for a moment, with a sort of longing; but I don't think he knew he did that. Then he folded his arms tight, and the softness went out of his eyes, and his mouth grew hard and cold.
"No, it can't go on," he said. "I've borne as much as I could; and I can't bear more. I can't be untrue, and I can't betray you! That's where it is. You see, Kitty, I can't hate you back, and I can't make myself not care. There's nothing for me but to go right away. You needn't tell my mother it was you who drove me to it! She'll understand."
"Rupert, what nonsense you are talking!" I said, only half taking in what he said, for my mind was with Mr. Russell. "What nonsense! How can you say such foolish things? I don't know what you mean by 'going away.' It is nonsense. I don't want to vex you, if only you wouldn't behave so unbearably. I can't be spied and meddled with, and I can't pretend to like you more than I do."
"No, there's no sort of pretence about it," says Rupert. "None at all. Folks don't 'pretend' to hate; and you 'hate' me. I could stand anything short of that, Kitty. Except seeing you throw yourself away on an empty-headed puppy, who'll make your life a burden to you. So I'm off; it don't matter where! and this is another good-bye."
He went away slowly with his shuffling walk, not straight and quick like Mr. Russell. I noticed that, and at first I felt almost like laughing. For I little thought how deep my words had cut. There's many a word that goes in like a knife, and leaves a wound which doesn't heal for years. But I didn't see that, or believe what he said. Go away! It was so ridiculous. He had nowhere to go, and there was his work at the station, and his mother and sister couldn't do without him.
I half laughed, though my heart was so sore for Mr. Russell that tears lay nearer than laughter. Then I thought of the strange look that had come to Rupert's face, and I called out "Rupert!" but had no answer. "Rupert!" I cried again. It was too late. He had gone out of hearing. And, after all, what matter? I could tell him in the morning that I had only been cross, and that I had not really meant anything so bad as "hating;" only he must leave off meddling and saying hard words to me.
I went back into the house, for I knew mother would be expecting me. She gave a look up, and said—
"What's the matter?"
"I'm—tired," I said. My feet seemed to have turned to lead, and I felt as if I would do anything to have a good cry.
"Sit down and rest," says she. "You've gone as white as a sheet."
But I didn't dare sit down and think, for I couldn't have kept up then. The thought of Rupert was fading away like smoke. I could only feel that Mr. Russell was gone, and that everything was different.
"I must get in help," mother said. "You've done too much lately."
"O no," I said.
"Yes. Mary will be here another month: Mr. Baitson says so; and I'm glad enough to keep her; but I can't have you knocked up."
After a minute, mother said—
"Mr. Russell is going."
I didn't say a word.
"He's been in to bid Mary good-bye. It's rather sudden. I'm not sorry for my part," mother said.
I stood leaning against the dresser, and felt as if I must choke. Mother gave me another look. Then she came close, and put her arms round me; and I clung to her, and cried—oh, how I did cry! Mother just petted and soothed, and didn't ask a single question; only presently she talked of other things, and tried to lead my thoughts away from him.
For, you see, she hadn't a notion of anything between us two. She only thought her Kitty's silly heart was touched. She trusted me so, she could not fancy anything said which I would not tell her. And she had no notion of making matters worse by a lot of talk about Mr. Russell.
"WHAT'S become of Rupert?" father said at breakfast next day.
We always breakfasted at half-past seven, partly because father had to be up so early, and partly because mother liked it. Rupert ought to have been in the ticket-office half-an-hour before, in time for the first passenger-train that stopped at Claxton. Plenty of luggage-trains went by in the night, but happily for father and the men, there wasn't much shunting of them at our station, like at the next station. They had to work there through a good part of the night.
"Hasn't he come as usual?" mother asked, in answer to father's question. Rupert was so regular, it seemed astonishing he should fail.
"Not a sign of him. If it was anybody else, I'd say he was lazy; but Rupert's not given to laziness. I'm afraid he can't be well," father went on. "We shall hear presently."
Just at the moment I did not remember what Rupert had said to me the evening before. It would be thought more natural for me to remember at once, but I didn't. My head was so full of the thought of Mr. Russell.
"Anybody come or go?" mother asked. It was the very question I wanted to put, only I had not courage.
"Russell has left. That's all," father said.
Then he was really gone! A sick feeling came over me, and I couldn't eat my breakfast. I knew mother saw, and I knew she wouldn't say a word: she'd always such a notion of the harm done by too many words. But father happened to look my way. "Why—Kitty!" says he. "The child's not well."
"She has had too much to do lately," said mother. "Kitty's not overstrong."
"Why, she's as white—" father said. "Come here, Kitty, and let's see what's wrong."
I came as I was bidden, and he took hold of me, looking hard. I couldn't stand that. The next moment I was clinging to him, with my face down on his shoulder.
Maybe mother made him some sort of sign. I shouldn't wonder if she did; for he cuddled me in his arms as if I'd been a small child again, and whispered— "Poor little kittenkins!" once or twice, which was my old nursery name. But he didn't ask any more questions.
"She's been a good girl to help so steady all through Mary's illness," mother said presently. "I wish now I'd had a girl in to help; and I might have done it, but I thought I'd lay by what the Russells paid us. Maybe I've been penny wise and pound foolish, for once. But I did think, too, the work was good for Kitty."
"So it is! so it was!" says father. "Good for everybody. And a good thing to lay by a few shillings too! But it isn't worth while to make our Kitty ill. That 'ud cost a lot more shillings than we could have laid by. Eh, Kitty? Come, cheer up!" says he. "We'll see what we can do to make you right again."
How good they were to me, both father and mother!—and I deceiving them all the while!
"Now I must go and see if Rupert has turned up," says father. "Kitty must get a run on the common, eh?"
And all at once it darted into my head about Rupert the evening before, and how he had said good-bye. I started up in a moment.
"O father! Oh, see about Rupert!" I cried, hardly able to speak yet, but scared at the thought that had come to me.
"To be sure I will," says he. "You wouldn't like Rupert to be ill, eh?"
"I hope he is—I hope it is that—I hope it isn't anything worse," I cried, scarce knowing what I said; and father did stare, but, I went on, pretty near out of breath with fright—
"Oh, do make haste and see."
"To be sure I will," says father again. "Why, Kitty, what's come over you to-day?"
That very moment the kitchen door was pushed open, and Mrs. Bowman stood there.
She was a puny sad-faced woman at the best of times, one of those folks who take life hard, and never get any pleasure out of it; but I'd never seen her look so haggard before.
"Where's—Rupert?" she said, and she fixed her eyes on father.
"That's the very question I've been wanting to ask you," father said.
"Sit down, Mrs. Bowman," says mother. "Sit down and tell us what's gone wrong."
Mrs. Bowman dropped into a chair, close to where she was standing.
"He came in late last night," she said. "And he wouldn't say where he'd been. And he wouldn't take his supper. And he looked so strange. And this morning he never came to breakfast. And his door was locked. And he didn't answer. And when we got in he wasn't there. And his bed wasn't slept in. And a lot of his things are gone!"
"Poor dear!" mother says, pitying-like, as the "And" got to be a gasp, and then a sob. "I shouldn't have thought it of Rupert."
"But you don't think he's—gone!" father said.
"Yes, I do think it," Mrs. Bowman cried, in a weak, broken sort of voice. "I do think it, and I'm sure of it! Kitty knows why! If you ask Kitty she can tell. She's driven him off, and that's what she's done."
"Kitty!" father said, looking at me.
Then he walked up to Mrs. Bowman.
"Come, come, that's nonsense, you know," says he. "Kitty and Rupert are good enough friends, and always have been; but Kitty's not bound to favour him special, Mrs. Bowman. You can't say she is. And what's more, she's a deal too young for that sort of nonsense; if it's that you mean. Kitty's a child still, and Rupert's another. If he's got into a huff about Kitty, so much the worse for him; but I don't see that Kitty's to blame. However, I hope the lad's not so silly. I've got to go to the station now, and you'd best come along with me. I shouldn't wonder if we find Rupert there, all right. It's been a freak, going off early this morning—at least I hope so; and he'll be back soon, if he isn't back yet. Come along! If he's not at the station, I'll go home with you, and we'll think what to do."
Father went off, walking sharp, and Mrs. Bowman trailed after him in a weak way, as if she wasn't sure whether she'd go or stay. Then mother said—
"What does it mean, Kitty?"
"Rupert has been so—tiresome, lately."
"Tiresome what way?" says she.
"Oh, just getting cross," I said.
"What about?" says she.
"He'd got a notion," I said.
"Yes—a notion?" says she, waiting as quiet as anything, and I knew she didn't mean to let me off.
"He wanted—wanted me—to—marry him," I said, crying anew. "And I—couldn't."
"How do you know he wanted that?" said she.
"He said it one day. And I ran away and left him, mother."
"Not a bad plan," says she. "I wish a few more girls would run away from a few more lads. There'd be a lot of trouble spared. Well, how long ago was it?"
I had to think a moment, before I could remember that it was just before the express train having to be stopped.
"Rupert was wrong to speak to you," mother said. "He ought to have come first to father and me."
But I thought of Mr. Russell, and I didn't say "Yes."
"He was so vexed," I said. "And he's been angry and disagreeable since. And yesterday evening he told me—told me—he meant to go away. I didn't believe him. I thought it was all nonsense."
"When did he tell you?"
"Out-of-doors," I said.
"When, Kitty?" says she again.
"When I was coming back from the shop," I said, wishing mother wouldn't put so many questions.
"Ah—was it Rupert who kept you so long?" says mother, looking straight at me, and I felt myself get scarlet.
"I saw Rupert—then," I said. "And—I met Mr. Russell too—and he told me he was going—and said—good-bye."
It was hard to get that word out; but I felt sure mother had an idea of Mr. Russell, and I knew if I didn't tell she'd ask.
"Ah!" says she again.
"Rupert needn't have been so cross and jealous," I went on.
"Jealous, was he?"
"He can't bear me to speak to—anybody," I whispered, wishing I hadn't let that word slip.
"He was jealous of Mr. Russell, you mean?" said mother.
I think I said "Yes," quite low.
Then another question came, which I had been dreading all along—
"Kitty, did Mr. Russell say anything of that sort to you too?"
I didn't know what to say, for I dared not tell a lie.
"Did he ever ask you to marry him?" mother said; and I knew she was drawing a long breath up and up, as if she felt a weight somewhere.
"No, mother," I said, for he had not.
"No! But he has said soft words, maybe. Soft words don't cost much, Kitty, nor they don't always mean much."
I couldn't speak. Mother came close, and I held her tight, and she sighed again, though she wasn't given to sighing commonly.
"Well, it can't be helped now," she said. "I might have had more sense at my time of life. I do wish I'd been sharper. Kitty, if you're a wise girl you won't let yourself spend time thinking about Mr. Russell's soft speeches, nor Rupert's hard ones. I don't doubt Rupert's gone off in a temper, and I shouldn't wonder if he didn't come back for some days—a week or more, maybe. That's bad for his mother! You'll get the credit of his going, and you'd best take it quiet. Least said 'll be soonest mended in the end."
If I had but thought of that the evening before, and not spoken the hasty words which drove Rupert away! Poor foolish boy!
For he was gone. Father came soon and told us so. He wasn't at the station nor anywhere in the village. Nobody had seen him.
He didn't come back in a week either! Mother was wrong there!
It was a terrible blow for Mrs. Bowman and Mabel. Mabel could do fine needlework, and Mrs. Bowman was used to go out for a day's work; but now they would have to keep themselves altogether, Rupert's wages being gone.
He had done very wrongly; everybody said that. But people blamed me too; and I knew it, for Mrs. Hammond told me so. And if they had known all, they would have blamed me more. Wasn't it hard enough that I couldn't return Rupert's honest love? What call had I to go and say harsh things to him as well, when his heart was sore already? Ah, folks called me humble and gentle, because I had a soft manner; but they didn't know me in those days. No, not even my mother knew me fully, and least of all did I know myself.
Another lad came as ticket-collector in Rupert's place; at first, only to fill up the gap for a while, since father and everybody hoped Rupert wouldn't be gone long. But time went on, and he did not return, so at last the post was lost to him.
I could hardly bear to meet Mrs. Bowman or Mabel, they looked so reproachful at me; yet they couldn't really tell what had passed. They only guessed that he had been jealous of Mr. Russell, and vexed not to be liked most.
It came out that Mrs. Hammond had spread all over the village about my saying that I liked Mr. Russell best; and the story was told in a way that made a great deal more of my words than the reality. That's common enough.
When the tale reached mother's ears, it fairly upset her. She did so hate gossip. She had not said a sharp word to me before, since Mr. Russell went; but she did then. She wanted to know all about the truth of the matter; so I told her how Rupert had bothered, and how I had answered him, saying more than I meant, and how Mrs. Hammond had happened to hear, and how she had promised not to repeat, and hadn't kept her word.
"Yes, that is the way," mother said, seeming terribly vexed. "If nobody would ever say what oughtn't to be overheard, there would be a lot less harm done." And then she repeated— "Mrs. Hammond's word! And you expected anything from her promise! That's the sort of woman you can be fond of, is it?"
I was too down-hearted to make much of an answer, or to defend myself, if any defending was needed. After all, mother was a deal more angry for me than with me. She couldn't stand the thought of her Kitty's name being bandied about in such a way among the villagers.
Mary Russell was up and dressed for almost the first time, and able to sit in the garden. She heard mother speaking, and presently she beckoned to me to come and sit by her with my work, while mother was busy indoors.
I didn't mind going, though everything felt so flat and dull those days, with Mr. Russell gone, that I could not care much about anything. However, I took up my work, and dragged myself across to where Mary sat, smiling at the flowers.
"Come, Kitty," says she; and when I was by her, she asked— "Has something gone wrong?"
"It doesn't matter," I said, getting red, for I did not want to explain.
"I think it does," said she, "if it makes Kitty look so unhappy. Come, put down the work, and tell me all about it."
"I can't!" I said, beginning to sew fast.
"I think you can," said site, and she spoke quiet, but in a determined sort of voice that I hadn't heard in her before. "Kitty, tell me! Was it something about my brother?"
I couldn't look up in her face, and I wouldn't say "Yes."
"I think I know part already, and I want to know the rest," she said. "Don't think me meddlesome, for I have a reason."
And she took hold of both my hands, so I couldn't work.
"Look up in my face and tell me," she said. "Is it something about Walter—and Mrs. Hammond—and Rupert—and yourself?"
"It's all nonsense; only Mrs. Hammond's talk," I said, half crying. "It wasn't anything, really. Only Rupert got cross one day and he called Mr. Russell a puppy. He often did that. And he wanted me to promise never to like Mr. Russell better than him. And I told Rupert he was rude, and I said I did like Mr. Russell the best. And Mrs. Hammond heard me, and laughed about it. And I made her promise not to tell, because—because it sounded silly. And she has told."
"Yes; it sounds very silly," Mary said. "But was that all, Kitty? Are you sure? The story has grown."
"Yes, I am sure that was all," I answered. "It couldn't be more. Why, that was the day you came, and I didn't even know Mr. Russell then. I was only cross with Rupert, and wanted to tease him, so I said the first words that came into my head."
"Mrs. Hammond forgot to mention the date," Mary said gravely. "There's a wonderful difference made by when a thing is said. And she didn't put it exactly in that way, either. She told Walter that Kitty Phrynne cared more for him than for anybody, and made no secret of wanting to marry him."
"O no! She couldn't say that!" I cried, dreadfully ashamed.
"She did, Kitty."
"But—how—?" I tried to ask.
"Walter told me himself—not till yesterday. I wish I had known sooner."
I turned my head away. Walter had told her! But in what way had he told?
Mary seemed to see the question which I could not ask.
"He laughed a little about it," she said, in a low voice. "We agreed how absurd it was of Mrs. Hammond to invent such a story; for of course it could not be true. But, Kitty—"
She stopped again, and my heart went down, down.
"Kitty, I never can be sure if Walter means or does not mean exactly what he says, or whether he tells me the whole. I don't know whether you have found out yet that he does sometimes—that he is not perfectly straightforward. At first I understood that he had only just heard this bit of foolish talk, and then he let slip that he had known it from the first. I can't help being afraid that he may, perhaps, in some way have acted upon it—may have treated you as if—"
I think she hardly knew what to say, and what not to say, for she stopped again. She wanted to find out more, yet she did not want to put into my head any fancies not there already. I kept my face turned away, and would not speak.
"Kitty, did he?" she whispered.
Then I looked round suddenly.
"He has always been kind," I said. "Kinder than Rupert. I think it is a shame of Mrs. Hammond to say such things. I shall never like Mrs. Hammond again."
"No, you will hardly trust her," Mary said. But I fancy she had expected something different from me. She sat still, looking thoughtful, even sad; and I made an excuse about wanting cotton, and so got away. I felt so wretched, I could bear no more.
Yet all this did not shake my belief in Mr. Russell. If he meant to keep it a secret about what he and I felt for each other, or what I thought we felt, he was likely to try to put his sister off the scent. No doubt he found that Mrs. Hammond's gossip was getting to be known, and so he told Mary himself to be beforehand. I did wonder whether it was that story coming out which helped to settle him so sudden to leave the place.