Father was careful commonly, knowing the danger, which he'd sometimes spoken about. But it's hard for a man to be always on the alert, and that day in particular—ah me!—he had his mind full of something else.
When I looked, I saw all in an instant. I saw, too, that there was nothing for me to do.
A train was coming along the curve from behind us towards the station—one of the fast trains that didn't stop, but ran through.
Father was down on the line, just outside the station, calling out something to a man at a little distance from him, on the other side. Father's back was turned to us; and just before I saw him, he had stepped unthinkingly back upon the rails, along which the train was coming.
He only had to step forward again, and he was all right. But that was just what he didn't think of doing.
I knew in one glance that father didn't see or hear. I saw the man father was speaking to wave his arms, and shout a warning, but father never took in what he meant. I noticed even that the driver and the stoker of the coming engine were doing their best, calling out, and sounding the whistle. But no use. It was all part of what father was always hearing. His mind was off, somewhere else.
There wasn't time to stop the train before it must reach him. I knew that. And I knew I could still less get to him; yet I think I screamed, and ran forward. But the rush of the train which he did not notice drowned all else.
Mother never stirred, and not another sound came from her.
Then—
YES; they did their best to stop in time. But it was no use; for the brakes of those days were slow-acting; and before the train could do more than begin to slacken, all was over.
The buffer caught him first, and swept him along; and then he was among the cruel wheels; and what they left of him was no longer—father!
It couldn't have been more than a moment's shock of pain. Not to him, I mean! But oh, the shock and pain to us who loved him!
He was so ready to go. He had loved and lived for his Master for many a year. Not that he was ever much of a talker about religion; but he lived it, which is worth a deal more. I know he was readier for death than we were for the sorrow of losing him.
Sunday after Sunday we pray in Church against sudden death. "From sudden death, good Lord, deliver us!" But doesn't sudden death mean death unprepared for? I don't think death can ever be "sudden" in the real sense of the word to those who are ready and waiting. I think the stroke of the buffer, which startled and swept him away, was nothing more nor less to father than just the voice of his Master bidding him "Come Home!" One moment of start and fright, maybe; and then—nothing but joy.
When the train came to a stop, a little way farther on, after the cruel deed was done—not that anybody could be blamed!—several gentlemen got out; and the driver of the engine sat down on the ground, and hid his face, and cried like a child at the awfulness of what had happened. But, poor fellow, nobody could find fault with him!
Mother saw the whole from first to last. She never took her eyes away; and when the mangled body was tossed out by the wheels upon the six-foot way, she went swiftly down, never faltering, and knelt beside it, and wouldn't be torn away till the doctor came and told her all was over—as she might have seen. But they said she didn't seem to see. Her eyes were fixed, and she never spoke a word, nor shed a tear.
I saw nothing more after the moment that the buffer struck father. It must have been a long faint. When I struggled back to sense, with a strange dreadful feeling that some sort of thunderbolt had fallen on us, Mr. Baitson and Lady Arthur and Mrs. Hammond were all standing over me, and I was down on the floor in our kitchen.
"Poor things! How terrible for them!" I heard Lady Arthur say.
"And they seeing it all! Why, it's enough to kill 'em—more than enough," Mrs. Hammond said, in the brisk sort of way she had.
"Hush!" Mr. Baitson said, quite low.
And I opened my eyes, and looked at them all three. I didn't know what had happened, and I didn't want to know. I didn't want to be told. I only felt it was something frightful—something awful.
"Poor dear! I do believe it'll kill her!" says Mrs. Hammond, with a click of her tongue meaning pity.
Mr. Baitson turned upon her, more fierce-like than I'd ever seen him, for he was commonly so quiet.
"If you can't be silent, Mrs. Hammond, you will please to leave the room," says he, under his breath, as it were; and Mrs. Hammond looked all taken aback, the more as Lady Arthur added—
"Hammond, you forget yourself! How can you be so unwise?"
And then Lady Arthur did nigh as unwisely herself, for she stooped down to kiss my forehead, and burst into tears.
"Hush! No agitation, pray!" Mr. Baitson says, in the same voice.
But somehow that kiss of Lady Arthur's, being uncommon and unexpected, woke me up, and my memory too. In a moment I saw the train rushing up, and father standing on the line, and I tried to shriek "Father!" but the word wouldn't come. I think I struggled up, sitting, and somebody got hold of my hand, and then I seemed to hear the buffer strike poor father, and everything turned again into a black mist.
I don't seem to have any clear remembrance of the next coming-to, except that I was in bed, and a sort of horror was on me, and I called for mother, and she didn't come. Then I got so tired, I didn't know how to bear myself, nor how to lie; and Mr. Baitson gave me something to drink; and after that I seemed to go off sound asleep.
I haven't a notion how long the sleep lasted. It might have been hours, or days, or weeks, if I'm to tell from my own feelings.
When I woke up, it was night. I was in my bed still, and a candle was burning. Somebody was leaning back in a chair, sound asleep. I sat up slowly, and looked at her, and I made out gradually that it was Mrs. Hammond.
I didn't want Mrs. Hammond, and I didn't want her to speak to me. I had woke up better, and quite clear in mind. Only I had a feeling that I mustn't let myself think yet about what was come to us.
Something had happened—something dreadful—and down in my heart I knew what it was. But I tried to think I didn't know. I wanted to see and speak to mother. And if I began to think about the other, I shouldn't be able.
I got out of bed, stepping softly, and put on my dressing-gown. It wasn't easy, I was that weak and shaken; but still I did it. And I took the candle in my hand, swaying as I walked, for I could scarce keep myself upright. Passing the glass, I had a glimpse of such a white changed face. It didn't look like Kitty Phrynne. But I went straight to the door, and out upon the landing.
There wasn't a sound nor a stir outside, except that the floor creaked beneath me. I waited a moment, and listened.
Father and mother's room was opposite, and the door stood ajar. I had a sort of wonder—were they both sleeping there quietly?
Well, they wouldn't hear me, if I peeped in. I thought I would: just to make sure all was right. Mother would tell me I was silly, but that wouldn't matter.
I said all this to myself, in my thoughts, knowing it wasn't true, yet somehow half believing it.
When I pushed open the door of the room, I found it dark within. So I went softly on towards the bed, carrying my candle, and I found it hadn't been slept in.
I stayed a moment, looking, and feeling, oh so strange! I didn't know what to let myself think.
Then I saw I wasn't alone. Somebody was sitting in a chair near the fireplace; sitting still, her hands folded together. I went a step or two nearer, and stopped again. For it was mother; and I was frightened to see mother like that, all alone in the dark, not stirring nor speaking.
She hadn't undressed; and her face was pale, with a sort of stiffened look. But she wasn't unconscious; for her eyes were following me about, staring hard in a cold dull way. I had never seen her so before.
"Mother!" I said, and I went nearer.
But she didn't answer.
I said again "Mother!"
There wasn't a movement, only her eyes were on me still.
Then I came almost close. I wanted to take her hand. I did so crave a kiss, and a word of comfort.
But all of a sudden she drew her chair back.
"Keep off!" says she, in a rough voice, quite hoarse, not like mother's.
I began to shake all over, and turned queer again.
"Mother, don't you know me?" says I. "It's your little Kitty. Don't you know me?"
"Keep off!" says she, just in the same way.
I think if I hadn't been able to cry, I must have fainted again; but I found myself the next moment sobbing most dreadfully, not able to stop, and holding on to the foot of the bed, not able to stand alone.
Mother didn't stir, nor show any pity. She only kept her eyes fixed in that cold stare.
But my sobbing woke up Mrs. Hammond, and she bustled across into mother's room in no time.
"Dear, dear, dear me!" says she, in a fluster, and half-vexed. "Kitty, whatever are you after?" says she; "coming in here, and you wasn't to leave your bed! Why, Mrs. Phrynne, you don't mean to say you're up and dressed still, and it's two o'clock in the morning. So particular as I begged you to make haste into bed!—now, didn't I? I don't know whatever in the world Mr. Baitson 'll say to me, that I don't," says she.
"Take that girl away," says mother, stern-like.
"Take Kitty away! Why, so I will," says Mrs. Hammond. "Poor little Kitty! she isn't fit to be up, I'm sure—nor you neither, for the matter of that. Come, you'll make haste into bed now, won't you? And Kitty's going to get to sleep again. Give her a kiss now before she goes, won't you, Mrs. Phrynne?"
But mother said "No!" as hard as could be, and turned her head away.
I didn't know how to bear it. I threw myself down on the floor at her feet, and I cried in a sort of shriek, "O mother, mother, forgive me! O mother, love me!" But she wouldn't say one word, and only pushed her chair farther back out of my reach.
Mrs. Hammond pulled me up, and got me somehow across the passage, pretty near carrying me, I think.
"It's no manner of use talking to your mother," says she. "Don't you see she isn't her proper self? The shock's turned her brain, I do believe; and she won't have nothing to do with you yet. I don't know whatever Mr. Baitson 'll say to me if I don't get her into bed, and she's as obstinate as a mule; but I've got to go and try again. She wouldn't let me stay before, and I'm sure I'd no notion I was going to drop to sleep. Dear, dear me, it's a terrible state of things. Now you just lie still, Kitty, and don't you worry about your mother. She'll be better soon, I make no doubt."
I lay still, as I was told, for I was past doing anything else; but as for not worrying—well, I suppose Mrs. Hammond didn't really mean it. She had to say something, and that did as well as anything else.
Worry is hardly the word either. It was so much deeper than "worry."
I had no more sleep that night. Was it likely I should?
The blow that had fallen seemed too dreadful to be borne. My father, my kind gentle good father, gone from us in one moment, without warning, without good-bye! And to think that the last days of his life had been darkened and embittered by my ill-conduct and deceit! If it hadn't been for those last words, and that last kiss of forgiveness, I think I must have died of remorse. The pain would have been more than I could bear.
The thought that his death itself might have been in part owing to what I had done—I mean to his mind being over-full—didn't come to torture me till later. I had enough to bear without that—more than enough. As I lay through the slow hours of the early morning, racked with looking back and looking forward, I did feel as if my heart must break—as if I couldn't live through the time that was coming.
When Mr. Baitson called, he said I must keep still, and not think of getting up; and, indeed, I had lost all wish to move. I only wanted to lie still, and to think of father's last kiss. That was my one comfort, though tears came in floods with the recollection. But if I hadn't spoken to him then, oh, how could I ever have borne it?
"Kitty, you must not leave your room again without my leave," says Mr. Baitson.
"No, I won't," I said; "but I want mother! I want mother!"
"I hope she will be able to come to you soon," he says gently. "Not for a day or two, at all events."
"Is mother ill?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "There are different sorts of illness, Kitty. Such a shock must tell upon her, you know. I would rather have seen her bodily more ill, than this."
I didn't know what he meant, and I was too weak to ask.
"Somebody is coming to take care of you, whom you will be glad to see," he went on.
I didn't ask who. It only seemed so odd he should speak of me being "glad" about anything. I couldn't think I ever should feel "glad" again.
And yet he was in the right. I knew it, two hours later, when my bedroom door opened, and Mary Russell walked in.
She looked so pale, and her eyes were red with crying. But when she sat down on the bed, and took me into her arms, I did feel a sort of rest that was almost like gladness.
"My poor Kitty!" she whispered.
"I don't think I believe it," I said, looking up in her face. "I don't think it's true."
Then I broke down, and cried pitifully. But soon I said again, "It isn't true. It can't be true. I think we shall wake up."
"Yes, by-and-by," she said. "When we wake up in heaven, all sorrow over. That will be a wonderful awakening, Kitty," says she. "And, dear, you'll come there to meet him," says she.
"O Mary, you won't go! you won't leave us!" I begged; for I felt as if there was nobody else to rest on.
"No," she answered. "I am come to stay, so long as you both want me."
"Mother wants you," I said. "She doesn't love me any more."
"Kitty, it is not that," Mary answered. "You mustn't think it for a moment. Your poor mother isn't fully herself with the trouble. If she could cry she would be better, but she can't shed a tear, and till she does—"
"She wouldn't kiss me," I said. "Oh, I know I deserve it. I know it's the punishment."
Mary let me say so much, and then she told me not to talk any more. She whispered softly something about the love of God, and how He would take care of us all.
The difference of having her there! But nothing could lighten the great heavy load of pain.
We did not speak of Walter. His name never once came up. I thought of him, yet hardly cared to ask or hear. I could only feel that my father was gone. Everything to do with Walter seemed so small and far away—except the sorrow he and I had caused to father those last few days.
I was in bed about a fortnight, not able to get up: not regularly ill, but too weak and knocked down for anything else. And all that fortnight mother never came into my room.
She was up and about, I knew that. I could hear her step on the stairs, slow and dragging, but still mother's step. She was busy about the house, doing her usual work; and Mr. Baitson said it was better for her than sitting still to brood, though she often did that too.
Yes, I heard her step, but not her voice. Scarce a word passed her lips from morning till night. She was affectionate to Mary in a sort of dull dreary way, but she didn't talk to her nor any one. And she never so much as asked how I was. If Mary spoke of me, mother turned away.
All this wasn't told me at the time. It came later to my hearing.
They couldn't keep mother from the funeral; not Mr. Baitson, nor anybody. Go she would; and when they tried to hinder, a fierce look came into her eyes. Mr. Baitson said the excitement of being stopped might be worse for her than being let to go; and he gave in.
She didn't shed a tear, all through the Service, nor by the grave. Some hoped she might; but she didn't.
By the time a fortnight was over, I was getting better, and Mr. Baitson used to let me sit up for an hour or two, by way of change. Then Mary got me downstairs; but it was when mother had gone out.
"How soon am I to see mother again?" I said at last to Mary.
"Are you fit for it yet?" said she.
"I don't see why not," I said. I had a sort of hopeless feeling, as if I never should care much about anything again, one way or another. But of course things had to be got through.
"I'm afraid it will give you pain. She isn't like herself yet."
"Will she be—ever?" I asked. "Will she always be vexed with me?"
"It is not exactly being vexed," Mary answered.
"No, it's worse," I said, sighing. "She can't get over the trouble I was to—to him." And then I had one of my crying fits; and Mary comforted me. But when it was over I came back to what we had been talking about, and I said, "I do think I ought to see poor mother."
"Yes," Mary answered, slow-like, as if she wasn't sure. "Yes, that is what I feel; and Mr. Baitson has given leave. If you wish it, and if I think best—but he doesn't want you to be pressed. And he can't promise it will do her good. He does not believe it will do her harm."
"Is mother ill?" I asked.
"Not exactly ill," Mary said. "She isn't ill in body. The blow seems all to have fallen on her poor mind. I don't mean that she's out of her mind, you know. There's nothing to be frightened about; only she's in a kind of stupefied state, and one can't rouse her. She can't see things straight, and there's no getting certain notions out of her head. She is in what the doctors call a 'morbid' state. We hope she will be better by-and-by."
"I don't know what 'morbid' is," I said.
"I think it means that her mind is sick instead of her body," Mary said. "And we have to be very patient with her."
"May I see her?" I asked.
"Yes," Mary says again. "In a day or two, before you go away."
"Am I going?" I asked, still with the dull feeling that I didn't care.
"Yes, you are to have a change. I don't think you'll guess where," says Mary, trying to smile.
"Where?" I asked. "With you, Mary?"
"No, dear; I must see after your mother," Mary said. "No, it's Mrs. Withers you're going to. Mrs. Withers has asked you to her house for a visit. You remember Mrs. Withers, Mr. Armstrong's sister-in-law." Ah, didn't I remember the only time I'd seen her! But Mary went on: "Mr. Armstrong's wife was her sister, and Mrs. Withers' husband has a living a few miles out of Littleburgh. You are to go there for two or three weeks, to be fed up and taken care of; and you will help a little with the children."
"I don't want to go. I want to be with you," I said, mournful enough.
"You will come back to me by-and-by," Mary says.
"Here! Will you be here still?" I wanted to know.
Mary didn't speak directly.
"No, not here," she said. "There will have to be changes."
"What changes?" I asked, getting frightened.
"Dear Kitty, haven't you ever thought," says she, "that you and your mother can't stay on here? The house will be wanted for—somebody else."
For another stationmaster in my father's place. I had not thought of that, and it broke me down afresh. To leave our home, the dear little home where he had always been; it seemed more than I could bear.
"Kitty, there's only one way to take it," Mary whispered. "God sends the trouble, and it is His will. If you will have it from His Hand, He will give comfort with the pain."
But in those days I only loved my own will, not the will of my Heavenly Father.
We didn't say any more then, for I had had enough. Still, I was not satisfied, and I kept thinking over all that had to be, and later in the day I asked Mary—
"Where will mother and I have to live?"
"Nothing is settled yet," Mary answered. "We shall see better in a few weeks. When you are gone to Mrs. Withers, I shall take Mrs. Phrynne to my old home."
Take mother to Littleburgh! I didn't notice the word "old," or I should not have been so surprised. To think of mother under the same roof with Walter Russell did astonish me.
"Not Littleburgh, but Bristol," Mary said gravely. "Littleburgh would not do. Mr. Baitson wants her to be in some quite new place, away from all that reminds her of her trouble. We think Bristol will be best; and friends are so kind in giving help."
"And can you be away all this time from—" I said, and stopped, the colour coming over my face. I hadn't spoken or heard of her brother since my father's death.
"Yes," Mary said; and she didn't speak a word more. I could not understand her look. It meant something particular, I didn't know what.
Three days later, when I was just dressed, having got up for the first time before dinner, Mary said—
"Now I am going to take you downstairs.'
"To see mother," I said in a whisper.
"Yes," said she; "unless you would rather not."
"I don't know. I think I ought," I said; but I felt shaky.
"I think so, too," says she. "It may do your mother good. And, Kitty," says she, "you've got to put yourself out of sight, and try to be brave. Don't mind if she turns from you at first. Just walk into the kitchen quite naturally, and speak to her exactly as usual."
I promised to try; but as we went downstairs I clung tight to her, frightened to think what was coming. I'm not sure that Mary didn't feel a sort of fear too, she looked so pale.
"Now, Kitty," she whispers, outside the kitchen, "don't you mind anything, but go straight up to her, and be like your own self."
Easier said than done; but I did my best. I opened the door, and went to the table, where mother was ironing, though I felt as if my legs wouldn't carry me there.
"Mother!" I said.
She looked up at me, and down again. Her face had the sort of fixed look I'd seen the first night; and her black dress and widow's cap made her so strange.
"Speak!" I heard Mary whisper.
"Mother!" I said, "I haven't seen you for ever so long. Mayn't I have a kiss?"
But she went on ironing, hard and fast.
Mary came close, and put an arm round my waist.
"Mrs. Phrynne," says she cheerfully, and I did wonder at her for being so cheerful— "Mrs. Phrynne, Kitty has been ill, and she is going away to-morrow. Mayn't she have a kiss before she goes?"
Mother didn't answer one word.
"Come, Kitty, give your mother a kiss," says Mary, leading me.
I did as I was bid, and mother bore the kiss, but that was all, scarce stopping a moment in her work, and showing not a sign of pleasure. I couldn't bear it, hardly, and I was ready to drop. Mary gave me a chair, and I set off sobbing, and presently I saw mother had left her ironing and was standing to watch me in a queer sort of way, as if she couldn't make me out.
"Poor Kitty," Mary says.
Mother came near, looking hard still.
"Kitty! Yes, it's Kitty," says she.
"Your own Kitty," Mary says.
"Yes, it's Kitty," mother says, but not as if she cared.
"O mother, do love me," I broke out, feeling so miserable.
"I've got no heart to love anybody," mother says, and she turned off back to her ironing. "He's gone," said she.
"And he loved and forgave Kitty," Mary says, slow and quiet.
"Maybe," mother answered; and she took up her iron, but didn't use it.
"He forgave Kitty," Mary says again.
"Maybe," mother answered short; "but she broke his heart first."
And not one word more would mother say to Mary nor me after that. Mary gave up trying to make her, for the doctor had said she mustn't press matters too far. I went to my room, and felt as if everything was gone, and nothing was left to live for.
In the morning I mustered up courage to ask Mr. Baitson about mother, and whether she would ever be her proper self again. He said he hoped she would; but it must take time. The dreadful shock of seeing father killed had had a strange effect upon her mind, so she seemed to see everything crooked, and couldn't be argued with. Only time and change could cure her. He told me I must do my best to get well and strong quickly, so as to be able to take care of poor mother.
I was not allowed to see mother again; Mr. Baitson said it was better not to excite her. Mr. Armstrong looked in for a few kind words with me as he had done often; but I never could bear yet to see him, without crying too much for speech. It made me think so of that last talk before poor father was killed.
Early after dinner Mary started with me, as I was hardly fit to travel all the way alone. Mary had things to do in Littleburgh, she said, and wouldn't be back till late; so Mrs. Bowman was left in charge of mother.
We got out at Littleburgh Station together, and there Mary put me into a fly to drive to Deane Rectory. I remember how she kissed me, and told me to be brave.
Then I drove off alone, feeling dreary; and the fly wasn't two minutes away from the station before I passed somebody I knew.
It was Walter Russell!
One wouldn't have believed, after all that had passed, that I should have cared for him still. But I did. Seeing him walk along the pavement, with his sort of jaunty air, sent a shock all through me, and I could have cried out his name. I did lean forward, and he looked up, and his eyes met mine.
But there was no sign of knowing me, not the very least. He didn't smile nor nod.
The next moment, and while I was driving by, he stopped short to speak to a young girl, seeming as pleased as could be. The way he fixed his eyes on her, admiring, was the very same way exactly that he was used to do it to me.
I don't know whether I was most hurt or most angry. I couldn't get over the great wrong he had done, making me deceive my father and mother; yet I liked him still. I couldn't feel real respect, and I knew well I ought not to think about him any more; yet the very name of Walter Russell had a strange power over me.
If he had given me his old look and smile, I'm not sure but he might have bent me again to his will, and in time led me further into evil.
He didn't, happily! And oh, it's good for us that things don't always happen as we'd choose.
But if any more was needed to make me feel quite hopeless and wretched, it was that sight of Walter, just after leaving Mary, when mother seemed to have no love left for her Kitty, and everything was changed.
Doesn't God sometimes strip us for a while of all joy and pleasure, just to make us turn to Him? I do think He does, when it's needful, out of His great Fatherly love. And I think it was needful for me. Nothing less would have brought me to His Feet. So long as I had any earthly prop to cling to, I would have clung there.
In that lonesome five miles' drive, it seemed as if every prop was gone.
I don't think I cried. I had shed such lots of tears lately, I must have pretty near cried them all away. I only sat still, gazing at the hedges, and wondering if I should ever have any brightness in life again.
Well, some amount of brightness didn't lie far ahead, but then one can't see ahead. There's never any knowing what'll come next.
It was raining when I reached the Rectory, and I got out and stood in the passage as forlorn as could be.
The maid saw my box brought in, and then— "I'll tell my mistress you've come," says she, and she went off somewhere.
I wondered how long I should have to wait, and while I was waiting, a little girl came out through a door.
She was nine years old then, and I never can forget that first sight of her. She had been dressing up for a game with her brothers, and a green silk scarf was twisted round her fair hair. It was such a merry rosy little face, all full of fun and laughter.
When she saw me she didn't turn grave. She came and stood in front of me, laughing still.
"I'm not making fun of you," she said, as if she was afraid I should be hurt. "Only we have had such a game, and they took me for a baboon. Wasn't that comical? As if a baboon could wear a scarf!"
Then a puzzled look came into her eyes.
"Oh, I thought you were somebody else," she said. "I thought it was nurse's niece. Do you want to see my father or mother?"
"I'm only Kitty Phrynne," I said, for I didn't know what else to reply.
"Kitty Phrynne!" says she. And such a look of pity and tenderness came as was wonderful in a child's face. She stopped laughing, and her eyes were grave in a moment. "Kitty Phrynne! Oh,—I know!"
The sort of sigh between those words! I don't know how it was, but I felt as if she understood.
"Does mother know you've come?" she asked.
"I think she's been told," I said.
"Yes," —and she stopped. "Mother is busy," —and she stopped again. "Mother will like me to take care of you. Poor Kitty Phrynne!" says she, such a soft look in her eyes. "Poor Kitty Phrynne! I'm Kathleen Withers."
She took hold of my hand, and made me come towards the staircase.
"Miss Kathleen!" says the maid, turning up again. "I was trying to find you. Mistress is busy for a few minutes, and she says will you please look after the young person till she can come."
"Yes; of course. It's all right," says the child. "I'm going to take Kitty Phrynne to her bedroom. And I want her to have some tea, please, as quick as possible." Then I heard another sigh. "Poor Kitty Phrynne!" whispered the child.
Wasn't it strange how that comforted me, and took away the lonesome feeling?
THAT little Miss Kathleen Withers was the very sweetest child!
She seemed to come to me like a sort of sunbeam. I had got out of sunshine, and among shadows, with black clouds overhead, and I couldn't see any brightness anywhere. And then all of a sudden I came on her.
Isn't it wonderful how comfort is sent when one needs it? Not that I deserved anything of the sort, I'm sure; but still it seemed sent.
Mrs. Withers was kept longer than she meant or thought to be. But it didn't matter. I was in no hurry.
Miss Kathleen took me up to a little attic-room, as neat as could be, and told me I was to sleep there. She popped her head into different rooms by the way, bidding me peep in, awl telling me whose they were. "That's father and mother's," she'd say. "And that's the best spare-room. And that's mine. And that's the boys. And those are the nurseries."
When I was in my room, she ran away; but before I'd been five minutes alone, she came rapping at the door, and when I opened it, she was carrying a little tray, with a cup of tea and some bread and butter.
"That's for you," says she, all in a glow of pleasure.
"O Miss Kathleen, you shouldn't!" I said, feeling shamed to have her wait on me.
"O yes, I should," said she, walking in. "They'd have brought it, but I wanted to bring it myself. Why shouldn't I?" says she, looking up at me. "You're in trouble, you know and father always says one ought to wait upon people in trouble, and take care of them. And you've been ill too. Oh, don't cry," says she, looking anxious. "I oughtn't to have said that, ought I? Please don't cry, but just drink the tea while it is hot. You see, the servants don't have their tea for nearly an hour yet, and we thought you oughtn't to wait so long."
Then she bade me sit down on the bed, and she perched herself on the dressing-table.
"Don't you like tables to sit on? I do," said she. "I like anything better than chairs."
I wasn't used to sit on tables, and I said so, my tears drying fast, for she interested me.
"Well, I suppose I shall have to leave off soon, now I'm growing so big," says she. "I wish one needn't grow big. Only of course, when I'm big I can be of more use to my mother and father, and that will be nice."
Then she told me she was the only girl, and she gave me the names and ages of her brothers, and all the birthdays. She seemed to think a deal of the birthdays. She talked next about the pets—the dogs and cats and birds—and she said she wasn't fond of lessons, only she tried to work hard because one ought.
"For I want to be very very useful by-and-by to everybody," said she, "and of course I can't be that if I don't learn now. Don't you want to be useful?" says she, smiling up at me as if she'd known me always.
"I suppose I do," I said, wondering that I hadn't wanted it more.
"Only 'suppose,'" says she, opening her eyes wide. "Oh, but I want it a great deal more than only just supposing. I want it dreadfully. Don't you know those words—" and then she folded her hands, speaking soft— "don't you know those words about our Lord?—'He went about doing good.' That's what I want," says she. "I want to go about doing good, when I'm grown up. Mother says, if I mean to do it by-and-by, I've got to begin now, because there's so much in habit. Do you think I shall be able to do any good to you while you're here?" says she, not a bit conceited, but all in earnest.
"Yes, Miss Kathleen," said I, for I did feel as if she was doing me good already.
"But then I'm only a little girl," says she. "Mother will do you good, and father. I don't see how I can. I'm only a little girl, and you are grown up. Anyhow—" and she smiled— "anyhow, I can bring you a cup of tea, and a cup of tea does you good, I'm sure. It's put more colour into your face already, you know."
It wasn't only the cup of tea, though. It was her own self. She had brought a sort of gleam of hope to me for the first time—even though that very day Walter Russell had turned from me.
Mrs. Withers was just as kind as Miss Kathleen, though in a different manner. I liked her, but I never could forget the one time we had met before. Most like she didn't forget it neither. People don't forget that sort of thing, once it's come before them, and of course she must know I'd been deceiving them that day. She must have heard all about it since, which made her asking me to the house the more kind. I used to wonder sometimes if everything had been told, and I couldn't feel sure.
Miss Kathleen took a wonderful fancy to me. She used to find me out wherever I was, and bring me a flower from her garden, or a book from her bookcase, or else she'd come and sit down for a chat, which I liked best of all. She seemed to have got it into her head that I was in trouble and that she had to comfort me, and she was always trying one way and another. "Mother is so busy," she'd say. "I do like to help her." But I think she got fond of me too.
There wasn't any difficulties made by Mrs. Withers. She just let things go on so. But one day, all of a sudden, she took me by surprise, speaking when she and I were alone together. I couldn't think whatever was coming, but soon I understood.
She began about the liking Miss Kathleen showed to be with me, and how she was very glad Miss Kathleen should—only—and there she stopped, and began afresh. Miss Kathleen was such a good truthful child always, she said, and so simple, and with no nonsense in her head. Then there came another stop.
"Kitty," says she, "you have not always been truthful, and you have had a great deal of nonsense in your head. I know so much, you see. Can I depend upon you with my little girl?" says she. "You have had a sharp lesson, and I think you cannot be the same after it that you were before. If I let the child be in and out with you as much as she likes, can I be sure that she will gain no harm—will learn no deceit nor folly from you?" says she.
It did go to my heart to think I wasn't counted fit to be trusted with that child; and yet what else was to be expected, after the way I'd let myself be drawn into evil?
I don't half know what I said, except that I had had a sharp lesson, and I would be very very careful, and never speak a word to Miss Kathleen which I wouldn't wish her mother to hear.
"Yes, that will be right—that will do," said she.
Then I gave way and cried bitterly, and how good, to be sure, she was! She took one seat, and made me take another, and she said such comforting words.
Somehow I hadn't felt till then so fully how I had sinned against God first and most of all, and how first and most of all I needed His forgiveness.
I had wronged my father, and before he died he had forgiven me; and I had wronged my mother, and she wasn't in a state to know how to pardon. But far, far beyond these I had wronged my Father in Heaven, and that had been only a second sort of thought with me.
"Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned!" Mrs. Withers said once or twice; and I began to say the words in my heart, meaning them. Not "only" in one sense, because I had wronged others; but "only" in another sense, because the wrong against others was nothing at all seen beside the wrong done to my God.
I kept thinking of that wrong and sin all the rest of the day. I tried to pray for pardon, but no comfort came. When Miss Kathleen came to me, and wanted to talk about all sorts of things, I didn't find it easy to listen nor answer. "Against Thee—Thee only" —was running through my head.
Next day was Sunday; and it was a day I shan't soon forget, though it passed by quiet enough to all outward seeming, and nobody could have guessed it was anything out of the common to me.
The morning service wasn't. I went to Church, and knelt and stood and sat just as usual; and I couldn't listen much, nor take it all in. And the afternoon dragged by in a like fashion.
Then came the evening service. I had a seat in a dark corner, half behind a pillar, where I couldn't be seen. I was glad of this—soon.
For in the very first words, the opening sentences, there came a message straight to my heart.—
"I will arise, and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, Father, I have sinned—"
That was all I heard.
In one moment I seemed to see the whole. The Father waiting at home, full of love, full of longing; and the poor wanderer far away, just making up his mind to "arise and go."
Perhaps I hadn't done that. I had sat still and bemoaned myself, expecting to have something done to me; but I hadn't taken the first step. I had not said, "I will arise and go."
It might not be many steps to take; still I had to take those steps. They were possible steps for me, because they were right.
"And I will say unto Him, Father—"
There, behind the pillar, in the dimly-lighted country Church, my whole self seemed to give a leap forward, hurrying towards the Father whom I had wronged; and a voice in my heart cried out, "Father!"
It was the cry which had brought to me before the lesser forgiveness which I had craved.
"Father!" I cried, and no man in the congregation heard; but He was listening.
"Father, I have sinned against Thee!" I tried to pray this, and I tried to ask pardon "for Jesus' sake." Then I remembered that Jesus is One with the Father, and that He, as God, is my Father. Isn't He called so once in the Bible, "the Everlasting Father"? Speaking to Him is speaking to God. And no common words of prayer would come, but only the one cry, a child's cry, out of danger and distress— "Father! Father! Father!"
Then the other time came back to me, when I had said the same word, and my earthly father had taken me in his arms, putting away the past, forgiving and showing love.
I thought how it was to be the same over again. For "when he saw his son a great way off, he ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him."
So poor and weak, so unworthy of any such love! Could I hope or expect—?
I don't know about the hoping or expecting. But I know that was the manner of forgiveness which came to me. I could not stand or sit. I could only kneel, with face hidden, feeling that I had arisen, and that my Father's "Everlasting Arms" were around me.
I didn't hear much of the service for a while; when I did, a new light and beauty had come into the prayers.
I think life was changed to me from that day. Having "bread enough and to spare," I wasn't like to care so much for "the husks that the swine do eat."
And yet of course the old temptations wouldn't lose their power at once, and fighting enough might lie ahead. I had arisen and gone back to my Father. That didn't mean that I could not wander off again, if so I was minded, or if I grew careless.
"Kitty, I think you're different from when you first came," Miss Kathleen said soberly one day, near a week later. "You do look more happy, you know. Are you different? and are you happier? and has it done you good being here?"
"Yes, Miss Kathleen," I answered. I could say "Yes" to all three questions. But I couldn't talk about what I felt yet, even to her. It was too sacred and too solemn; and I wasn't worthy. I had to strive to live as a child of God; that was the great matter. Doing and living are far more than mere talking.
I HAD been asked to Mrs. Withers' for two or three weeks, but she kept me there for six weeks and more.
Once in every few days I had a letter from Mary. She spoke of mother as better for the change to Bristol, but still as not herself. I wondered if she ever would be her true self again; but Mrs. Withers bade me trust and hope; and I did try, though it wasn't easy.
Mary didn't say much about plans in her letters. I could not make out whether I was to join her and mother in Bristol, or whether we were to meet in Claxton again. Once I asked, and there came no answer to the question. So I let it alone, and just waited, not knowing.
Mrs. Withers had heard from Mr. Armstrong, I knew; and he was sure to have been told everything about mother.
It wasn't so hard to wait, with the new help and life that had come to me.
And yet nobody need suppose that I hadn't plenty of battling, or that doing right was all at once quite easy to me. No such thing. I had to fight hard, and pray hard. But there was the difference that I did pray, and that I was learning how to fight.
Old temptations had power over me yet; of course they had. Was it to be expected they'd die out in a moment?
I was getting to a more true and right notion of what Walter Russell was. He had led me into evil. He had deceived and taught deceit. I saw all this, and I did resolve that, God helping me, there should be nothing further between us, even if he wished it, at least until he should be another sort of man—and nothing at any time hidden from my mother.
But still I couldn't at once cast aside all thoughts of him. I do believe there's an unhealthy power which some people have over some others, and which makes the breaking loose from them a hard matter. But I believe that anybody who wills may break loose from such a bondage, through prayer and resolute doing.
Well, at last I heard I was to go to Bristol. Mary wrote that the doctors were afraid of Claxton for mother yet, and of course Mrs. Withers couldn't be expected to keep me on for any length of time. Besides, it was right I should go to mother, now I was all right in health, and strong again. Mary didn't say this; but I felt it.
The puzzle to me was how Mary had managed to be so long away from her brother. She never so much as said his name in her letters, and I knew she had taken to dressmaking again among her old friends.
The six weeks at Deane Rectory had been a wonderful help to me; and so had Mr. Withers' teaching, though I haven't said anything about that. His sermons were beautiful, and now and then he'd say a thing in passing that stayed by one for days.
But the one I minded most of all leaving was little Miss Kathleen. She cried, and so did I, when we said good-bye; and she promised to write long letters to me, and made me promise I'd write to her.
The through-train for Bristol left Littleburgh at twelve o'clock, and I got there a good while before, being driven in the little light cart which was often in and out for all sorts of purposes. The man had a lot of things to do, so we started early; and I had to wait a good time at the station—something near three-quarters of an hour, I believe.
I had a little book to read which Miss Kathleen had given me; and I sat down on a quiet bench, in a corner, with it open on my knee.
All of a sudden a queer sort of feeling came over me; for there on the platform, not far off, was Walter Russell.
He had his jaunty air, and kept moving about with a look of being very important. I don't know why, but he didn't seem to me so much of a gentleman as he'd seemed once. He put on such airs; and when he stopped to speak to somebody, he laughed so loud.
And yet my heart went pit-a-pat, and I was all in a flutter. I hoped he wouldn't see me; but still I didn't know how to bear being passed over by him.
If he did know I was there, he mightn't choose to speak. And that would be the best thing for me. I knew it, yet a longing came into my mind for just a word—only a word! I never could feel sure he had really known me that day I drove by him in the fly.
He went to the other end of the platform, and walked back, keeping up his jaunty air. All of a sudden, he stopped opposite, and our eyes met.
There was nobody near, except one old market-woman, half asleep, at the other end of the bench.
"Hallo! Why, it's Kitty Phrynne!" says he; and his mouth dropped open in a sort of amaze. He didn't look delighted. I could see that plain enough.
I did not move, or get up. All at once, clear like a bell, I seemed to hear mother's voice saying her favourite saying— "Least said, soonest mended!" "Least said, soonest mended!" And I sat still, determined I'd not be drawn into any folly. I would show mother I had some self-respect. I had nothing more to do with Walter, nor he with me; and the less we said to each other the better. If I got into a talk, I couldn't depend on myself.
"I declare it's—Kitty," says he again. And I kept still. I wouldn't stir.
"Come! come! you don't bear malice, I hope," says he, and he came up to shake hands.
"Bear malice! What for?" said I slowly. I thought I'd keep strict to the "least said" plan.
"What for! Oh, come! that's good," he broke out, with a laugh.
He meant about the watch, of course—but I did wonder he could laugh.
"I don't see anything to make fun of," I said.
"Well, no—nor do I," says he. "Most serious event in a man's life, isn't it?"
And he sat down by my side. "Kitty, you're prettier than ever," says he softly.
But that was going too far. I couldn't stand it. Something in his manner and speech angered me; and I thought how he had led me into saddening my father's last days—how perhaps even, but for him, father might have been living still, and mother well, and I a happy girl in the dear old home! No; that was going too far!
"Good-bye," I said. "My train will start soon." And I got up and walked away.
But he was at my side.
"Kitty—Kitty—I didn't mean to vex you," says he, in a sort of wheedling manner. "Just say you're not vexed. Say we can be friends still."
"Friends!" I said, and I turned to look at him. I hadn't a wish for any more soft words. A change seemed to have come over me. Perhaps it had been coming long, though I didn't find it out till then. "Friends!" I said.
"Well, yes," said he. "We've been friends, haven't we?"
And I said—I couldn't help it, for the words seemed to be squeezed out of me, I thinking of my poor father—
"No! You've been the worst enemy I ever had."
I didn't add another word. "Least said—" was sounding in a whisper somewhere. I had to say enough, but not too much. There's never any good in piling on a lot of words, if one dozen are all that's wanted.
"Kitty!" says he, as if he was confounded.
I didn't speak.
"You don't mean that," says he, wheedling again.
But I held my tongue.
"Kitty, I do assure you I couldn't help it," says he. "I didn't mean to take you in."
"When you said it was lent—and then to have sold it!" says I slowly.
"Lent! Sold it!" says he, looking uncomfortable, and then he gave a sort of laugh. "Oh, I see—you mean that wretched watch," says he.
And I just said "Yes."
"But I thought you meant something else," says he. "Mary has told you—"
"Mary has told me nothing at all," I said.
And I turned and walked away once more. He didn't follow me this time. I saw he was all taken aback like, to find I thought so much of his dishonesty.
The train was waiting, and I got into a third-class carriage. I felt so glad that talk was over, and so glad I hadn't said more. Mother would be pleased, I thought—some day when I could tell her. It wouldn't do to speak Walter Russell's name in her hearing yet awhile.
I had to sit a good while in the carriage, waiting; but Walter didn't come near me again. Presently I caught sight of him sauntering along the platform; and then a smart sort of girl joined him. He put his arm through hers, and she laughed and joked in a shrill voice. I didn't like her look.
After that they went out of sight. I believed it was the same girl I had seen him speak to, the day I drove from Littleburgh to Deane Rectory; but I could not be sure. I hadn't noticed her then so much as him.
The train started, and there was nobody in the compartment with me. I had it to myself. Presently I found myself saying aloud—
"That is all over!"
The words did not mean pain. I had a feeling of being set free from bondage. So often I had felt that I couldn't break loose from Walter's mastery; yet here was I loose, and the mastery gone. I had so feared to meet him; yet now we had met, and he had not his old power over me.
I did not know whether he was changed or I was changed; but either way I knew it was an answer to prayer. For I had prayed.
All through the journey to Bristol I was feeling so glad and thankful, so happy to be free.
It was a long journey. The train stopped at pretty nearly every station, and people got in and out. All of them were civil to me; and one old woman took me under her care, begging me to eat a lot of rich plum-cake. But I had been well supplied with sandwiches and cake before I left Deane Rectory.
Bristol station was reached at last; and an uncommon big bustling place it seemed to be, different as could be from Claxton. I felt very lone and strange, till I caught sight of Mary's face on the platform; and then it was all right.
"Are you ready for a good walk, Kitty?" she asked.
I said "Yes," for I was cramped with long sitting. So we settled about having my box sent, and Mary and I started off. We could have done a good part of the way by tram, if we'd been minded; but I liked the walk, and there was no harm in saving a few pence.
The rooms Mary had taken for my mother and herself were not actually near the part that had been her girlhood's home; not down in Bristol, but higher up in Redland. Mary had feared the narrow streets and noise of Bristol for my mother. Still she had found out all her old friends, and had had lots of kindness from them, as well as getting plenty of work.
She told me this as we toiled up one of the steep hills out of Bristol, with houses on both sides, and houses around everywhere.
"I shouldn't like to live down there," I said.
"No; it isn't as if you'd been used to the place always," Mary answered.
Then I asked, "Will mother be pleased to see me?"
"I can't tell yet, but I hope so, Kitty. She seemed glad this morning, when I told her you were coming."
"She hasn't ever written to me," I said.
"No; she has written to nobody. She doesn't seem able. But she keeps the rooms nice, so as to leave me free for work; and sometimes she works too."
"I'm sure I can never thank you enough for staying with her all this time," I said. "I couldn't have thought you'd have been able."
"Things are changed," Mary said.
I didn't know what she meant. I looked for more, but she wouldn't speak. So I said—
"How soon will mother and I have to go back to Claxton?"
"Do you wish very much to go?" she asked.
"I don't know. Yes," I said. "Claxton is our home." And yet I felt it would be sad, with everything so different.
"Could Claxton be home to you again, I wonder?" says she. "In another house, and without your father?"
"Mother wouldn't like to live anywhere else," I said.
"Yes; she will be content with whatever is decided."
"But when you go home to Littleburgh?"
"I am not going to Littleburgh. I have no home there now," she answered.
I was that startled with her words, I came to a standstill on the pavement.
"Not got any home in Littleburgh?"
"No," said she. "That's one of the things that are changed."
But what was to become of Walter, all alone there?
"Kitty, I haven't spoken of my brother to you lately," said she, as I was thinking this.
"No," I said, "not once."
"I thought it might be best not," she said. "Perhaps the time is come now to speak."
"I saw him at Littleburgh station to-day," I said.
"You did?" said she.
And I looked up, and our eyes met. Mary must have seen something in my face which pleased her, for she broke into a smile.
"He was on the platform," I said; "and we had a few words. I didn't say much; I thought mother would rather I shouldn't. He talked about hoping I didn't bear malice. I fancied he meant the watch, you know, but he didn't; and I don't know what he did mean. And he asked if we could be friends still; and I said he had been my enemy. He seemed sure I had heard something about him from you, and I said I had not. And then I walked away."
"Right!" Mary said.
"But what did he mean?"
"He meant—that he has treated you as he has treated a good many girls," she said. "He is married."
"Married!"
I didn't feel as if it was a blow, or hard to bear. I almost felt like laughing, when I remembered the things I had said, and how he had looked.
"Yes. Are you sorry for your own sake, Kitty?" asked she. "I think you have had an escape to be thankful for."
"I do think so too," I answered; and I spoke from my heart.
"Ah, that is right, that is right," said she. "Then you understand now. But I have not told you all. Walter married three weeks after I left him, to take care of you and your mother. My dear, it would have been just the same if I had stayed there," says she. "He was bent on having the girl, and I knew it. He married her, saying nothing to me. And a week later—"
"Is she a nice girl?" I asked.
"No; not a nice girl at all," Mary said; and her face took its stern look for just a moment. "Not a girl I could wish to live with, even if she wished to have me; which she does not."
"And they are living at Littleburgh," I said in a sort of dreamy way. It all seemed so queer.
"At Littleburgh, but not in our old home. Walter was dismissed from his situation within a week of being married. Yes, dismissed. He had been falsifying the school accounts. Of course he quite forfeited all hope of another situation as schoolmaster."
"And he has nothing to live on?"
"He has something just now. His wife has a few hundreds of her own. She is an orphan. I suppose they will spend all they have, and then—" Mary sighed. "My poor Walter!" she said. "Yes, I love him still—unhappy boy! But I do not respect him. How can I?"
I don't think I made any answer. I was thinking what an escape I had had of being his wife! That had grown plain to me at last.
"So I have come back to my old haunts," she said, "and to old friends. The question is now—shall I live alone, or will you and your mother live with me?"
"O Mary!—may we?" I cried. "May we—always?"
"I should like it," she answered. "I love your mother dearly—and you too," though I could see that was the afterthought. "Why shouldn't you take to dressmaking?" says she. "But I am afraid there wouldn't be work enough in Claxton."
THE house where Mary stopped was of red brick, old-fashioned and stiff-looking, and it stood on an old-fashioned terrace, raised high above the road. There was one window beside the door, and two windows above, and two windows again over that.
"Is the whole of the house yours?" I asked, thinking it wasn't a pretty house, after my dear old country home.
"No," said she. "Only the dining-room and two back bedrooms."
Then she went in, leading the way. It was a narrow dark sort of passage, with faded oilcloth on the floor. I groped along after her; and when she turned into the first room, that was almost as dark, Mary struck a light, and nobody was there except ourselves.
"Your mother must be upstairs," said she. "Sit down, Kitty."
I did as she bade me, tired enough to be glad to rest after my journey and long walk. I was longing and yet dreading to see mother. What if she turned from me still? if she was always to turn from me for the rest of my life?
Mary put the candle on the mantel-shelf, and it lighted up the room dimly—only a small room, with poor furniture: old black horse-hair chairs, and a black horse-hair sofa, and a table, and a sort of little sideboard.
"I get through my dressmaking in this room," said she. "Happily I have plenty of work—more than I can do alone. I had to refuse two orders only last week. Why shouldn't you and I make a good thing of it, Kitty?" and she smiled, to cheer me up.
"I like pretty work, and mother always says I'm quick. But I shouldn't like to sit all day long in this room."
"Ah, we can't always do just what we like in life," says she quietly; "can we, Kitty?"
"No!" I said.
"The question isn't so much what we like, as what God likes for us," says she.
I got up, and gave her a kiss. "Yes, I'm trying to learn that, Mary, I am really."
"Then you'll be taught it, dear," said she. "God always gives us the teaching we need—if we are willing." And she added in a cheery sort of voice,— "But I don't mean you to work all day long, and never to have a breath of air. There's the Durdham Downs quite close—a great stretch of grass and open sky, ever so much wider than your common—and the river and the rocks and the trees."
"It isn't all houses, only houses, then?" I said.
"No, indeed," Mary answered. "You just wait till you've been over our Downs. Your mother says she never saw anything to equal them in all her life."
"I'm glad! I shan't mind work," I said, trying to be brave. "Shall I come with you to find mother? And am I to sleep with her?"
"Not at first, I think. I shall put you in my little room, and sleep with your mother myself for a few days. No, sit here, Kitty, and rest. I'll bring her to you."
Then Mary was gone; and I stayed alone in the strange room, with everything strange about me; for though we had furniture of our own, it had all been left at Claxton, till we could settle where to go and what to do. I was glad to think we should have our own furniture again some day, and not live among these dingy chairs and tables.
Mary didn't come back. I went to the window and looked out. It was very nearly dark outside by now. The terrace pavement was muddy, for there had been rain, and three boys were playing on it, shouting and pulling one another about.
As I stood there, watching them, a sudden recollection of Rupert came. I couldn't say what brought it, except those boys playing together. Rupert and I had often played together many years before. Or it may have been that I was free at last from bondage to Walter Russell, and so I could spring back to my old liking and thoughts of him. Like a piece of whalebone, you know, that's bent and tied down; but so soon as ever it's untied, it'll leap out straight as it was before.
His face rose up before me—such a good plain honest face; and I seemed to see it as I had that last time with a glow of feeling, only all the anger and hardness were gone. He had loved me so truly—so different from Walter Russell, who only loved himself and made use of me for his own purposes. Two men couldn't be more unlike and opposite than those two.
"Poor Rupert!" I sighed; "I wonder what's become of him! I wonder what he would think of all these changes!"
And oh, how grieved he would be about father! I could hardly keep back my tears, picturing this.
"And it was I who drove him away!" I went on. "I—for the sake of Walter Russell."
I did want to see Rupert again—poor Rupert, whom I had so scorned after all his goodness and devotion to me. But perhaps I never should: and even if some day I did, he would not be the same. He would have forgotten his old liking for Kitty.
"I shall have grown ugly by that time," I murmured; "and he will have learnt to like somebody else. And it will be just what I deserve."
Then Mary came in.
"Is mother upstairs?" I asked.
Mary looked a little pale and troubled, I thought.
"No, dear," she said. "Your mother has been out all the afternoon. You and I will have some tea to refresh ourselves, and then I must go and find her."
"But you don't know where she is."
"Not exactly, but I know her favourite haunts. When she walks alone, she almost always goes to one particular part of Durdham Down. I have had to fetch her home before now. She forgets how time goes."
"Then mother isn't well yet?"
"I think there is a touch of weakness still, Kitty. I am not sure that she will ever quite lose it," Mary answered.
She made tea quickly, not letting me help: and presently I asked, "May I go with you to look for her?"
"Too far, after your journey," says she.
"O no! I am getting quite rested," I said. "Please don't leave me alone here. Mother might come in."
"Would you be afraid of her, if she did?" asked Mary, with a curious sort of look.
"No," I said, and I was ashamed. "No, not afraid exactly; only I don't know how she'll take seeing me."
"I think she will be glad," Mary said.
But when I begged still to go, Mary did not say no. She told me I might if I was up to it; and after a good tea I felt strong. Mary seemed pretty sure mother wouldn't come back while we were away. The same thing had happened before when mother was excited about something; and no doubt the thought of my returning had excited her.
So as soon as we had finished our tea, we started, I keeping close to Mary's side, with a sort of protected feeling which I have always had with her. I think I had it even when she was ill and I was well. For there's no doubt Mary's was the stronger and firmer nature of the two. If I had been brought up by another sort of mother than mine, one who allowed self-indulgence, I should have been turned out a very useless creature.