It was a good thing for Anna's own comfort that afternoon that she was
not of a very observant nature, otherwise she would certainly not have
found me either a pleasant or courteous companion. I was obliged to
obey papa, and I dared not be positively rude to her, but beyond this I
was determined not to go; the very feeling of having been forced to give
in made me the more bitter and the more inclined to resent my grievances
on her, the innocent cause of them. But Anna had never been accustomed
to overmuch civility from me; even as quite little children I had
treated her as if it did not matter _how_ she was treated. And she only
smiled placidly at my vagaries, and doubtless said to herself that "poor
little Connie was very spoilt."
We had seen each other very rarely of late, and then generally with the
Whytes, so I don't think it struck Anna as at all strange that I walked
on beside her in grim silence, scarcely even condescending to notice her
few amiable commonplace remarks. Poor child! her head was always full
of home cares; I think it must have been a treat to her even to walk
along quietly without a lot of "little ones" tugging at her skirt.
"It _is_ a nice day," she observed for about the fifth time. "The boys
have gone to Belton Woods. I hope aunt won't let Prissy go with them,
however; she is sure to catch cold if they stay late. November evenings
are so chilly."
"I should think you'd be rather glad for some of them to catch cold
sometimes," I said. "It must be a blessing to have a few quiet in bed."
Anna stared at me, then a smile broke over her rather dull face.
"How funny you are, Connie!" she said. "No, I think they're quite as
noisy in bed as anywhere else, except when they're really very ill, and
that, of course, is no laughing matter. But they're all well just now,
and really to-day is like September: it _is_ a nice day."
"Yes," I agreed. "It's one of our nicest autumn days. If--if only some
things were different," I added to myself.
We were by this time in the lane, which, after crossing the fields, was
the nearest way to the Yew Trees. This lane ran into the high road too,
so any one coming to the Whytes' _had_ to go some way along it. Just as
I spoke--we had climbed over a stile into the lane--I saw coming towards
us, as if going to the Yew Trees from the road, a very curious figure.
It was that of a small old woman. She seemed a little lame, yet she
walked pretty fast. But I did not like her look at all; indeed, as she
came nearer and I saw that her face was almost hidden by a lace veil of
a very heavy pattern, and that she had a wig of very black and shiny
curls, falling on each side of her cheeks, I felt almost frightened, I
scarcely knew why. She had a long cloak of rusty black silk, and a
queer brown fur "pelerine"--I think that is the old-fashioned name for
such things. And she seemed to have sprung up so suddenly, that I
almost felt as if I was _fancying_ her. For the first time that
afternoon I turned to Anna with a sort of friendliness.
"Anna," I said, "do look. Who can that queer woman be?"
"A tramp," Anna began to say. We were used to tramps of all kinds, but
still this description hardly suited the person now closely approaching
us. A thought crossed my mind--could it be one of the Whyte boys
dressed up to frighten us? But no; they never played such tricks.
"It must be one of those tiresome old things from the Marley
almshouses," I said. Marley was a village about five miles off. "I
know how they pester papa. He is far too good to them. Very likely she
thinks the Whytes are new-comers, and that she'll get something out of
them."
And no longer frightened, but rather disgusted, I prepared to walk on,
when suddenly a sharp, almost imperious, voice bade me stop.
"Please to tell me if this is the way to the Yew Trees," it said. "The
Yew Trees--a cottage where Captain Whyte has come to live. Don't you
hear me, child--can't you speak?" For I had been at first too startled
to answer; and then, as I took in the meaning of the old woman's words,
I grew angry. What right had she to call the Yew Trees--mamma's own old
house, which would be _my_ house some day--"a cottage"? And what
business had she to speak to me so sharply--"child," indeed--a dirty old
tramp, or, worse, a cheat, a begging-letter impostor, or something of
that kind, to speak to _me_ so? For she was addressing me and not Anna,
who was a little behind me.
"I don't see that I am obliged to answer every beggar in the road who
may happen to speak to me," I said, very rudely, I must confess. For
queer as she was, the old woman was plainly not a common beggar.
She came closer.
"Beggar," she repeated, "beggar indeed!" Then she gave a horrid mocking
little laugh. But suddenly she controlled herself again. "Be so good
as to tell me where Captain Whyte's cottage is."
"It isn't a cottage. It's a large house," I said. "I should know,
considering it's mine, or as good as mine."
She started a little, then eyed me curiously.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I might have guessed it. Then you are one of the
Whyte children; let me see--not the eldest?"
"No; I'm not the eldest. But I don't see what business it is of yours
who I am. Let me go,"--for she had laid her hand--it was covered with
an old black kid glove much too large for her--on my sleeve; "let me
go," I said, as I felt her holding me more firmly. "You may save
yourself the trouble of going on to the Yew Trees. Captain Whyte and
Mrs Whyte wouldn't speak to you."
"Indeed," she said with a sneer, "I can quite believe it, to judge by
their daughter's pretty manners to a poor tired old woman. I could not
have believed it of--He was proud, but you are insolent, I can tell you.
It's as well, perhaps, but I wish I hadn't met you, with your fair hair
and pretty eyes, just like--Have they never taught you to show respect
to age, young lady? I suppose you think yourself a lady?"
"_You_ are insolent," I said, stamping my foot in fury.
"How dare you--get away you dirty old tramp, or I'll send for the
police."
But at that moment, while the old woman positively glared at me through
her veil, Anna, who had not yet spoken, came close and whispered
something in my ear, "I daresay she's insane," Anna said; "you know
there's an asylum at Wichthorpe. She may have escaped. You should
never provoke mad people, Connie."
And she turned to the stranger, and spoke to her gently. "I think you
would get any information you want in Elmwood better than here," she
said. "Captain and Mrs Whyte have not been here so very long. And--
and I think they're rather busy to-day."
The old woman turned to her. She looked at Anna for a moment or two
without speaking.
"Thank you," she said. "I have changed my mind; I have no wish to pay
the Whyte family a visit. I--I think I've had enough of them. And who
are you, pray?" she went on. "You have a civil tongue in your head at
least."
"I'm--my father's the Vicar of Elmwood," said Anna, very frightened, but
not daring not to reply. "He's Mr Gale--if you want anything, I
daresay he could help you. You could ask for the Vicarage."
"No, thank you; but I'm obliged. Yes, I'm obliged to you," said the
queer creature. Then she turned and walked rapidly back the way she had
come. We lost sight of her, of course, when she turned into the road;
but a moment or two afterwards we heard wheels, and looking right on to
the end of the lane, we saw a fly drive rapidly past. We looked at each
other.
"Dear me," said Anna, "it's just as if the fly had been waiting for
her."
"Nonsense," I said roughly; "an old beggar like that."
"I don't think she was exactly a beggar," said Anna. Nor did I, at the
bottom of my heart.
"Then she was mad, as you said yourself," I rejoined. "But listen,
Anna; don't tell them about her at the Yew Trees. I don't want Yvonne's
birthday spoilt any more. Do you hear, Anna?--you're not to tell."
Anna hesitated. "I don't see that it would spoil the birthday," she
said; "and perhaps--"
"It would spoil it to _me_," I said, "if you care about that. Of course
you'd tell them I was rude to the old woman, and they'd be all down upon
me. I don't deny I was rude; I've been too vexed by other things to be
in a good temper."
"I'm so sorry," said Anna, her kind heart at once touched. "No, I won't
say anything about it then. The only thing was--are you sure it isn't
anything that matters? Suppose she really had some message for Captain
or Mrs Whyte?"
"We didn't stop her going on if she had. At least I only told her they
wouldn't be bothered with her, and you said they were busy to-day. That
wouldn't have stopped her if it was anything real."
"N-no, I suppose not," said Anna. She was very slow at seeing things,
and I could generally overrule her, in the first place, any way. So,
though she was plainly not quite satisfied, she gave in.
I felt a little conscience-stricken myself, to own the truth. I knew I
had behaved inexcusably to the strange old woman, and the consciousness
of this made me gentler and more conciliatory, so to speak, than I might
otherwise have been. So the birthday party went off peacefully, and on
the whole, pleasantly, though somehow not as merrily and cheerily as was
usual with the Whytes' simple festivities. Evey was very pleased with
the monogram brooch, so pleased that I could afford not to feel jealous
when she warmly thanked Anna for her present of a neat and well-made,
but extraordinarily ugly, toilet-pincushion. And I was able heartily to
admire the other presents, all from her own family, and mostly of home
manufacture.
"Evey's _best_ present hasn't come yet," said Mary. "It's a post late
somehow."
"It's sure to come this evening," said Evey, hopefully.
"Papa's going to walk in to the post-office to see; you know we don't
get afternoon letters unless we send for them. And there's sure to be a
letter too; indeed, that's almost what we care most for."
"But what is the present?" I asked curiously. "Whom is it from? And
is it always the same thing? And why do you care so for a stupid
letter?"
Yvonne hesitated. She and Mary looked at each other.
"I am sure you may tell Connie," said innocent Mary.
"Well," said Evey, "I can tell part any way. The present, that we call
my best present," she went on, "comes from my godmother, papa's aunt.
It isn't always the same, but it's always something very nice and
useful. Last year it was two muffs and four pairs of gloves, for me to
do what I liked with; so of course I gave one muff and two pairs of
gloves--we take the same size, you know--to Mary. And this year we were
half hoping it _might_ be jackets."
"What stupid presents," I said. "I don't care a bit for _clothes_
presents."
"But then you're different; things are quite different for you, Connie,"
said Evey.
"I know," I replied, with self-satisfaction. "But if it was jackets,
Evey, they couldn't come by post."
It was before the days of parcel-post.
"No, but the letter telling of them would be coming. And it _mightn't_
be jackets."
"Why do you care so for the letter?" I asked.
"Oh, because it pleases papa and mamma so. Papa hasn't seen her for
ever so long, though she almost brought him up--but--there were things--
I don't think I can tell you any more," she broke off, and of course I
could not ask any more questions after that. But I had a vaguely uneasy
and anxious feeling, especially a little later in the evening, when
Captain Whyte returned, dispirited and tired.
"It's beginning to rain," he said. "Evey dear, your birthday is not
ending as brightly as it began; however--"
"There was no letter?" said Mrs Whyte.
He shook his head.
"It may come to-morrow morning still," he replied. But I saw that they
all seemed disappointed.
Anna Gale and I went home as we had come, with the addition of Peters,
our old gardener, as escort. It had left off raining again, and there
was some faint moonlight struggling through the clouds. Mamma had meant
to send the brougham, but papa had been suddenly summoned to a distance,
and as the evening was fine after all, she thought we might walk, by the
road of course. As we got to the end of the lane, the scene of that
afternoon came back to our minds. I did not want to think of it, but
Anna would speak about it.
"I _wonder_," she said--fancy Anna "wondering" about anything--"I really
_wonder_ who she was."
"Oh, rubbish," I said. "Who could she be but some old lunatic?"
"Well," said Anna, "if she were, it isn't very nice to think of."