"Now, Anna, you're not to go talking about it, for I know it would sound
as if I had been horrid to her, and perhaps I was; I don't pretend to be
an angel. But I don't want any fuss--do you hear, Anna?"
"Yes," she said, "of course I hear you, Connie."
"Well, then, will you promise?"
"I'll promise not to speak about it if I can help it," she said; and
with that I had to be content.
I don't quite know why I was so anxious that no one should hear of our
adventure. I was not, after all, so _very_ ashamed of my behaviour to
the old woman; not as ashamed as I should have been. But I had an
uncomfortable, uneasy feeling--I just wanted to forget all about it.
I did not see Yvonne and Mary for some days after that; the next morning
was showery, though it cleared up between times. But after that, the
rain set in, and we had a week or two of almost constant downpour, which
interfered very much with our usual ways. They came to spend an
afternoon with me at last. Mamma arranged that the carriage should both
fetch them and take them back, for the roads were really sopping, though
the rain overhead was less incessant. We were very glad to be together
again. Evey wore my little brooch; it reminded me of her birthday.
"Oh, by-the-by," I said to her, "did your jackets, or whatever it was,
come the next day?"
A cloud came over their bright faces.
"No," said Evey, "nothing came--and no letter. We were very
disappointed."
"Perhaps something will come at Christmas instead," said Mary,
hopefully.
"You greedy little thing," I said, thoughtlessly. "I wonder you care,
especially if it was something to wear."
"You--you don't quite understand, Connie," said Mary, her eyes filling
with tears; "there was no letter, and father and mother mind _that_."
"Letters are often lost in the post. Why don't you write to the old
lady,"--what was it that gave me a queer thrill as I said the
words?--"and ask if there is anything the matter?" I said, meaning in a
clumsy way to suggest some comfort.
"We can't," said Yvonne, in a low voice.
But they explained no more, and I was not sorry. I did not want to
spoil our afternoon by disagreeable subjects.
Christmas came. The day after, there was a large gathering at Lady
Honor's, as there had been the year before. Captain and Mrs Whyte
would not leave their own home on Christmas-day itself, as they did not
like to separate from any of the little ones; but Mr Bickersteth was
not satisfied without a Christmas party, so it was arranged to have it
on the 26th. A good many Whytes came; all, down to the three youngest,
I think. Papa and mamma and I were of the party too. Mr and Miss
Gale, Anna and her two brothers from school, and two or three people
staying with Lady Honor. It was a very nice party, and everything was
done to make it so; but somehow it was not quite so merry as it should
have been. Mrs Whyte, who was generally the life of everything, looked
tired, and owned to a headache for once; Captain Whyte was very silent,
and the boys and girls were rather subdued.
In the course of the evening, during some of the games, I happened to be
standing near Lady Honor and Captain Whyte, and I could not avoid
hearing what they said.
"Did you know, Frank," asked Lady Honor, "that Hugo is expected back
next week?"
He started.
"No, indeed," he said. "I had no idea of it."
"I only heard it this morning," she went on, "in a letter from--" I did
not catch the name. "He is not well--coming on sick leave, straight
to--your aunt's."
Captain Whyte looked grave. Still there was a touch of something not
altogether regret in his voice as he answered:
"I am very sorry, very--but, oh, I should be glad to see him again; and,
selfishly speaking, just now--" he hesitated and glanced round. At that
moment I was called for in the game, and I ran off and heard no more.
"I wonder who `Hugo' is," I thought, "and if his aunt is the Whytes'
jacket-aunt too."