A week or two after, papa came in one day just as mamma and I were
finishing luncheon, looking rather grave.
"I am very sorry for the Yew Trees people," he said; "I've been there
this morning to see Addie. I'm afraid he's in for bronchitis, poor
little chap, and troubles never come singly. Captain Whyte has heard
that a favourite cousin of his--a Major Hugo Whyte, who has just come
home from India--is very ill. He says he is like a brother to him, and
he's very cut up."
"Is he going to see his cousin?" mamma asked.
"N-no; there seem other difficulties, family complications. He was
going to tell me more, but we were interrupted. Lady Honor sent for
Captain Whyte in a hurry. I hope there's nothing wrong there. I don't
know what's coming to everybody." Papa, usually so cheerful, looked
rather depressed. "The Whytes have some money bothers, too, I fear."
"Evey and Mary haven't got any new winter jackets," I said. "They're
still wearing their tweed ones, with knitted vests underneath. The old
lady can't have sent them any Christmas present."
Papa glanced at me in surprise.
"What old lady? You seem to know a great deal about our neighbours'
affairs, Miss Connie."
"No," I said. "I don't know much. Only it's an old lady who's Evey's
godmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn't
this year."
Papa looked grave.
"I wonder," he said, consideringly, "if that is what's wrong. Whyte has
an aunt, I know, who almost brought him up. I have heard Lady Honor
speak of her as very eccentric. Perhaps--but I mustn't gossip about my
friends' concerns," he added more lightly, "though truly, in this case,
it is real interest in them that makes me do so."
"I am sure no one could ever accuse _you_ of gossiping, Tom," said
mamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa's or my
defence.
"No one has done so, my dear, except my own self. _Qui s'excuse,
s'accuse_, you know."
And whistling in a boyish way, as he sometimes did, papa started off on
his hard day's work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead as
he passed me.
I have always remembered that morning, because of what came afterwards:
it was _so_ miserable.
It was about three o'clock only; I was still at my lessons with my
governess in the schoolroom. I had no idea of seeing papa again till
perhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there was
so much illness about. Still I was not exactly startled when I heard
his voice in the hall, calling me. He did sometimes look in for a
moment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at the
surgery, or to fetch a book for himself, if he were going to drive far.
"Connie," I heard, "Connie, I want you at once."
"Run, Connie," said Miss Wade, my governess, for I was delaying a moment
to finish a line; a bad habit of mine was want of prompt obedience; "run
at once, Dr Percy has no time to spare."
She spoke rather sharply, and I got up.
"Yes, papa," I said as I opened the door, rather affecting
deliberateness till out of Miss Wade's sight (I have told you that I had
been "going back" lately in several ways.) "Yes, papa, I am here."
I moved quickly once I got into the hall. Papa was standing there,
booted and spurred--how nice and big and manly he looked!--for he had
been riding. But his face had a strange expression; he looked stern and
yet upset. Under his rather sunburnt bronzed complexion, I could see an
unusual flush of excitement.
"Is anything the matter?" I asked, startled, I scarcely knew why.
"Addie Whyte isn't worse?"
"No, no, nothing like that. But I want you at once, Connie,"--he had
begun to speak rather impatiently, but his tone softened as he saw that
I looked frightened. "You needn't look so terrified, my dear. It is
nothing--only--only a little misapprehension which you will be able to
set right at once. I want you to come with me to Lady Honor's. I have
ordered the carriage; it will be round in an instant. Run and put your
things on, something warm; it is very cold."
"But papa," I began, "won't you tell--"
"No, my dear, I can't explain. You will see for yourself that it is
better not I will tell Miss Wade that you cannot have any more lessons
this afternoon, and I have already told mamma that I want you. Be
quick, dear."
In five minutes I was seated beside papa in the brougham. He drew the
soft, warm fur rug over me tenderly, and put his arm round me.
"Why are you trembling so, Connie?" he said. "You have done nothing
wrong--what are you so frightened about?"
"I--I don't know, papa," I said, which was true. "It seems so strange."
But this was not the whole truth. I _had_ a queer, vague misgiving that
the mystery had to do with the Whytes and their family affairs, though
my mind was not collected enough to go into it properly.
"You will understand it directly," said papa. "Ridiculous--"--he gave a
strange little laugh--"as if my Connie--so open too--"
But somehow this did not reassure me.
When we got to Lady Honor's, we were shown into the library. There was
no one there, but in a moment or two old Mr Bickersteth hobbled in. He
nodded to papa; afterwards I found, that he and papa had met already
that afternoon. Papa had looked in to speak to Lady Honor about some
poor _protege_ of hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling him
of the Whytes' troubles. Old Mr Bickersteth spoke kindly to me--even
more kindly than usual--almost as though he were a little sorry for me.