"Connie is a little frightened," said papa. "I told you I should say
nothing to her, so that Lady Honor or Captain Whyte can question her
themselves straight away. I should like to lose no time, if you please,
Mr Bickersteth; I am extremely busy."
"Of course, of course, very sorry to detain you," said the old
gentleman. "Just a little mistake, no doubt. You have taken it up too
seriously, my dear Percy."
But papa shook his head, though he smiled a little, too.
"Shall we go to the drawing-room?" he said; on which Mr Bickersteth
opened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in a
cheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were the
matter.
A servant was standing close by. He threw open the drawing-room door,
and papa, half slipping his arm through mine, led me in. There were
several people in the room, and I shook hands all round, though scarcely
knowing with whom. Then by degrees I disentangled them; there were not
so many after all, and all well known to me. Captain and Mrs Whyte and
Mary--not Yvonne Lady Honor, of course, and Anna Gale and her father.
Anna was very pale, and I could see she had been crying. Mary came up
close to me and stood beside me. I think she took hold of my hand.
"Now, Connie," said my father, "I want to ask you something. It has
been stated--it is believed by some of our friends here--but of course
the moment you deny it, it will be all right--that some little time ago
you met in the lane that leads to the Yew Trees an old lady, a stranger,
who asked you the way. And that you, instead of replying courteously
and civilly as one should _always_ do to a stranger, above all to an
_old_ person, answered her rudely, and went on to speak to her with
something very like absolute insult. That you called her an old beggar,
a tramp--I know not what;" here Anna Gale began sobbing audibly. Papa
took no notice, but went on coolly. "Furthermore, that you bound down
your companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least a
rather curious incident--strangers are not so common at Elmwood as all
that--you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about it
from _some_ motive. Your companion supposes you knew you had done
wrong, and that your conscience made you silent. Now, I shall be
pleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirely
unfounded; either that it is some strange mistake--or--or--no, _I_ can't
accuse other people's daughters of anything worse than making a
mistake."
He glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. I
seemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gaze
fell on me. And I think I was very pale, but while he spoke I don't
think my expression had changed or faltered. _Now_, however, when he
looked at me again, I felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still I
looked up.
"Yes, papa," I said; "it is all quite true. I spoke even worse than
that. I made Anna promise not to tell, and I have never told myself,
because I knew I had behaved disgracefully. But--but--I thought she was
some kind of a tramp--there are plenty of tramps about here." I stopped
for a second. "No," I went on, something seemed _pushing_ at me to tell
the whole truth, "no, I didn't think she was a tramp when she came
close. I thought she was from the almshouses. But she called me
`child,' and--and I was cross already, and I didn't think she was a
lady, and--yes, I said it all, worse than you know even. And I didn't
want any one ever to know."
Papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. He seemed turned to
stone. I could not bear it.
"Oh, papa!" I cried, stretching out my hands to him, "don't--don't
look--"
But he did not move. Only two arms were thrown round me and clasped me
tight. It was Mary.
"You should forgive her," she called out in a voice that was almost
fierce. "You _should_--everybody. She has told it all now bravely, and
she didn't mean it. She didn't know it was our aunt."
"Your aunt?" I gasped.
"Yes," said Captain Whyte, coming forward and speaking very gently. "My
aunt, Connie. You did not know it, but I fear you have injured us
irreparably, my poor child. She took you for Mary; she was coming to
see us, as a surprise on Evey's birthday--and now nothing will make her
believe it was _not_ Mary. You allowed her to think so."
"Yes; I suppose I did. I couldn't explain," I replied; "but she would
believe--she _must_--if you told her."
He shook his head.
"You cannot understand," he said, quietly.
I don't clearly remember what happened after this. I think Lady Honor
spoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. I remember
Anna going on sobbing till I turned to her.
"What are you crying for?" I said. "Nobody is vexed with you."
"I should have told sooner," she wept.
"Yes, I suppose you should. But it was my fault, not yours. Why can't
you be satisfied that it's I--only I--to blame? Everybody thinks me as
bad as I can be, but _you_ needn't go on. Did your father ever look at
you as papa did at me?"
I was growing desperate. Papa had walked out of the room without
speaking to me. I did not know any one heard what I said to Anna till I
felt some one's arm passed round me. It was Mrs Whyte. Her pretty,
merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but the
kind, true brown eyes--Evey's eyes--were kind and true still.
"Don't speak like that, Connie dear," she said. "I am far more sorry
for you than for ourselves. I will come and see you to-morrow. I wish
I could go home with you now but poor Addie is so ill;" and I saw the
tears glistening.
Then I found myself in the hall, and in another moment in the carriage
again--alone! I heard Captain Whyte speak to the coachman.
"Take Miss Percy home, and then drive back to Todholes as fast as you
can," he said. "Dr Percy will be there."
I would have liked to say I could walk, and that the carriage might go
after papa at once, but I was too stupified. I think if all the village
children had turned out and hooted after me as I drove along I should
not have been surprised. I had only one thought--however wicked and
horrid other people thought me, _mamma_ would still love me. But for
all that I hardly felt as if I could have kept my senses.
Perhaps I had better explain here how it had all happened and why,
naughty as I had been, what was after all in itself but a trifling
matter was considered so very seriously.
The old lady I had insulted was Mrs Fetherston, Captain Whyte's own
aunt. She had been many years a childless widow, was very rich and very
peculiar. She was rich partly through her husband, partly because the
Whytes' family place was hers, left her by her father, for the property
was not entailed. She had another nephew, Major Hugo Whyte, who as well
as Captain Whyte had been partly brought up by her. But Captain Whyte
had always been her favourite, and though he himself was younger than
Major Whyte, his father had been older than Hugo Whyte's father, so Mrs
Fetherston made him her heir. There was no jealousy between the two
cousins; they loved each other dearly. Major Whyte went into the army
while Captain Whyte was still at school, and he was out in India when a
quarrel occurred between the old lady and her favourite nephew. She
wanted him to give up his profession, the navy, and live at home with
her, doing nothing; she also, I _think_, wanted him to marry some girl
he did not care for. He would not consent to either, and he would marry
Mrs Whyte! So Mrs Fetherston disinherited him and put his cousin in
his place. At first, he did not much care; he was very happy in his own
home, and his aunt still continued his allowance. It was not a very
large one, and as time went on and so many children came, it began to
seem a very small one. At last he was forced to retire on half-pay. He
had a little money of his very own, and Mrs Whyte had a little, and
Major Whyte helped them as much as he could, though he was not, at
present, rich himself. He also was always trying to soften his aunt to
them; she had no real cause for disliking Mrs Whyte, who was very
well-born indeed, only not rich. It was in consequence of one of Hugo
Whyte's letters that the queer old lady at last determined to see her
nephew's family for herself, and to pay them a surprise visit. Then--
you know what happened.
Soon after Yvonne's unfortunate birthday, Major Whyte, who had not been
well for long--he was a delicate man, and had had much active service--
got worse, and in consequence of this, as you may remember my
overhearing at Lady Honor's party, he came home. He had seen by his
aunt's letters that she was more bitter than ever against "Frank" and
his family, but he did not know why till he saw her, and she told him
the whole. He was dreadfully sorry; he did not think himself likely to
live long, and his one wish was to see his cousin reinstated. For Mrs
Fetherston was quite capable, if he died, of leaving everything, even
the Whytes' own old place, to some charity, away from Captain Whyte
altogether. Hugo Whyte wrote to his cousin explaining what had
happened, never doubting, of course, but that the rude little girl was
Mary! Poor Mary at once denied it, and it became evident there was some
strange mistake. Captain Whyte went off to consult Lady Honor, whose
quick wits set to work to disentangle the riddle.
"There were two little girls," she said. And that very day she saw Mr
Gale and had a long talk with him. Mr Gale, in turn, had a long talk
with Anna. Anna, it must be remembered, had only promised "not to tell"
of our adventure conditionally; and she had often felt uneasy about it.
In one sense it was a relief to her to _have_ to tell; but she got more
than her share of punishment, poor girl, I shall always think. Lady
Honor was unwilling to tell papa about it. She knew how sensitive he
was, and how he would take it to heart. So a letter was sent to Major
Whyte, explaining the mistake, and asking her to allow Captain Whyte to
take his two girls to see her. But the old lady had got an obstinate
fit. She would not believe that the culprit was not Mary.
Then at last Lady Honor told papa. He took it up very seriously, just
as she had feared, _too_ seriously in one sense, though I well deserved
all the blame I got.
And another long letter was despatched to poor Major Whyte, who ill as
he was, was determinedly trying to put things right.
The answer to this letter did not come for some days. But I have
forgotten one part of the sad business. Not only was no birthday
present or Christmas present sent to Yvonne by her godmother, but for
the first time no cheque was received by Captain Whyte's bankers from
Mrs Fetherston. Her rancour had gone the length of stopping his
allowance! No wonder the poor Yew Trees people were anxious. And this
was _my_ doing.