"No, mamma," I said. "I have a feeling that we mustn't wait. There
_can't_ be any harm in it. It is my duty to apologise. I could write
her a letter, but that would not be the same good. I will not go to her
to say `I'm not Mary'; I will just say I am the little girl that was so
rude to her."
Mamma considered.
"But if she refuses to see us," she said. I saw she was yielding.
"Oh well, then--I don't know. But any way I will have _tried_. Do you
know her address, mamma?"
"I know the square she lives in, and the name is not common. We can
easily find the number in any address-book when we get there. But,
Connie--"
I stopped any further misgivings by kissing her. And seeing me look so
much happier, mamma had not the heart to say anything more against it.
I need not explain what it was I wanted to do, more particularly, for I
think any one who reads this will understand. I will just go on to tell
exactly what happened.
The next morning--it was a fine day; how glad I was of that!--saw mamma
and me comfortably installed in a first-class railway-carriage, _en
route_ for London. We had no luggage, for we were only going up for the
day--Elmwood is only two hours from Victoria. When we got there mamma
hailed a four-wheeler--_I_ would rather have had a hansom, but mamma is
rather nervous about hansoms, and after all I was scarcely in the humour
to care much--and told the man to drive first to one of the big shops
she knew well. There she got an address-book and found out old Mrs
Fetherston's number, and off we set again. We scarcely spoke--I was
growing so nervous--not out of fear for myself, but lest possibly it
should all fail!
At last the cab drew up in front of a large, regular London house. We
got out. The door was opened by a footman, and further back in the hall
were one or two other men-servants. It was a stately, rather
old-fashioned house. How strange to think that it belonged to the queer
old woman I had so mistaken!
"Is Mrs Fetherston at home?" mamma inquired. It was now about
half-past two; we had chosen the time well. The footman hesitated.
"I think my mistress is at home," he said, "but she don't see many
visitors." Mamma smiled so sweetly that he could not help adding: "I
can inquire if--"
"Perhaps you had better take my card to her, as it is really on
business. And pray say I will not detain her many minutes."
At the word "business" the man hesitated again; but he saw that we had
kept the cab; that did not look much like ladylike impostors. "Will you
step in?" he began again.
In her turn mamma hesitated.
"We could wait in the cab," she said to me doubtfully. But it was a
very cold day.
At that moment a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man--a gentleman, I
mean--crossed the hall.
"Shut the door, David," he said hastily. But then seeing us there he
came forward a little way, courteously, "I beg your pardon, won't you
come in?"
We did so, sufficiently at least for David to shut the door; then the
man turned to the gentleman to explain the state of the case.
"Do come in," the gentleman repeated, throwing open the door of a
library which looked warm and comfortable.
"I am half afraid Mrs Fetherston--"
Mamma and I glanced at each other. She was going to speak, I think, but
I forestalled her.
"Major Whyte," I said, "please may we tell you about it? Mamma--mamma
is Mrs Percy," I added.
He was very quick-witted. He seemed to know in an instant. Indeed,
though we did not hear that till afterwards, he had that morning got a
letter from his cousin, explaining the mystery of "Mary's" strange
behaviour! And in another moment we were in the library with him, the
door closed, and David told to wait till he was rung for, while mamma
told our story. Major White listened most attentively while mamma,
clearly and without hesitation--except just once, and that was at the
part about my naughty rudeness, when she stopped and glanced at me; "I
need not say how deeply Constantia has grieved over this," she said--
related everything. The only sound besides her voice was Major Whyte's
cough, the sort of cough one cannot bear to hear. And when she stopped,
for a minute or two he could not speak for coughing; his thin brown face
grew so painfully red, and he seemed to shake all over. How sorry I
felt for him!
Mamma waited quietly. Then glancing round she caught sight of a carafe
of water and a glass on the side-table. She poured some out and brought
it to him.
"Thank you--so much," he said, and in a little he was able to speak
again.
"I see it all, of course," he said. "It is brave of your daughter to
have come herself, Mrs Percy, and it seems to me it was the best thing
to do. There is certainly a very strong likeness between her and Mary,
though I have not seen Mary for four years. If I had been told you were
Mary," he went on, turning to me with a smile, "I think I should have
believed it. Now, have you the courage to beard the--to come with me to
Mrs Fetherston alone? I think, perhaps, that is the best chance."
Mamma and I looked at each other, and Major Whyte looked at us both.
"Yes," I said, "I'll come alone, if it's best."
"Bravo," said our new friend--I felt he was a friend at once--and he
held out his hand to me in a way I could not resist or resent, though
generally I stood on my dignity a good deal. "We had been thinking of
trying a rather desperate experiment to bring my poor aunt to her
senses," he said. "But I believe your effort will be more successful."
We left the room together, he and I. I followed him upstairs to the
first floor, and through two big drawing-rooms into a third and smaller
one at the back. In he stalked, coughing a little now and then; in I
crept after him. A big fire was blazing, an armchair was drawn close to
it, and on, or rather in, the armchair, which almost seemed to swallow
her up, was seated a small dark figure. She was reading the newspaper.
"What is it, Hugo?" she said, at the sound of my conductor's footsteps.
"There you are again, in and out as usual, exposing yourself to every
draught, of course."
The sharp tones, the queer, black, unnatural-looking curls were all too
familiar to me. I could not help shivering a little.
"Aunt Angela," he said--only fancy _that_ being her name!--"I have
brought a young lady to see you," and he drew me forward a little. "You
have seen her before,"--piercing eyes were upon me by this time--"but
perhaps I can best introduce her and best explain her visit by telling
you she is _not_ your great-niece, Mary Whyte."
He stood still to watch the effect of his audacity. The old lady began
to tremble a little, though she tried to hide it. But this gave me
courage, because it made me sorry for her.
"Who--who are you then? Who do you say you are?" she said, in a shaky,
quavering voice.
I came towards her and stood full in the light such a light as there is
on a winter's day in a London back-drawing-room--I pushed my hat back--
it fell off, and my fair hair came tumbling over my face. Major Whyte
picked up my hat; I shook back my hair. The old lady could see me quite
plainly.
"You will remember my face, I think?" I said, gently. "My name is
Connie--Constantia Percy--papa is Dr Percy. He is the doctor at
Elmwood; everybody there knows us. I have come to--to apologise to you
_very_ much for being so rude to you that day. I was in a bad temper
before I met you. I don't think I'd have been so rude--and--and
unkind--to a stranger, if it hadn't been for that I do hope you will
forgive me."
She looked at me still for some seconds, without speaking. Then she
turned to her nephew.
"I can see now that there is no real likeness to Frank," she said
coolly. "Still the mistake was a very natural one, meeting her where I
did, and the superficial resemblance of colouring, and so on, to what
you had told me of the second girl, and to her photograph."
"Yes," said Major Whyte, his face flushing nervously, "the original
_mistake_ was natural enough, Aunt Angela: that is to say, if you could
imagine, which I _couldn't_, that one of Frank's girls could have
behaved so; but after you were assured that it _was_ a mistake, when
they absolutely denied it--" he stopped--his indignation had carried him
further than was prudent. He had hit Mrs Fetherston hard; he had hit
some one else hard too. Indeed, I think he had forgotten I was there.
But I was too much in earnest to resent the unflattering inference of
his words.
"You could not think me like Mary if you saw us together," I said
eagerly. "She is ever, _ever_ so much prettier, and, _of course_, just
as good as I am naughty. It is quite true, neither she nor Yvonne could
have behaved as I did."
My voice began to break as I said the last words; the long strain was
beginning to tell on me. I felt the tears coming, and I tried to choke
them down. I knew Mrs Fetherston's keen eyes were on me.
"My dear," she said--I could scarcely have believed her voice could have
been so different--"there are worse little girls in the world than you.
I freely forgive you what I have to forgive. Some day I _may_ see you
and Mary together."
Major Whyte started and a bright look of pleasure lighted up his face.
"Aunt Angela," he began joyfully. Then I think the remembrance of what
he had said came over him suddenly, for he turned to me.
"My dear child," he said, "you must forgive me. I forgot."
"No, no, please," I said, though I was crying by this time. "I don't
mind; it was quite true."
But at that moment we were all startled by a knock at the door--this
room was the old lady's private sitting-room and a man-servant, not
David--an older one--appeared in answer to Mrs Fetherston's "Come in."
"A--a gentleman to see Major Whyte, if you please, ma'am," he said;
adding in a lower tone, "I think it's something rather particular."
Major Whyte turned to go, but a fit of coughing interrupted him.
"My poor boy, you are killing yourself," said his aunt; "Freeland, bring
the gentleman up here if it is anything particular. Your master can't
go running up and down stairs in this way."