We all waited, without speaking. Poor Major Whyte indeed seemed
exhausted by his cough. There was a feeling in the air, I think, as if
something strange were going to happen.
And in a very few moments there came the sound of footsteps up the
stairs, and then crossing the two big drawing-rooms. And then--the door
opened. Freeland murmured something, and I saw coming through the
doorway the familiar figure of Captain Whyte, and close behind him the
sweet fair face of dear Mary.
Major Whyte started up. He wrung his cousin's hand without speaking.
But I--what do you think I did? I seized Mary and dragged her forward.
Fancy _me_, naughty me, being the one to introduce Mary to her own aunt!
"Here she is," I cried; "now you _can_ see us together. This is Mary,
your own niece, Mrs Fetherston; you can see if what I said wasn't
true."
Mary _did_ look sweet, though she was shabbily dressed and very
frightened. In that grand house the old tweed jacket looked even
shabbier than at Elmwood. She clung to me, till I almost pushed her
into the old lady's arms.
"Kiss her, Mary. She's your own aunt. Oh, _do_" I whispered; "you
don't know what good it might do. Oh, do kiss her."
Perhaps the last three words were spoken more loudly in my excitement;
perhaps the old lady's ears were as sharp as her eyes! However it was,
she heard, and she smiled.
"Yes, _do_," she repeated, and she half held out her arms to Mary. "You
are not my special child, I suppose," she said. "Yvonne is my godchild;
but, oh, you are very like what Frank was. Frank," she added
tremulously, "my boy, Frank--are you not going to speak to me, too?"
He came to her at once; I turned away, and somehow or other I found
myself with Major Whyte in the outer room.
"Do you--do you really think it is going to be all right?" I could not
help saying to him.
He nodded; for a moment or two it seemed as if he could not speak, and I
think there were tears in his eyes. His voice was husky when he did
speak, but that might have been from his cough.
"Yes," he said, "I do--I do really hope so. _Thank God_."
And as I glanced up at his kind, worn face, there seemed to me to be a
light about it--a light such as one never sees save in the face of those
who have suffered much, and have learnt to thank God for both sorrow and
joy. I knew then that poor Major Whyte was not--as our simple
country-folk say--was not "long for this world." I never saw him again,
and I had never seen him before, but I have never forgotten him.
He took me downstairs to where mamma was anxiously waiting. He had
ordered tea for her and me; he knew we would be the better for it, he
said, before setting off on our cold journey back. He was so gentle and
considerate to mamma, telling her all that had happened upstairs as
frankly as if she had been an old friend--I always notice that people
who are quite, _quite_ well-bred, are so much franker than commoner
people, who make mysteries about nothing, and treat you as if your one
object in life was to get their secrets out of them--and he was quite
right, for she did indeed feel like one. And when we went away he took
both my hands in his _so_ nicely and thanked _me_--me, the naughty
horrid little mischief-maker. Was it not more than good of him? When
we were by ourselves in the cab I leant my head against mamma's shoulder
and burst into tears. I could not help it.
"All's well that ends well, my Connie--my little Sweet Content," she
said. But I could not help going on crying when I thought of poor Major
Hugo's thin face and his terrible cough, and of how much _I_ had added
to his troubles and anxieties by my naughtiness on Evey's birthday.
Papa came home the next day. We were longing to see him and to tell him
everything. I fancy mamma was just a little afraid of his thinking we
had been imprudent, though she did not say so to me, for fear of making
me anxious. I _was_ anxious all the same. We had heard nothing of the
Whytes, and mamma thought it better not to go to see them or send to the
Yew Trees till papa came home. We did not know what time to expect him;
his letter only said "to-morrow, as early in the afternoon as I can
manage it." I spent that afternoon principally at the dining-room
window, watching for him, which was very silly I know, and certainly did
not make the time pass quicker. But I really _could_ not settle down to
anything. Just fancy: I had not seen papa since he turned away from me
in silent, cold contempt in Lady Honor's drawing-room, though it was a
comfort to know that he had come up to my room that same night and
looked at me as I lay asleep.
When at last he _did_ come, I was, of course, not at my post: that is
always the way. I was in the drawing-room at afternoon tea with mamma.
I did not even hear his latchkey in the lock, as I often did. He was
standing at the drawing-room door, looking at us, before we knew he was
there!
All my plans of what I would say, how I would ask him to forgive me,
flew out of my head. I just rushed up to him and threw my arms round
him and burst into tears.
"Oh, papa, papa!" I said.
He did not repulse me; he did not speak for a moment, but I felt his
kind, firm clasp. Then he said:
"My poor little girl," and he stooped and kissed me. The kiss said
everything.
Mamma came forward.
"Tom, dear," she began, a little nervously, "we have a great deal to
tell you."
Poor little mamma--what a shame it was that she should be nervous, when
if she _had_ done anything imprudent it had only been for my sake!
But papa's first words took away all our fears.
"No, darling," he said. I liked to hear him call mamma "darling"; he
did not often do so, for he is not at all what is called
"demonstrative."
"No, you haven't; I know all you have to tell me, and a good deal more.
Indeed, I rather think I have a good deal to tell _you_. But first,
give me a cup of nice hot tea. It _is_ cold this afternoon;" and still
with his arm thrown round my neck, he came close up to the fireplace and
stood there, watching mamma as she poured out his tea in the nice neat
way she does everything.
"This is comfortable," said papa; "it's worth having a cold journey to
come home like this, especially when--when one has good news, too, to
bring back."