AT the same hour, some four hundred miles away, Kitty’s absence was being
felt. It was time to open the post office, and John Corrie was realizing
that he would have more than enough to do until he secured a new
assistant—whom he would have to pay!
Corrie had just opened the shop. Outside the boy was cleaning the
windows; inside Miss Corrie was setting things straight on the provision
counter. He himself was bending at the open safe, taking out the usual
supplies of silver and copper for the tills. These were contained in
ancient battered pewter mugs, and now he laid the mugs on the floor
preparatory to closing and locking up the safe.
An impatient knocking came from the post office, and he cursed under his
breath. But it was already five minutes past eight, and it would never
do to have talk about the office not being opened punctually. Rising, he
called to his sister to look after the money, and hastened away to admit
the knocker.
Miss Corrie moved listlessly towards the safe. Her face had a drawn
look. She had not slept. She had spoken scarce a word to her brother
since Kitty’s departure, and neither she nor Sam, whom she had helped
with the sorting this morning, had referred to the previous evening’s
affair. Sam and Corrie had not yet met.
But, a yard from the safe, the woman’s listlessness vanished, her face
flamed, and then went more pallid than ever. Never before had her
brother done such a thing!!—gone out of the shop, leaving his keys in the
safe. Her opportunity at last!
She ran softly to the door that opened on the post office and put her ear
to it. Several persons were demanding the postmaster’s attention. There
was time as well as opportunity! She darted back to the safe . . .
opened it, then the drawer on the left . . . searched . . . and found
what she sought—the letter written to her brother by Kitty’s father when
he was dying. She hid it in her bosom, to read when she might safely do
so. She left the safe as she had found it, took up the mugs of money and
proceeded to supply the tills with change. The letter seemed to scorch
her breast. She could not wait.
Summoning the boy, she bade him keep an eye on the shop for a few
minutes, and passed into the cottage. In the kitchen, she seated herself
at the hearth and, quaking, took out the letter. The only portion which
concerns us is the following:—
“You may perhaps find nothing in the enclosed share certificates
(which, please note, are ‘bearer’) but a fresh evidence of my folly
in worldly matters. Still, the Zenith Gold Mine is the only thing of
the kind I ever put hard-earned money into. There are 5,000 £1
shares, and I paid 2s. apiece for them, and at the moment they are
unsaleable. I acted on the advice of a friend who had seen the
property, and who had knowledge of such things. He was convinced
that the mine would come right in time—meaning years—and pay big
dividends. Well, he may have been all wrong, and I the silliest of
poor fools; but now, John, I put the shares in your keeping as a
‘possibility’ for Kitty, when she comes of age. I have never
mentioned them to her—certainly not with any reference to herself—for
I don’t want her to be more disappointed in me than I can help. Give
them to her when she is twenty-one, and show her this letter, and if
by any chance they are worth money then, or later, she will at least
repay you what she may have cost you—though, of course, I am hoping
she will earn enough to do that as she goes along.
“N.B.—Should you hear of the shares rising before then, you will just
use your discretion, and do the best you can for my girl.”
Miss Corrie swayed as though she would fall. “So that’s why he would
never let me read it properly!” she muttered. “Oh, John Corrie, what ha’
ye done!”
After a little while she obtained control over her body. “What made him
keep a thing like that? It should ha’ been burned—burned and forgot!”
She reached forward, held the letter over the fire—and drew it back.
“But what if he misses it from the safe?”
In miserable uncertainty she began to re-read the document. In the midst
of it she went rigid. Her brother was coming through the shop, calling
her. Her fingers fumbled at her bodice. Too late! In her panic her eye
was caught by the morning’s paper lying on the floor at her side. She
snatched it up, pushed the letter into the folds, and made pretence of
reading.
“What’s wrong wi’ ye?” said Corrie, entering.
“I was just looking at the price of Zeniths,” she stammered.
“Away and attend to the post office,” he returned. “I mun be in the shop
this forenoon. . . . D’ye hear me?”
“Aye.” To take the paper with her would be sheer madness, she reflected
quickly; besides he was done with it. She would come back for it at the
first opportunity. Letting it fall where she had found it, she got up
and left the kitchen.
He followed her, growling.
* * * * *
At half-past eleven, the morning delivery finished, Sam, as was his
custom, came into the shop to purchase a paper.
“There’s no’ one left,” said the boy.
From the opposite counter, where he was serving a customer, Corrie called
to the boy—
“Ye’ll get one in the house.” It was not the first time he had sold his
own paper to the postman.
So presently the boy came back with the paper, and Sam, folding it up,
put it in his pocket, and went home to see what was happening in the
great world.