THEN—
I was so taken aback with the question, I sat and stared at Mary.
For it was about the last thing in the world I looked for, that she
should offer to take a message from me to her brother.
"Am I to say—nothing?" she asked.
It rushed over me then how I'd been longing all the morning to let
him know that I had kept my promise. And I never waited to think
if that was the sort of message Mary had in her mind.
"Yes, please," I said, trembling. "Please tell Mr. Russell it wasn't
my fault."
I don't think I shall soon forget the astonished look that came over
Mary's face. She had got something she didn't expect; that was clear.
"What wasn't your fault?" said she.
"About—about its getting known," I whispered, twisting a corner
of the tablecloth into a little rope, and dreadfully afraid mother
would come back before I could explain. "I'm afraid he'll think it
was me, and indeed it wasn't. I never let out a word."
"Is that all you care for, Kitty?" said she, in a sad tone.
"No," I said, and I found it hard to speak. "No, I do care, and I am
sorry. It's been wrong, I know. Only—I can't bear him to think—"
"Walter's thinking either way is worth very little, poor weak boy
that he is," said she. "Kitty, have you never thought how all this
has been in the sight of God?"
I said "Yes," very low; and it was true, for I had not forgotten
that. Only it had weighed second with me, not first; and so Mary
understood.
"Perhaps you have thought in a passing way, but you have not cared,"
said she. "At least, not much. Not half so much as you have cared
about what people may say of you."
If she had said "Walter" instead of "people," she would have been
in the right.
"I don't know," was all I could answer.
After a minute, she began again.
"What am I to say to Walter about your watch?"
I began to see what sort of a message Mary had meant, and I didn't
speak.
"Mind, Kitty," said she, "your words may have power one way or
another—for good or for evil. I don't say they will have, for I'm not
sure whether you have any power at all over Walter; but they may.
Most people have some sort of power over pretty nearly every one
else. Walter has robbed you. What am I to say?"
"Oh, not robbed," I said.
"He has robbed you," she said again firmly. "It is no thanks
to Walter that you have the watch again. He has acted with downright
dishonesty, and nothing less. He got the watch from you on false
pretences—yes, false!" she repeated, as I whispered "O no!" again.
"He is my own brother, but that is no reason for explaining away
the sin. Because I love him, I am only the more grieved. Loving him
can't make me love evil. I want you to look the truth in the face;
not to mince matters. No good is ever gained by saying that black
is white. Walter robbed you of your watch, under pretence
of borrowing it."
Yes, she was stern; she could be almost hard. At least, I tried
to think so, trying still to defend Walter in my heart.
"But he didn't mean—" I murmured.
"Didn't mean to rob you! My dear, he meant to get a certain amount
of money somehow; he cared very little how. What you might lose or
suffer was quite a small matter. Kitty,—if I could open your eyes
to understand him!"
I had a sort of side-peep of mother putting her head round the door,
and going away again. It flurried me so, I didn't know what to say.
And I was angry with Mary too. Why must she make the very worst
of everything to do with Walter?
"He meant to bring it back to me," I said.
"To bring back the watch! After he had sold it!"
"Perhaps he didn't really quite sell it," I whispered.
"He sold it, quite and really," says she. "How could he sell it
only half? You are fighting against truth, trying to believe in him
still," says she. "Will anything persuade you, short of coming to the
jeweller's with me?"
I said "O no!" to that.
"No, you don't want to go—is that it? Then will you take my word?
He sold the watch and chain for more money than he was in need of,
and spent a lot in useless nothings. That is Walter all over! Do you
think I don't know him now, after all these years?"
I didn't make any answer.
"It is the old story," says she sorrowfully; "only worse. And I did
hope things were going to be better. Kitty, you have been helping him
along the downward path, deeper into evil. If you really cared
for him, you could not have done so."
"O no!" I said again. "Not—"
"Helping him downward into evil," said she. "Nothing less! Helping
him farther along the road of deceit and dishonesty, and letting him
teach you to deceive. If only you had stood firm when he tempted you,
there'd have been sin spared on both sides. It is one of the saddest
tales I have ever heard," said she. "One of the saddest, after the
training you have had—and with such a father and mother! Perhaps you
fancy you gave in because you like Walter. He's nice-looking, and he
can say pretty things to girls. But it's a poor sort of 'liking'
for a person, that can make you help forward the evil in him. And I,
his sister, don't thank you for the harm you have done. Some day
you will repent it too."
Then she stopped, as if to give me time to speak; and I said nothing.
I was angry still, and shamed and unhappy; and if I might not defend
Walter, I would not answer at all. So after a minute she said softly—
"Good-bye, Kitty. I shall pray for you."
Then she went away out of the room, leaving me alone; and I didn't
follow nor see her again, for she went by the train that passed in a
quarter of an hour.
Mother brought her work in soon, and sat down at the table. We had
a lot of mending to got through, and I knew it had to be done. I felt
half wild, as the minutes dragged on, and the clock ticked, and not a
word was said. It seemed to my fancy as if mother wouldn't trust me,
and was keeping guard. I longed to get away somewhere alone, for a
good cry; yet I didn't dare to stir.
I can remember how mother looked, sitting still sideways towards me,
her fingers stitching on and on steady as a machine, and her eyes
never lifting themselves. She had such a quietness in her face, as if
she was waiting and expecting something.
It must have been near two hours that we kept like that, both of us
working, and not saying a word. But at last I couldn't bear myself
any longer. I was aching all over, and restlessness wouldn't be held
down. I dropped the table-cloth I was mending, and leant back in my
chair.
Mother looked up then slowly, and fixed her eyes on me, like one
coming out of a dream. She didn't ask if I was poorly, nor say I'd
better go for a run, as was her way commonly; but she seemed to be
trying to find out something; and all at once she said—
"Kitty, have you promised Mr. Russell to be his wife some day?"
"No, mother," I said, getting as red as fire.
"He has asked you, I suppose?" said she.
"No, mother," I said.
Mother gazed at me still, and sighed. "It's not much use putting
questions," said she. "How am I to know it's truth you tell me?"
"Oh, but—" I said. "I wouldn't—"
"You wouldn't tell more fibs than happens to be convenient,"
said she; and I hadn't often heard harder words from mother.
"No, I dare say not," says she. "But you see I mightn't know when it
was convenient."
"Mother, I wish you wouldn't talk so," I said, feeling wretched.
"I dare say," says she. "And I wish I had a child again that I could
believe in. I could have stood anything better than that—anything,
I do think," said she. "It's like losing my Kitty that I've always
trusted, and having somebody else instead."
"I'll never tell a story again," I said earnestly. "Never! I won't
really."
"No," said she, sorrowful-like. "You don't mean to—maybe."
And I saw she hadn't a grain of confidence in me. Was it any wonder?
"You say Mr. Russell never asked you to marry him. Then what did go
on between you two?" said she. "If you are minded to begin speaking
the truth, tell me all out plain now."
She looked so anxious, leaving her work, and waiting to hear. And I
was all in confusion, not knowing what I might or mightn't say.
Perhaps I ought rather to put it, that I was puzzled between my wish
to please mother and not to say a word that Mr. Russell could mind.
"He was—so good to me," I whispered.
"How?" said she.
"He was—kind," I said.
"That won't do, Kitty. I must hear more, if I hear anything,"
said she. "Did he ever ask you to marry him?"
"No," I said; and that was true. "He only—"
"Well? He only—what?" said she.
"He only seemed—to think—to think—I liked him," said I, stumbling.
"That's truth, I don't doubt," said she; and she repeated the words:
"Only seemed to think you liked him! I'd like to have seen the man,
when I was a girl, who'd have dared to seem to think I liked him,
before he'd made it pretty plain how much he liked me! But I don't
know what's come over the girls nowadays. They haven't a scrap
of self-respect."
"O but, mother, he did seem—" I began, and stopped.
"Did seem what?" says she. "Did seem to think he liked you too?
Is that all?"
I wouldn't speak, for I remembered how I'd promised not to tell.
"There's a deal of 'seeming,'" said she. "Seeming this and seeming
that! A few honest-spoken words would be worth a lot more than all
the seeming. Kitty, did he ever tell you he loved you?"
"Not—not exactly," I whispered.
"No, not exactly, I'll be bound," says she. "Just enough to win
a silly girl's heart, and just little enough to leave himself free!
I know the ways of that sort."
And wasn't it true?
"But I'm sure he did mean—" I began, and stopped again.
"Did mean what?" said she.
"He did call me 'his own little Kitty,'" I whispered, in a shamefaced
way. Mother's questioning put my promise out of my head again. I was
getting to feel all in a whirl.
"And you let him!" said she.
I shan't soon forget the quiet tone, and the contempt of it.
"You let him call you that, before even he'd asked if you would marry
him!" says mother.
"I thought—he seemed—" I whispered.
"There you are again, with your thinking and seeming," said she.
"Nothing open nor aboveboard."
"He did say—something," I muttered. "He did say something—something
about—he hoped some day—and if he was to ask me—"
"If he was to ask you what?" says she.
But I didn't go on.
"If he was to ask you to marry him?" says she. "But he didn't ask
you! That's the last thing you said. Whichever am I to believe?"
"He didn't ask me to marry him—really—truly —mother," I answered.
"He only said something about—he'd like some day—and—and if he was
to ask me—would I—"
And then I fell into a fright.
"O I oughtn't to have said so much. I promised him I wouldn't."
"That's a nice state of things," says she. "A man making you
an offer, and you not to tell your own mother!"
"Only not just yet," I pleaded. "And it wasn't—that—it wasn't truly,
mother. He didn't ask—that! He only said—if he was to ask—by-and-by—"
"Piece of impertinence!" said she.
"Mother! you don't understand, and I can't make you," I said.
"I understand part," says she; "and that is, he took precious good
care to keep himself free. 'If he was to ask you,' indeed!
Impertinence!" says she again, and I don't know as I'd ever before
seen mother so hot. "Catch a man in my young days," says she, "asking
if I'd hold myself ready to say 'yes,' the moment he chose to ask me—
if so be he ever did ask! I'm in doubt whether to be most amazed
at him or at you, Kitty," says she.
"I oughtn't to have told; I promised him I wouldn't. Mother! Don't
tell father," I begged. She sat looking at me in a sort of wonder.
"Asking me not to tell father!" says she. "Kitty, are you crazy?
or d'you suppose I'm crazy?"
Then, between one worry and another, and having had so much on my
mind, I turned queer and ill again, worse than the day before. Mother
helped me upstairs, and made me lie down on my bed. She was kind
as could be, and did all I needed; only there wasn't the tenderness
I was used to, and I did miss it.
I couldn't go downstairs again that afternoon nor evening.
I couldn't, partly because I felt bad, and partly because I dreaded
what father would say. Mother let me do as I wished. She didn't press
me either way. And father never came to my room at all. It was the
first time I could remember father not coming to see how I was,
when I had not been well.
Next morning I had breakfast in bed, for I couldn't sleep much; and I
didn't hurry going down after, so father was off first.
Half-way through the morning Mr. Armstrong came in. He had heard
from father something of what had happened, and he said he had called
to ask me all about it. Mother just said, "Yes, thank you, sir.
Kitty 'll take you into the parlour."
I didn't like that, but I had to go. Mr. Armstrong was very gentle,
and never spoke hard words; but all the same—perhaps all the more
because of the gentleness—I cared a deal more for what he said than
for most people.
He had been a kind friend to me all my life, and he had prepared me
for Confirmation only two years sooner. Somehow when he sat down near
me, I couldn't help thinking of the time I had seen him alone just
before my Confirmation, and how he had spoken of the life I was
to lead as a "servant of Jesus Christ;" and how I was to obey Him,
and love Him, and set myself to please Him in everything I did. I had
little thought then how soon I was to be led into a crooked path
of deceit. It was curious the remembrance of that time coming just
then into my head. I expected Mr. Armstrong to begin asking me a lot
of questions, and I was determined I wouldn't let out more than
I could help about Walter Russell. But instead of beginning with
questions, Mr. Armstrong kept silence a minute, as if he wanted
to give me time. And then he said—
"'My duty towards my neighbour is—to be true and just in all my
dealings—to keep my tongue from lying!'"
I knew those words well enough, of course.
Mother had taught me the Catechism through and through from almost
my babyhood, and I knew my way about in it blindfold, if one may
speak so. As I say, I was thinking already of my Confirmation, and
all the teaching I'd had before; and these words seemed to bring back
a great wave-like of the feelings I'd had then, and how I had longed
and resolved always to do right and to please God.
"I think you have forgotten that lately, Kitty," says Mr. Armstrong.
I whispered a "Yes."
"Forgotten everything except just having your own will," says he.
"Nothing surer to land one in evil than putting first how to please
self. If the thought of pleasing God comes second, it soon ends
by being nowhere."
And I said "Yes" again, for I knew it was true.
He spoke most beautiful to me after that, not putting a great many
questions, but talking in a gentle way, like a father might talk.
He said how grieved and disappointed my father and mother were, and
how good they'd always been to me, and how sad it was I should grieve
them. That made my tears come fast, and he stopped and looked at me.
"No," said he. "She is not hardened. It isn't hardness." And then
he says, "Kitty," says he, "you want to get back into the right road,
don't you? I know you do," says he.
"Yes," I whispered.
"And you are sorry too," says he.
I said "Yes" again.
"And you'll tell your father and mother so, Kitty?"
"Yes," I sobbed; "only—"
"But there mustn't be any 'only,'" says he. "You've got to give up
your own way, and be ready to have God's way—and that means
submitting to your parents," says he. "No good to talk of being sorry
without submitting too. You must tell your father and mother
you won't go against them, nor hide anything again. Repentance means
turning from evil. It doesn't mean just saying you're sorry, and
going on still in the same way."
I knew this; but still the thought of Walter came up.
Mr. Armstrong went on next to speak of the sin of my conduct
towards God. He spoke of the dreadful nature of untruth, and how God
looked upon falsehood. He told me of the danger of it, and how if
I got entangled in paths of deceit, I should be dragged down and
down, nobody could tell how low. Then he reminded me of my
Confirmation, and how I had solemnly promised to serve Christ the
Lord.
"But this isn't serving Christ," he said sadly. "This has been
serving the evil one." And he said how I must have grieved the gentle
Spirit of God by what I'd done, till I felt as if my heart would
break with listening to him.
"Kitty, don't you be half and half now," said he; "don't let it be
a sham repentance. Be real and thorough, whatever else you are.
Make up your mind to give up all, to let everything go, rather than
grieve the Holy Spirit any more. Don't cling to your own way.
It isn't worth while! The things you have cared for lately are not
worth having when you get them. The cost is too great. It is not
worth while, Kitty," says he again, and I couldn't afterward forget
the tone of those words. "There's so much to lose on the one side,
and so little to gain on the other."
But the bonds were holding me yet. While I listened I was touched;
still I felt that, if the choice was mine, I couldn't choose to give
up Mr. Russell. Mr. Armstrong's words pulled hard; and in the midst
of them came a great pull the other way—a sudden thought of Walter's
voice calling me "his own little Kitty." And I was dragged in half
between them—poor silly child that I was—turning from gold to hanker
after common dust!
I did promise faithfully to beg father's pardon next time I saw him;
but Mr. Armstrong couldn't get me to say all he wanted.
The rest of the morning I was in a quake, thinking what I had said
I would do, and so restless I didn't know how to settle to work.
Mother left me pretty much to myself: only I always felt she had
her eye upon me, as if I wasn't to be trusted out of sight.
Father came in at dinner-time, and I was tongue-tied, as if
I couldn't speak a word. Which was nonsense, for of course I could
speak. It was want of will, not want of power, that held me back.
And I had not prayed for help—at least, not freely and fully. I had
the feeling still that I couldn't give up Walter.
Dinner was another silent meal. Father helped me, but he didn't talk,
nor did mother. He looked so sad and downhearted, and once or twice
I heard him give a great sigh.
Well, at last he got up to go, and a sort of desperate feeling
came over me, that now was the turning-point, and that if I didn't
speak then perhaps I never should. Besides, if I didn't keep
my promise to Mr. Armstrong, nobody would ever believe me again.
And with all this I felt too, so strangely, that I couldn't make
myself, but God could make me; and I think I cried out in my heart
for help.
Oh me! to think what I should have felt, after, if I hadn't said
a word!
"Father!" I whispered, in a shaky sort of voice. He was near
the door, but he heard me, and he turned round, straight.
I've often thought since how much that one word means, and how
if we're sad or downhearted, or in trouble, or in temptation,
it's often enough to cry out, or even just to whisper— "FATHER!"
For that means everything, and the answer is sure.
I didn't say more. I was half choked, and couldn't. And perhaps
there was no need.
He seemed to understand in a moment all I meant to say. Quick as
possible he came back to where I sat, and took me in his arms,
and held me tight—oh, so tight—like as if he was taking me into his
heart. And the tears ran down his cheeks, dropping on my face.
"Kitty, you'll never do it again—never again!" says he hoarsely.
"No, no, I won't," I sobbed.
"And you're—sorry?" says he.
"O father, I'm so sorry," I got out, clinging to him.
I heard him mutter, "Thank God!" and then he broke down, and sobbed
too.
"There, that won't do," says he, trying hard to get over it. "I must
be off to—to the station," says he, while there was another great
heave of his chest, which I felt all through me. "Kitty, say that
once again; say you'll never—never—"
"O no—never!" I sobbed.
Then he put me from him, and started to go; and he came back,
unexpected, from the door, to catch me in his arms again, and hold me
tight to him—a thing he wasn't given to doing commonly.
After that he was gone; and I couldn't so much as look at mother.
I just rushed away up to my room, and cried there, fit to break
my heart.
For I knew it meant giving up Walter Russell. I knew father wouldn't
allow anything between him and me, after the way he had acted. I knew
I oughtn't so much as to wish for it—and yet I did wish. Now and
again the wish rolled up in a great wave, that seemed like to swamp
everything else; and then Mr. Armstrong's words would come,— "Not
worth while! not worth while! So much to gain, so little to lose!"
And I did pray to be kept straight, and not allowed to go back.
It must have been a good two hours I was upstairs alone, mother never
coming to interrupt me. Perhaps it's well she didn't. I was learning
something, alone there with my own thoughts and with God—something
maybe that had to be learnt to prepare me for the sorrow that lay
ahead.
When at last I went down, it was with red eyes and changed feelings.
Mother looked up at me from her work, and I saw a difference in the
look, more like I was used to.
I wanted to tell her too that I was sorry, and meant to do rightly;
but when I reached her side, I couldn't speak, I could only cry.
"Yes, I understand," says she, in her quiet fashion; "I understand,
Kitty."
But she didn't take me straight into her arms and to her heart,
like father. Mother was so unlike to father. I knew it would be
a good while before she'd feel for me as she was used to feel,
or give me the old trust. And I knew that would be my punishment.
"It's not good for you to cry so much," says she. "Come a turn in the
garden with me. That'll make you feel better."
Mother took up her red shawl, and we went out together. The fresh air
always did me good, and I knew mother was showing forgiveness too
in her own way. We didn't say anything, but went along the path
on the embankment to the end.
"This is where you were when you saw the truck that day," said she.
It wasn't the spot where I stood when I saw the truck first, but I
didn't see any need to contradict.
"I'm always thankful you had the sense to do your duty," says she.
"But I'm none too sure it was good for you—all the fuss that was made
about it."
"No, mother," I said.
"I don't hold with that sort of fuss," says she. Then, after standing
a minute, and looking at nothing particular, mother said—
"It isn't my way to make a lot of talk about what's done, and can't
be undone. But I've one thing to say."
"Yes, mother," says I, meek enough; and I knew what was coming.
"About that young Russell," says she.
"Yes, mother."
"Mind, Kitty—it's all over between you and him. If there ever
has been anything, which I've my doubts upon," says she, "it's over
now."
I didn't speak a word, for I was that choked, I couldn't.
"He's shown himself a liar and a cheat. I'd sooner see you in your
grave, Kitty, than give you over to him. Mind, I say it, and I mean
it," says she.
And then she touched my hand in a kind-like way, and said—
"It won't be long. You'll soon leave caring. There can't be love
without there's respect."
"I do love him," I sobbed. "And oh—I don't know how to bear it!"
"Catch me, when I was a girl, saying I loved a man before he'd said
he loved me!" I heard mother mutter to herself. "Whatever has come
over the girls nowadays! Not a scrap of proper self-respect."
But she touched my hand again, and patted it.
"Come! you've got to be brave," says she. "I wouldn't give in
too easy."
"I do mean—to try," I managed to say.
"Yes, I'm sure you do," says she. And she walked me back along the
path, and then again to the end, and back a second time.
How quiet and natural everything did seem! Looking back to that hour,
it is wonderful to me to think of us two, loitering out to and fro,
getting the fresh air, and having our talk, with never so much as a
fancy of what was just about to happen.
Isn't that how we go through life: step by step onward, none of us
able ever to see where the next step will land us? If it wasn't for
the thought of a Father's Hand over all, managing and arranging
for us, we should have good reason to be frightened.
Sometimes one does get frightened trying to peer ahead. But it was
not so with me just then. Nothing was farther from my mind than the
fear of any fresh trouble. It seemed to me I had enough to bear.
I was stepping along slowly beside mother, gazing down on the ground,
when suddenly mother stopped short, and I heard such a strange sound
from her! It was as if she wanted to speak, and couldn't. I looked up
quick, thinking she must be taken ill; and she was the most
extraordinary colour, not white, nor grey, but a mixture of both,
and her lips parted and stiff.
"Mother!" I began, in a frightened way; and it flashed over me how
if she was going to die it would be my fault for grieving her so.
But before I could say another word, the sound came again; and I saw
her eyes staring, and her hand pointing at something —something down
below, on the line, nearer the station.
Quick as lightning I turned my eyes down there, and saw the whole!
Folks say moments are all of the same length. I don't know. It don't
seem to me they can be. For that next moment was the longest I ever
lived through in my life. It stretched out and out in an awful way;
and yet it couldn't have been more than a moment. If it had been,
things would have ended different. There would have been time,
which there wasn't.
There's a danger to men always, near and about the line, which
outside folks don't understand. They're always within hearing
of trains, and they get so used to the sound that at last they don't
hear it, hardly. If they are not on the watch, a train might rush by
within a few yards, and they wouldn't notice the stir. It's natural,
seeing we get used to pretty near everything which we have always
in everyday life; but it means danger. Many a poor fellow has been
maimed, or even killed, just through being overmuch accustomed to the
station sounds, and so not hearing the train that was bearing down
upon him.
[Illustration: "I saw her staring and her hand pointing at something
on the line."]
Father was careful commonly, knowing the danger, which he'd sometimes
spoken about. But it's hard for a man to be always on the alert, and
that day in particular—ah me!—he had his mind full of something else.
When I looked, I saw all in an instant. I saw, too, that there was
nothing for me to do.
A train was coming along the curve from behind us towards the
station—one of the fast trains that didn't stop, but ran through.
Father was down on the line, just outside the station, calling out
something to a man at a little distance from him, on the other side.
Father's back was turned to us; and just before I saw him, he had
stepped unthinkingly back upon the rails, along which the train
was coming.
He only had to step forward again, and he was all right. But that was
just what he didn't think of doing.
I knew in one glance that father didn't see or hear. I saw the man
father was speaking to wave his arms, and shout a warning, but father
never took in what he meant. I noticed even that the driver and the
stoker of the coming engine were doing their best, calling out, and
sounding the whistle. But no use. It was all part of what father
was always hearing. His mind was off, somewhere else.
There wasn't time to stop the train before it must reach him. I knew
that. And I knew I could still less get to him; yet I think
I screamed, and ran forward. But the rush of the train which he
did not notice drowned all else.
Mother never stirred, and not another sound came from her.
Then—