RESTITUTION.
Kitty, during her talk with Mrs. Wyndham, managed to inspire that good
lady with a great many of her own charming sentiments; in particular she
praised both Molly and Jessie, praising Jessie the most, as was but
natural, seeing that Jessie was her friend. It happened also that of the
two girls Jessie was her mother’s favourite. She was not nearly so
affectionate as Molly, but Mrs. Wyndham did not want gushing,
affectionate girls; as a matter of fact, she could not bear them. She
liked Jessie’s stately, quiet way, and considered it ladylike. Then
Kitty, feeling her way very quietly, approached the subject of the
adopted child, Peggy. She had to be careful here, for she knew she was
treading on dangerous ground. She was far too sharp not to have
penetrated already into the true state of the case. Mr. Wyndham was
devoted to Peggy, and Mrs. Wyndham could not bear her. But none the less
on that account might Kitty, apparently not knowing anything, confide a
few little things to Mrs. Wyndham about Peggy’s conduct at school.
At first Mrs. Wyndham pretended to be not at all interested, and in
short let the subject drop; but when Kitty said abruptly, “Well, I can’t
help it. I do think it’s awfully _partial_ of her,” Mrs. Wyndham’s cold
eyes seemed to blaze for a minute, and she said, with real interest in
her tone, “What do you mean? Whom are you speaking about?”
“I’m speaking about Mrs. Fleming, and I know a little girl oughtn’t to
speak against her mistress, ought she?”
“Certainly not.”
Kitty looked up attentively. There was no real anger in that emphatic
“not,” and there was a great deal of curiosity.
“She is sweet beyond words,” said Kitty, “and, of course, we all adore
her, but in that one case I do think she was partial—I do think it, I
do. We all feel alike about it in the school.”
“Really, Kitty, I ought not to listen to stories of that sort; but as
you have begun you may as well tell me what you are alluding to. What
has Mrs. Fleming done that you all consider partial?”
“Oh Mrs. Wyndham, you must know. She has moved Peggy Desmond into the
Upper School. Of course it was very sad for the poor little girl to
break her leg, and we’re none of us likely to forget it, but why that
should have given her the _entrée_ into the Upper School puzzles us all.
We feel a little—a little hurt about it. Of course she doesn’t know
anything like as much as the rest of us.”
“On the contrary,” said Mrs. Wyndham, “Mrs. Fleming has told my husband
that Peggy is very highly educated up to a certain point.”
“Oh well,” said Kitty, with a smile, “of course, when a girl has such
_shocking_ manners and speaks in the _awful_ way she does, one can
scarcely think her educated. I’m sure you agree with me, dear Mrs.
Wyndham. I often see you quite shudder when Peggy speaks, although you
keep it in so beautifully and bravely. Oh do let me settle this
_couvre-pied_ over you, your dear feet will get so cold! Now, isn’t that
comfy? Ah, I wish I had a mother to pet!”
Kitty suddenly went on her knees, took one of Mrs. Wyndham’s slender
hands, and pressed it to her lips. “You must forgive me,” she said, and
she raised dark eyes, brimful of tears, to the lady’s face.
“She is a dear little thing,” thought Mrs. Wyndham, “and how sensibly
she talks about Peggy; no rancour or bitterness, but just the feelings
of a nice, ladylike girl. I like her very much indeed. I am glad my
children should have her as a friend.”
“Kitty,” said Mrs. Wyndham, after a long pause, “can you throw any light
on that mystery of how poor Peggy broke her leg?”
Kitty dropped her long eyelashes and remained silent. After a minute she
raised her eyes and fixed them on the lady’s face.
“I _could_ tell something, but—I mustn’t.”
“Indeed, my dear! You mean you could explain this mystery? I understand
that it has caused a great deal of misery in the school.”
“Oh indeed, indeed it has. Ah, if you only knew half, if I could tell
you, if I _could_ confide in you! We of the Lower School have all been
rendered miserable on account of it. Dear Mrs. Wyndham, you don’t know
what we have lived through, how we have been suspected, and even now are
suspected! But we’ve made up our minds, we will at any risk keep our
knowledge to ourselves. We have quite made up our minds.”
“But is that right or fair, Kitty? Is it right that you should allow
wickedness to go on unpunished in your midst?”
“Oh, please, please, I can’t explain; I oughtn’t to have said as much as
I did, only you are so sympathetic! There, I must not say any more. You
see, if we are patient all may come right, and we cannot ruin people,
can we?”
Mrs. Wyndham looked distressed, and Kitty thought it well to change the
subject.
The next day was Christmas Day, which was kept in a truly old-fashioned
style, and each girl and boy staying in the house received various and
handsome presents. Kitty came off very well indeed, with boxes of
handkerchiefs and a case of lovely scent, to which she was very partial.
Mrs. Wyndham gave her a lovely little coral necklace, which exactly
suited her piquant appearance.
Mr. Wyndham, standing at the head of the breakfast table on Christmas
morning, said, “My dear children, I am anxious to give you all what you
really want. I think it a mistake to give presents that are not useful;
for instance, one girl may adore books, and another not care a bit about
them, and so on. So I determined to wait until Christmas Day, and then
to ask you all to write down on a piece of paper what you wish most for,
and, if possible, and within my means, I will give it to you.”
The children all looked rather surprised at this speech, and one or two
were even a little disappointed; but Kitty’s eyes glowed with intense
pleasure, for a sudden thought darted through her mind. Soon after
breakfast she found herself alone with Peggy.
“What are you going to ask for, Peggy?” she remarked.
“To be sure, I have it fixed up,” answered Peggy, “but for certain I’m
not going to enlighten ye.”
“Peggy,” said Kitty, in her most coaxing voice, “why should you always
be so cross and disagreeable to me? I can’t make it out, I really
can’t.”
“Can’t ye?” answered Peggy. “I thought ye had the ordinary amount of
brains; but if ye haven’t I’m sorry for ye, poor thing. I can’t
enlighten ye, if the reason doesn’t blazon in your face.”
Kitty gave a heavy sigh. “There’s no use,” she said. “I’m always trying;
there’s not a bit of use. There’s Aunt Gloriana now, as bad as she can
be with bronchitis, and wanting money terribly, and I haven’t five
shillings in the world, and yet it will look _so_ bad if I ask that my
present should be money. It is money I want more than anything in the
world; even a little sum like five pounds would put me right, for, you
see, I’ve got to leave here in a few days, and I’m not exactly sure
where I’ll be going when I do leave.”
“I thought for sure ye were going to the Dodds,” said Peggy.
“I wish I could, but nothing is settled. Don’t you say a word to them
when they come here to-night, will you, Peggy?”
“Not me, to be sure, but if it’s money you want, why don’t you say so?
Uncle Paul won’t mind.”
“Couldn’t you ask for money too, Peggy? If we both did it, it wouldn’t
look so remarkable.”
“Is it me ask for money!” exclaimed Peggy, with a sharp little cry,
“when me whole soul is wrapped up in a little Irish terrier? It’s
himself then that I’m craving for, to sleep in me room and comfort me,
and much I need his presence too, dear heart.”
“But you can buy the terrier out of the money.”
“I’ll manage it me own way, thanks,” said Peggy. She got up as she spoke
and left the room.
On the afternoon of that same day Mr. Wyndham was alone with his wife,
the young people were all very busy putting the finishing touches to
their charades, and, of course, the Dodds, Margaret Ladislaw, and her
father, and last, but not least, dear Mary Welsh, were to join them in
the evening. Mr. Wyndham took a piece of paper from his pocket and
opened it.
“What is that?” asked his wife.
“It is the list, my dear, of the presents that our young friends would
like. I shall have to run up to town the day after to-morrow to get
them.”
“I can’t think, Paul,” said his wife, “why you did not buy anything that
took your fancy, instead of putting yourself to this unnecessary
trouble.”
“I always like to do things in the best possible way,” was his answer.
“A present can mean a great deal to a little boy or girl, and,
carelessly given, it means little or nothing. Now I know what the
youngsters want, and I must say their requests are modest, poor dears.”
“Show me the list, will you?” said Mrs. Wyndham. Her husband put it into
her hand. She ran her eyes quickly down the different items, and
suddenly she uttered an exclamation. “Surely, Paul, you are not going to
give Peggy an Irish terrier?”
“Surely I am. Why, shouldn’t the poor child have a pet? I can get her a
nice dog at the Army and Navy Stores.”
“Oh, but don’t you know what a fool she will make of herself over it,
and I positively cannot bear dogs in the house.”
“My dear wife, you sha’n’t be worried with Peggy’s dog. I’ll see to
that.”
“You’ll ruin that child, Paul; you’ll rue it yet. I wish you only knew
what poor little Kitty says about her. Now that’s a nice child, if you
like!”
“Honestly, my dear wife, can you tell me that you would compare Peggy
and Kitty?”
“I would not. Paul, Kitty is a lady.”
“And the other?”
“Oh, there’s no use speaking; you are daft on the subject of that girl.”
“Well, at least,” said Mr. Wyndham, “Peggy had the grace not to ask for
money for her Christmas present.”
“Who has asked for money?”
“Look at the list, my dear; the name is plain enough—Kitty Merrydew. See
what she writes: ‘A little money would be a great boon.’”
“Poor child!” said Mrs. Wyndham. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry she has done
this, but I fear she is really badly off, and yet she does not look
poor; she dresses quite beautifully and with such taste.”
Wyndham took back the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Miss
Merrydew need not wait until Wednesday for her present,” he said, and
presently he left his wife alone.
At tea-time a flat envelope, addressed to Miss Merrydew, lay on her
plate. She opened it to see a five-pound note. She coloured with a
mixture of anger and relief; she knew she had done a horribly low-down
thing to ask for money, and all the reward she had got was five pounds.
Her dreams had pictured twenty, perhaps thirty. When she saw Mr. Wyndham
next she tried to thank him, but he pooh-poohed her words and left her
abruptly, calling to Peggy to come out with him as he did so.
It had been arranged that Kitty must leave the Wyndhams’ in the course
of a few days; she could stay until the last day of the old year, but
not longer; then her room would be required for other guests. Now what
was she to do? The Dodds had taken very little notice of her the night
before when they came to see the charades, and Kitty had received on the
following morning a long letter from Aunt Gloriana, in which she
expressed satisfaction at her niece being in a nice, rich house.
“Whatever you do, my dear girl,” said Aunt Gloriana, “don’t come to me.
I’m as poor as a church mouse, if not poorer. I have been obliged to ask
Mrs. Pirie to give me a smaller bedroom, for I really cannot pay more
than a pound a week for my lodgings and bit of food, and I must say
she’s been rather nasty about it, sticking me in an attic at the top of
the house, where I just perish with the cold. I wonder, Kit, if you
could spare me ten shillings to buy a little shawl and an indiarubber
bottle to keep my poor feet warm at night? I can’t afford a fire in my
bedroom—sixpence a scuttle, outrageous! Try and send me ten shillings,
like a good child. You must have got lots of lovely Christmas boxes.
But, whatever you do, Kitty, don’t come here, for there literally isn’t
a corner for you. I’m glad you’re happy. Make the best of your time at
school and with your fine friends, and for the Lord’s sake get that
prize you told me about, for it would be the making of you.”
Now this most uncheerful letter caused Kitty to make up her mind. She
was desperate. She could not go to Aunt Gloriana; she could not remain
where she was, and through her own folly she had lost her _entrée_ to
the Dodds’.
The different young people, all happy, merry, and thoughtless, who were
arranging how they would spend their day at Preston Manor, little knew
what anxiety was weighing down the heart of the prettiest, and
apparently the brightest, of that group. There was Kitty, with her
cheeks flushed, partly from health, it is true, but a good deal also
from excitement, wearing her charming blue velvet frock with its deep
real lace collar, her raven-black hair in two great plaits hanging down
below her waist, and tied with blue ribbon to match the colour of her
frock, her lovely little feet encased in priceless shoes and clothed in
lovely silk stockings. No girl could look more refined and more
beautiful, and yet this girl was, at the present moment, practically
homeless. She could not return to The Red Gables, for Mrs. Fleming had
decided, after all, to take a fortnight’s holiday before the school
reopened, and the entire house would be shut up. This news was related
in Kitty’s hearing by one of the Wyndhams, who had heard it from their
governess. Had Mrs. Fleming been at home, Kitty, as a last resource,
would have gone back to her; not that she would have liked it—under
existing circumstances, indeed, she would have loathed it—but any port
in a storm.
Now it so happened that Kitty had made a great deal of Aunt Gloriana.
She had always allowed the girls of the school to imagine that she was
extremely well-off; the only girls who had really the least idea of her
poverty were the two Dodds; the other girls supposed that Kitty was rich
of the rich, and her dresses certainly pointed to that fact. Then Aunt
Gloriana lived in a private hotel at Folkestone, where she had every
possible luxury and was surrounded by adoring friends. It had been, on
the whole, something of a deprivation to Kitty to give up going to
auntie for Christmas; auntie and her friends were really pining for her;
but, of course, she could not refuse the dear, dear Wyndhams when they
asked her; for the sake of the dear, dearest Wyndhams she would go to
them for a little; but darling auntie, she would postpone some of the
gaieties until Kitty arrived. Having made up that story with regard to
the stately way in which Miss Merrydew resided, Kitty could not,
therefore, make a poor mouth about her, nor could she explain to her
friend Jessie that she really would be glad to have a room in one of the
attics at Preston Manor rather than leave that luxurious house. Molly
and Jessie both came up to Kitty after breakfast.
“We are so sorry you have to leave on New Year’s Eve,” they said, “but,
of course, you will enjoy it, won’t you? Your aunt will be glad to have
you for a short time. She’ll have you for nearly a fortnight, won’t
she?”
“Yes—that is, if I go to her.”
“Oh but you wouldn’t disappoint her when she’s _so_ anxious to have
you.”
“No, of course not. I was thinking of going to see the Dodds this
morning. I suppose it isn’t possible for me to have any sort of a trap
to drive there? I can walk, but——”
“Indeed you sha’n’t walk,” said Molly; “you can have the pony trap. If
you want to go alone, you can have it at once. Will you be staying there
long?”
“No, I think I shall be back to lunch. I don’t want to lose the time
with you.”
“What train will you be taking for Folkestone on Thursday?” asked Molly.
“Will you take a morning or an afternoon train?”
“I’ll look up the trains when I come back from the Dodds’,” was Kitty’s
answer, and then she went out of the room.
Molly looked at Jessie. “I don’t think Kitty is very happy,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know; she doesn’t look it.”
“I can’t imagine why she’s not going on to the Dodds’,” was Jessie’s
remark; “she was full of it a short time ago; she told me when we asked
her that she had, of course, two invitations, one to her poor aunt and
the other to the Dodds.”
“I suppose she doesn’t like to disappoint her aunt,” said Molly; “but
don’t let us bother about her now; we have so much to do. I’m so
delighted that Mary Welsh and her sisters are coming to stay with us. I
don’t think anything is quite so nice as when we have the Welshes with
us; they’re such delightful girls.”
Meanwhile Kitty went to her room. She put on her plainest dress,
discarding for the nonce the crimson frock and squirrel jacket and cap.
She wore a neat dark-blue serge; she had, as a matter of fact, no shabby
dresses, having been clothed by the Dodds for over a year now. The
dress, however, was the sort that no one could possibly speak of as
anything but extremely plain; it was her little school everyday coat and
skirt. Her hat was plain, with a piece of dark-blue ribbon round it.
She ran downstairs. Her dress made such a difference in her appearance
that one or two girls who were standing about did not recognise her at
the first moment.
“Oh, it’s you, Kitty,” said one, and then the other asked her how long
she’d be away, and then they watched her as she drove up the avenue,
accompanied by Sam, one of the grooms.
“I want, please, first of all to drive to the post-office,” said Kitty
to the boy.
He obeyed her. She jumped out of the little governess-cart and went in;
there she bought six pennyworth of stamps and changed her five-pound
note. She slipped the precious money into her pocket. She then desired
Sam to drive her to the gates of Hillside.
“Stop at the gates, please,” she said, “I shall walk up the avenue.”
They arrived there in about three-quarters of an hour. Kitty got down.
“Shall I wait for you, miss?” asked the boy.
“I don’t know how long I will be,” said Kitty. “Yes, wait for one hour;
if I am longer than that time, you can go away and say that I am staying
to lunch at Mrs. Dodd’s, and that they’ll see me back in the afternoon.
You will be sure to give that message, won’t you, Sam?”
“Yes, miss, thank you, miss,” said the boy. He turned the pony’s head
and drove under a clump of trees, where he arranged to wait for Kitty.
Kitty now entered the long avenue. Hillside was rightly called; the
house itself, perfectly modern, having been built by Mr. Dodd for his
own convenience and according to his own ideas, stood upon the extreme
rise of the hill. It had a lovely view of the surrounding country. As
Kitty walked up this avenue, this avenue where she had so often gone
riding, driving, walking with the Dodd girls, walking sometimes with her
hand inside Daddy Dodd’s arm, laughing, chatting, merry, happy, a prime
favourite, she now crept up slowly, as a culprit might. She reached the
great house. She was thankful to see that there was no one about, her
dread being at that moment to come across either Anne or Grace. She rang
the front door-bell, and a man in livery threw open the door. He knew
Kitty, of course, and welcomed her with that sort of half-smile which
the well-bred servant alone permits himself to show.
“Do you want the young ladies, miss? I think they’re in the
morning-room.”
“No, I particularly want to see Mr. Dodd.”
“I will inquire if Mr. Dodd is in, miss. Will you walk in?”
Kitty entered the hall, and the man went as far as his master’s study.
Dodd was busy with his accounts. These were great days for him, he was
busy planning his gold so as to use it to the best possible advantage.
He was a strange man in his way, and to him there was no more solemn
text in the world than the one which declares that “The earth is the
Lord’s, and the fulness thereof.” He had never stood by the Bank of
England without looking up at these solemn words written over the
Exchange, he had thought them the finest sentence in the world, and he
had determined to make this motto his own. “The earth _is_ the Lord’s
and the fulness thereof.” And those whom the Lord prospered should give
of their abundance to Him. There was no poor person who ever went in
vain with a tale of suffering to Daddy Dodd; there was no real, genuine
tale of woe that he turned a deaf ear to. But he was no silly, weak
philanthropist; he gave judiciously of the money he had so hardly
earned. He adored his girls, above all things on earth he adored his
wife, and for these precious ones he had special funds which he would
not touch, and which were to be used altogether for their benefit. But
outside and beyond the money which he had devoted to his wife and girls,
he had a large sum yearly which he gave to charities, to those charities
which really needed help. Then, again, he had another fund which he
devoted, as he expressed it, to “individual want”—to this man who wished
to send his boy to college, to this woman who needed to have her
daughter educated, to this poor, suffering old lady to whom ten pounds a
year would make all the difference between destitution and comfort. This
fund was his delight, he personally superintended it, he looked into all
the cases for whom he intended to spend it. These people were his
special friends, he corresponded with them, he wrote to them always once
a year; the time when he sent them their money was the time between
Christmas Day and the New Year. He pictured them receiving their
cheques, watching for them, smiling when they got them; he pictured
their happy faces, and his own face glowed with delight as he thought of
theirs. It was worth working hard when he was young when he could do so
much good now. The earth _was_ the Lord’s and the fulness thereof.
It was, therefore, an extremely busy man who was now interrupted.
“What is it, Clothier?” he said to the servant, raising his face, which
was slightly flushed.
“It’s that little lady, sir—little Miss Merrydew. She has called to see
you.”
“Say, with my compliments, that I—I am engaged this morning.”
But before the man could utter a word, Kitty herself had forced her way
into the room. “No, you are not engaged,” she said. “I mean you will see
me for a minute.” As she spoke she removed her hat; her hat made her
look almost commonplace. When it was off the masses of that thick,
raven-black hair, the pathetic expression in the eyes, the colour of
excitement in the cheeks, caused the man to drop his jaw for a minute
and to look at her in unfeigned astonishment. So _she_ was what the
world would really call a pretty girl. And he had believed that Anne
might be thought beautiful, and that Grace might aspire to that
distinction—Grace with her little eyes, Anne with her freckled face!
Here was real beauty, those big eyes, so dark, so pleading, so
unfathomable; those red, red lips, that pathetic smile which came and
went; the colour which faded out of the little face that had been so
flushed a minute before.
The man gave a great sigh, rose, and shook himself. “You can shut the
door. Go, Clothier,” he said.
Clothier withdrew. Servants are supposed not to know anything about what
goes on in their master’s and mistress’s presence; but this man knew
perfectly well that there was a little tiny bit of tragedy about to be
enacted in that study, and that his master would be engaged with pretty
little Miss Merrydew for more than a minute or so.
Kitty walked a few steps into the room, then she stood perfectly still.
Dodd got up and looked at her. He did not speak, he did not offer to
shake hands; on the contrary, he folded his arms deliberately across his
chest, and thus the two faced each other. It seemed to Dodd at that
moment that he was looking into the little creature’s soul. A very queer
feeling came over him, he recalled a circumstance which had taken place
not long ago.
He was very, very careful over his prayers; he was, in truth, a
sincerely religious man, he always went up to his room half an hour
before bedtime, and there shut the door and fell on his knees before his
Maker. He devoted this special time to praying for those people to whom
he did _special_, _marked_, and _individual_ good—the little boy in the
hospital, the girl who was to pass a very important examination at
Newnham, &c. All these he brought individually, as he expressed it,
“before the throne of grace.” But one night lately, he didn’t know why,
he had been forced, as it were, to ask Almighty God to turn Kitty
Merrydew from the error of her ways. He had hated Kitty Merrydew from
the moment he had discovered that she had stolen his money, but now he
remembered that he had prayed for her.
Kitty watched him intently. She was trying with all her might and main
to read into his deep and great nature. She, with her shallowness and
cunning, could no more understand a man like Dodd than she could fly;
but she possessed, in her own way, a great deal of genius. Suddenly she
saw that she had done the great, the only thing by coming to speak to
him individually and alone.
She spoke hurriedly.
“It is Christmas-time, and I am miserable.”
Still no reply of any sort from the man.
“Perhaps you don’t know, but in the summer I was tempted. You are so
rich, you can’t tell what it means to be awfully poor, poor as I am,
with an auntie who has to live in a little attic. And just because I am
at The Red Gables School people think I am rich, and I did want two
pounds. I will tell you. I know, perhaps, you will—send me to—_prison_;
but I had borrowed it from a girl, and she—she wanted it back, and I
hadn’t it for her, and she threatened to write to Mrs. Fleming, and Mrs.
Fleming would have sent me from the school, and I’d have lost _all_ my
chance. I was writing to her, begging of her not to do it. Although I
looked so happy, for you were all so sweet to me, _I—was—not_. I found I
wanted an envelope, and I came here to get one, and there was a—lot
of—_money_ on the table, a _great_ pile; and—oh, oh Mr. Dodd!—I _took_
two sovereigns. I _did_! I have been so unhappy ever since; perhaps you
saw how red I got when you came into the room. Oh Mr. Dodd, I have
brought it back—here it is—the money I took. I won’t be so unhappy now
I’ve paid you back. Oh I was a—thief! I suppose you’ll tell Mrs.
Fleming. There, that’s all.”
Kitty laid the money on the table, and she looked up at him in the most
beseeching way. As he was still silent, not glancing at the money, but
with his hard face gazing at hers, she repeated her remark: “Of course
you’ll tell her.”
Then at last he spoke. “Wench, if I’d meant to tell her I’d have done it
before now.”
“What!” said Kitty, with a start, “did you know it?”
Dodd laughed. “Do you suppose, my wench,” he said, “that I’d be living
in this house—I, who was once a poor boy, a boy who often was hungry for
his breakfast—and yet that two pounds could be taken from me without my
missing them? That isn’t the way men get rich, lass; that isn’t the way
men get rich.”
“Then you knew about it.”
“I knew about it, lass.”
“And what did you think of me?”
“I expected, _perhaps_, you’d tell me.”
“I have told you. I will go now.”
“No, sit down a bit—sit down a bit; you look white and shaky. Is it true
that you’re very poor?”
“Yes, indeed, auntie and I are very poor. I will say good-bye now. I’m
leaving the Wyndhams’ on Thursday. I’m very, very fond of Anne and
Grace. I suppose you’ll tell them.”
“No, wench, I won’t tell them; I haven’t told anybody yet, and I won’t
tell now. You’ve brought me back the money. You were late in doing it,
and I felt very bad about it—very bad about it, and I made up my mind
that you should never darken my doors again; but I didn’t tell ’em, I
didn’t want you to be injured. You’d best not try this game on a second
time, wench; you’d best not try thieving, it leads to no good. You’ve
got your own gift, you’re a very beautiful lass, you’ve got a way with
you, and you can twist an old man round that little finger of yours; but
don’t you try your beauty too far. My mother, she was a Bible woman—she
went by the Bible—over and over she used to say: ‘Favour is deceitful,
and beauty is vain; but a woman who feareth the Lord she shall be
praised.’ She never had a daughter to say it to; she used to say over
and over to me: ‘See you serve the Lord, John; see you serve the Lord.’
And now, that’s what I have to say to you. You’ve brought me back the
money, and we’ll consider that the debt is wiped out; wiped out, lass;
the _slate is clean_. Good-bye, lass, I’m busy; good-bye.”
He held out his hand to her, she grasped it, tears were brimming into
her eyes. Suddenly she stooped and kissed his hand, then she left the
room. She walked slowly down the avenue, she got into the little cart
and drove back to Preston Manor.
On that day nothing happened at all; the next day passed, and the next.
On the evening of the third day Dodd spoke to his wife.
“Mary Anne.”
“Yes, my man.”
“There’s that child, Kitty Merrydew, staying at Preston Manor.”
“Yes?”
“We might as well have her along here for a few days; she can go back to
school then with our girls. You might write her a bit of a note, if you
like.”
“Oh, John, I’m glad you have forgiven her, then, whatever she has done
wrong.”
“Now, listen to me, Mary Anne. I never told you that the girl did
anything wrong; I never told you anything at all about her. I say that
she may come here for the rest of the holidays; I don’t say that I am
going to be friends with her. I say nothing about that; I say she may
have houseroom here, and I dare say she’ll be glad to have it. I say
that she’s to be treated as she was always treated, and I say you may
write her a note, and be quick about it, and send it over by messenger.”
Kitty was out when the note arrived; it was lying on the hall-table when
she returned: “Miss Kitty Merrydew.”
“I say, Kitty, here’s a letter for you,” exclaimed Molly. “It has come
by messenger. Who could have sent it?”
Kitty opened it. She did not know why her hand shook so much, but it did
shake. She opened it, and her eyes glowed. She looked full at Molly.
“It is a letter from Mrs. Dodd. She has heard that I am leaving here,
and wants to know if I will go to them for a bit.”
“But can you go? Won’t your aunt be terribly disappointed?” said Jessie.
“I can go to Aunt Glory for a few days afterwards; it would not do to
offend the Dodds, would it?” Kitty’s heart was fairly bursting with
glee.
“Oh I suppose not,” said Jessie in a careless tone. “Very well, then, in
that case we can countermand the order for the carriage to take you to
the railway station. You would like, however, to send a reply to Mrs.
Dodd, wouldn’t you?”
“Mrs. Dodd says that if I will accept her invitation she will send her
motor-car to fetch me at half-past twelve to-morrow,” said Kitty.
“That is very kind of her. We can easily send a messenger there
to-night. Will you write now then, Kitty?”
Kitty did so.