The Next Step
CRAGG was in a serious dilemma. He had to tell his wife of the promise
made to Dale, and he dreaded doing so. Not that Mrs. Cragg could
prevent his carrying out that promise, but she had it in her power
to make matters extremely disagreeable, as well for him as for Pattie.
Like most men, not to speak of women, he disliked to have things made
disagreeable. He preferred "peace, and a quiet life."
Still, the thing had to be done. Having made a promise, he had to let
his wife know of that promise.
After leaving Dale he regretted having made it. That he should
undertake to look after Pattie in a general way was all right,
and only to be expected of him under the circumstances. So he told
himself. But that he should have bound himself to adopt Pattie as a
member of his own family was another matter, and perhaps unnecessary.
For some hours he quietly debated how far it might be possible, if he
should see Mr. Dale again, to modify the exact form of his promise,
and to leave himself a little more free. Then he heard that Dale was
unconscious, and likely to remain so; and then that his tenant was
dead. So he remained bound to what he had said.
If only he had had his wits more about him at the time of the
interview, he might have evaded saying what he had said. He might have
pledged himself in more vague and general terms. It was true that he
had been the unwilling cause of Dale's tragical end; but the very
catastrophe which had rendered Pattie an orphan had also added to his
own money difficulties.
There were heavy bills yet to come in for the building of a house,
by which he could not hope to make a penny. And now he had saddled
himself in addition with the support of a young girl.
All things considered, he really had been rather foolish; so he
privately decided. He would not so much have cared about the expense,
which probably would be slight, if only he had not had to tell Mrs.
Cragg. There was the rub!
Thus far, nobody knew of the promise that he had made.
This suggestion darted into Cragg's mind, as he considered the state
of affairs.
Nobody knew anything about it. The matter had been between himself and
the dying man. It was most unlikely that Dale should have said
anything to Pattie, since so very soon after he had been seized with
unconsciousness. Therefore, Pattie would not know, and no one else
could have any idea.
Of course, a promise is a promise, and Cragg would have counted
himself the last man in the world to repudiate a promise—more
especially a pledge to a dying man. Still, since no one knew what had
passed, there was the less need for him to speak out. He had to act
upon the promise, but he was not obliged to inform everybody about it.
There was no necessity for him to explain all particulars to his wife.
He might prepare her for what was coming. He might simply say that he
meant to give Pattie a home for a time; and then Mrs. Cragg might grow
fond of Pattie, or, at least, might find her of use.
That would certainly be the best plan. Cragg felt relieved. He had
shrunk from the thought of telling, from the prospect of black looks
and loud-toned reproaches.
It was within the bounds of possibility that Pattie herself might not
wish to make a permanent home of his house. Cragg had undertaken to
give her a home, so long as she should wish it. If she did not wish
it, he would be freed from his bond. He was glad of that proviso.
He rather doubted if anybody would care to live with Mrs. Cragg,
after an experience of what such living meant.
Before he could feel at case, it was needful that he should find out
from Pattie how much she knew. She was still at the cottage, where
Mrs. Waters had managed to fit up a tiny room, and where Pattie wished
to stay till after the funeral. Cragg had agreed without protest,
being in no hurry to take her away.
When his cogitations reached this point, he went to the cottage, and
found her seated in the kitchen, quietly sewing at a black gown. She
had had a little money in hand—enough to get for herself what was
necessary. Cragg talked to Mrs. Waters, and then intimated that he
would like a few words with Miss Dale. Good-natured Mrs. Waters took
herself off to other regions, without delay.
"My dear, I wonder if you can tell me anything about your father's
means?" he began, having decided not to take anything for granted.
"I have been wanting to ask this, and it is about time, you know,
to settle something or other. After to-morrow—"
Pattie looked gravely in his face.
"I shall have twenty pounds a year," she said.
"From—invested money? I promised to act as your guardian, and I want
to understand." She seemed puzzled.
"I don't exactly know. It was left to me by my father's brother—for
life. Eighty pounds a year to father, for his life, and twenty pounds
to me. It has always been paid regularly—by lawyers, I think.
The eighty pounds goes somewhere else now, but I shall have the twenty
still."
"But you and he couldn't have lived on only one hundred pounds
a year."
"Couldn't we? A hundred pounds seems a good deal. And I meant to do
needlework. I would have earned money in that way, and I mean to do it
now. And dear father would have done copying—if he could have got any.
Of course we have had more."
Cragg waited expectantly.
"I mean, we had more before we came here, when my father had a
clerkship; he had two hundred a year for that. And we were very
comfortable. We had everything we could want. Father was always
talking of beginning to lay by, but he hadn't begun. And then he
gave the work up."
"Can you tell me why he gave it up?—on what account?"
Pattie shook her head.
"I never understood. He didn't exactly tell me why. Only that Mr.
Peterson had turned against him, and had said unkind things —things
that were not true. Poor father was miserable. I never saw him so
unhappy. He said one day that Mr. Peterson believed him to have done
something wrong—something he never could have done. And he said he and
I must come away, and must forget our friends there. We meant to live
quietly in the country; and I thought we should manage on what we
had—if I could take in needlework. Neither of us ate a great deal."
"And out of that he meant to pay twenty pounds a year house rent—not
to speak of taxes."
"Was that too much? But it does not matter now." Tears filled her
eyes.
"My dear, you must not think me unkind to say all this; it is—
it is necessary. I have to understand your affairs. Did your father
seem anxious about your future—or plan anything for you?"
"Sometimes. Not much."
"Not even since his accident?"
"I would not let him. There was no need. I told him I should be taken
care of. There was no need for him to worry himself."
"And he was content to leave things so?"
Pattie put her work down, and once more looked up into Cragg's face.
"Would you have been content in his place—about a child of your own?"
Cragg was puzzled how to answer. He could not make out Pattie, and he
found himself saying involuntarily:
"I wonder whether you are older than I have fancied?"
"I was sixteen on my last birthday."
"You were! Really! I have thought of you as only—well, about
thirteen."
"No; I am sixteen. People have often taken me for less. Old enough
to be independent." And a curious smile flickered over her small face.
"We must see about that. I am not sure. You would not find it so easy
as you may think to make your way—unaided."
"No. But people would help me. People are always so kind."
"Are they?"
"Except Mr. Peterson,—and he had always been kind. It was only at the
last that he changed. I suppose somebody had made mischief in some
way. Somebody must have made him think what was not true of father.
Yes, people are kind generally. You have been kind, and yet how little
you know of us! When we first came you knew nothing at all."
"I hope I shall continue to be kind," Cragg said seriously.
"I am sure you will. And perhaps—perhaps—in a few days—you will help
me to get something to do. I should like to find work. Needlework,
perhaps,—or anything. I don't mind what." Her face flushed slightly.
"I want to be independent."
"My dear, the feeling is most praiseworthy. But you must not be in a
hurry. You are coming to us first. I told your father it should be so.
You will come to us directly after the funeral."
"Not the same day."
"Then the day after."
"You say my father wished it?"
"Yes. He did wish it."
"Then I will do what he wished. But only for a little while."
"We shall see," Cragg answered.
So far, so good, was his thought as he went home. Pattie evidently had
no idea of the full extent of his undertaking with respect to herself.
Just as well that she should not know at present. He would tell his
wife that she was coming for a while. If Pattie were bent on working
for herself, the arrangement would not have to be permanent.
Cowardice seized him again, when he found himself in his wife's
presence. He had meant to tell her as soon as he got in, and then he
put off doing so until after tea. When tea was finished he still felt
disinclined to speak, and he waited till Dot was brought in. Dot
always devoted her small self to him for an hour before going to bed.
With Dot on his knee he became more courageous, and Mrs. Cragg herself
supplied an opening.
"So they are going to have the funeral to-morrow?"
"Yes; at two o'clock."
"Well, it's a good thing he didn't linger on in a helpless state.
Nobody could have afforded that. What's going to become of the child?"
"Poo-ar lickle girl!" put in Dot appropriately.
"You should say 'little,' not 'lickle,'" reproved Mrs. Cragg.
"It sounds so silly."
Dot hung her head.
"I do say lick-karl," she asserted impressively.
Now or never! Cragg knew he must speak out.
"I have asked Pattie Dale to come to us for a time," he said. "She—she
is homeless. You see, my dear,"—nervously, for Mrs. Cragg's black eyes
stared full at him,—"you see, her father's death is in a manner at my
door. Of course I did not know about the mine. Nobody knew that.
Still, if I had not built that unfortunate house, he might now be a
living man. One can't help feeling a sort of responsibility in that
matter—about his child, I mean. And so I felt sure you would wish—
ahem—I felt that it was only the right thing to do."
"Of all born idiots!" uttered his wife energetically.
"Nay, my dear—"
"You mean to say you've had the folly to ask that girl here!—to this
house!—to my house, Mr. Cragg! To ask her to stay here!—under my
roof?"
Cragg felt tempted to suggest that he had a share in the said roof,
but courage failed. He stroked Dot's hair, and Dot gazed with serene
curiosity at Mrs. Cragg's red face.
"You mean to say that, Mr. Cragg?"
Cragg plucked up heart. After all, the thing had to be done. The more
plainly he spoke now, the better matters would go in the future.
It was only a pity that he did not at once tell the whole truth.
"I have asked Pattie Dale to come here to-morrow, and to stay for a
time—in fact, as long as it proves necessary. She is a very nice girl,
and you will find her useful in the house. I could not do less under
the circumstances. And I expect, my dear, that you will make her
happy."
"You expect?"
"I certainly do expect it, as part of your duty."
"I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Cragg!" And Mrs. Cragg again
flounced out of the room.