You would not have known the place again. Virginia Cottage, the
unpretending little homestead, had been converted into a mansion. Hyde
Stockhausen had built a new wing at one end, and a conservatory at the
other; and had put pillars before the rustic porch, over which the
Virginia creeper climbed.
We heard last month about Ketira the gipsy: and of the unaccountable
disappearance of her daughter, Kettie; and of the indignant anger
displayed by Hyde Stockhausen when it was suggested that he might have
kidnapped her. Curiously enough, within a few days of that time, Hyde
himself disappeared from Church Dykely: not in the mysterious manner
that Kettie had, but openly and with intention.
The inducing cause of Hyde's leaving, as was stated and believed, was
a quarrel with his step-father, Massock. It chanced that the monthly
settling-day, connected with the brickfields, fell just after Kettie
vanished. Massock came over for it as usual, and was overbearing as
usual; and perhaps Hyde, already in a state of inward irritation, was
less forbearing than usual. Any way, ill-words arose between them.
Massock accused Hyde of neglecting his interests, and of being too much
of a gentleman to look after the work and the men. Hyde retorted: one
word led to another, and there ensued a serious quarrel. The upshot was,
that Hyde threw up his post. Vowing he would never again have anything
to do with old Massock or his precious bricks as long as he lived, he
packed up a small portmanteau and quitted Church Dykely there and then,
to the intense tribulation of his ancient nurse and servant, Deborah
Preen.
"Leave him alone," said Massock roughly. "He'll be back safe enough in
a day or two."
"Where is he gone?" asked Ketira the gipsy: who, hovering still around
Virginia Cottage, had seen Hyde's exit with his portmanteau.
Massock stared at her, and at her red cloak: she had penetrated to his
presence to ask the question. He had never before seen Ketira; never
heard of her.
"What is it to you?" he demanded, in his coarse manner. "Who are _you_?
Do you come here to tell his fortune? Be off, old witch!"
"His fortune may be told sooner than you care to hear it--if you are
anything to him," was the gipsy's answer. And that same night she
quitted Church Dykely herself, wandering away to be lost in the "wide
wide world."
Massock's opinion, that Hyde would return in a day or two, proved to be
a mistaken one. Rimmer, at the Silver Bear, got a letter from a lawyer
in Worcester, asking him to release Mr. Stockhausen from Virginia
Cottage--which Hyde had taken for three years. But, this, Rimmer refused
to do. So Hyde had to make the best of his bargain: and every quarter,
as the quarters went on, the rent was punctually remitted to Henry
Rimmer by the lawyer: who gave, however, no clue to his client's place
of abode. It was said that Hyde had been reconciled to his uncle, Parson
Hyde (now getting into his dotage), and was by him supplied with funds.
One fine evening, however, in the late spring, when not very far short
of a twelvemonth had elapsed, Hyde astonished Deborah Preen by his
return. After a fit of crying, to show her joy, Deborah brought him in
some supper and stood by while he ate it, telling him the news of what
had transpired in the village since he left.
"Are those beautiful brickfields being worked still?" he asked.
"'Deed but they are then, Master Hyde. A sight o' bricks seems to be
made at 'em. Pitt the foreman, he have took your place as manager, sir,
and keeps the accounts."
"Good luck to him!" said Hyde, drinking a glass of ale. "That queer old
lady in the red cloak: what has become of her?"
"What, that gipsy hag?" cried Preen. "She's dead, sir."
"Dead!"
"Yes, sir, dead: and a good riddance, too. She went away the very night
you went, Mr. Hyde, and never came back again. A week or two ago Abel
Carew got news that she was dead."
(Shortly before this, some wandering gipsies had set up their camp
within a mile or two of Church Dykely. Abel Carew, never having had news
of Ketira since her departure, went to them to make inquiries. At first
the gipsies seemed not to understand of whom he was speaking; but upon
his making Ketira clear to them, they told him she had been dead about a
month; of her daughter, Kettie, they knew nothing.)
"She's not much loss," observed Hyde in answer to Deborah: and his face
took a brighter look, as though the news were a relief--Preen noticed
it. "The old gipsy was as mad as a March hare."
"And ten times more troublesome than one," put in Preen. "Be you come
home to stay, master?"
"I dare say I shall," replied Hyde. "As good settle down here as
elsewhere: and there'd be no fun in paying two rents."
So we had Hyde Stockhausen amidst us once more. He did not intend to
take up with brickmaking again, but to live as a gentleman. His uncle
made him an allowance, and he was going to be married. Abel Carew
questioned him about Kettie one day when they met on the common, asking
whether he had seen her. Never, was the reply of Hyde. So that what
with the girl's prolonged disappearance and her mother's death, it was
assumed that we had done with the two gipsies for ever.
Hyde was engaged to a Miss Peyton. A young lady just left an orphan,
whom he had met only six weeks ago at some seaside place. He had fallen
in love with her at first sight, and she with him. She had two or three
hundred a-year: and Hyde, there was little doubt, would come into all
his uncle's money; so he saw no reason why he should not make Virginia
Cottage comfortable for her, and went off to the Silver Bear, to talk to
Henry Rimmer about it.
The result was, that improvements were put in hand without delay. A
wing (consisting of a handsome drawing-room downstairs, and a bed and
dressing-room above) was added to the cottage on one side; on the
other side, Hyde built a conservatory. The house was also generally
embellished and set in order, and some new furniture brought in. And I
think if ever workmen worked quickly, these did; for the alterations
seemed no sooner to be begun than they were done.
"So you have sown your wild oats, Master Hyde," remarked the Squire one
day in passing, as he stood to watch the finishing touches, then being
put to the outside of the house.
"Don't know that I ever had many to sow, sir," said Hyde, nodding to me.
"And what sort of a young lady is this wife that you are about to bring
home?" went on the pater.
Hyde's face took a warm flush and his lips parted with a half-smile;
which proved what she was to him. "You will see, sir," he said in
answer.
"When is the wedding to be?"
"This day week."
"This day week!" echoed the Squire, surprised: and Hyde, who seemed to
have spoken incautiously, looked vexed.
"I did not intend to say as much; my thoughts were elsewhere," he
observed. "Don't mention it again, Mr. Todhetley. Even old Deborah has
not been told."
"I'll take care, lad. But it is known all over the place that the
wedding is close at hand."
"Yes: but not the day."
"When do you go away for it?"
"On Saturday."
"Well, good luck to you, lad! By the way, Hyde," continued the Squire,
"what did they do about that drain in the yard? Put a new pipe?"
"Yes," said Hyde, "and they have made a very good job of it. Will you
come and see it?"
Pipes and drains held no attraction for me. While the pater went through
the house to the yard, I strolled outside the front-gate and across
to the little coppice to wait for him. It was shady there: the hot
midsummer sun was ablaze to-day.
And I declare that a feather might almost have knocked me down. There,
amidst the trees of the coppice, like a picture framed round by green
leaves, stood Ketira the gipsy. Or Ketira's ghost.
Believing that she was dead and buried, I might have believed it to
be the latter, but for the red cloth cloak: _that_ was real. She was
staring at Hyde's house with all the fire of her glittering eyes,
looking as though she were consumed by some inward fever.
"Who lives there now?" she abruptly asked me without any other greeting,
pointing her yellow forefinger at the house.
"The cottage was empty ever so long," I carelessly said, some instinct
prompting me not to tell too much. "Lately the workmen have been making
alterations in it. How is Kettie? Have you found her?"
She lifted her two hands aloft with a gesture of despair: but left me
unanswered. "These alterations: by whom are they made?"
But the sight of the Squire, coming forth alone, served as an excuse for
my making off. I gave her a parting nod, saying I was glad to see her
again in the land of the living.
"Ketira the gipsy is here, sir."
"No!" cried the pater in amazement. "Why do you say that, Johnny?"
"She is here in the coppice."
"Nonsense, lad! Ketira's dead, you know."
"But I have just seen her, and spoken to her."
"Then what did those gipsy-tramps mean by telling Abel Carew that she
had died?" cried the Squire explosively, as he marched across the few
yards of greensward towards the coppice.
"Abel did not feel quite sure at the time that he and they were not
talking of two persons. That must have been the case, sir."
We were too late. Ketira was already half-way along the path that led to
the common: no doubt on her road to pay a visit to Abel Carew. And I can
only relate what passed there at second hand. Between ourselves, Ketira
was no favourite of his.
He was at his early dinner of bread-and-butter and salad when she walked
in and astonished him. Abel, getting over his surprise, invited her to
partake of the meal; but she just waved her hand in refusal, as much as
to say that she was superior to dinner and dinner-eating.
"Have you found Kettie?" was his next question.
"It is the first time a search of mine ever failed," she replied,
beginning to pace the little room in agitation, just as a tiger paces
its confined cage. "I have given myself neither rest nor peace since I
set out upon it; but it has not brought me tidings of my child."
"It must have been a weary task for you, Ketira. I wish you would break
bread with me."
"I was helped."
"Helped!" repeated Abel. "Helped by what?"
"I know not yet, whether angel or devil. It has been one or the
other:--according as he has, or has not, played me false."
"As who has played you false?"
"Of whom do you suppose I speak but _him_?" she retorted, standing to
confront Abel with her deep eyes. "Hyde Stockhausen has in some subtle
manner evaded me: but I shall find him yet."
"Hyde Stockhausen is back here," quietly observed Abel.
"Back here! Then it is no false instinct that has led _me_ here," she
added in a low tone, apparently communing with herself. "Is Ketira with
him?"
"No, no," said Abel, vexed at the question. "Kettie has never come back
to the place since she left it."
"When did _he_ come?"
"It must be about two months ago."
"He is in the same dwelling-house as before! For what is he making it so
grand?"
"It is said to be against his marriage."
"His marriage with Ketira?"
"With a Miss Peyton; some young lady he has met. Why do you bring up
Ketira's name in conjunction with this matter--or with him?"
She turned to the open casement, and stood there, as if to inhale the
sweet scent of Abel's flowers, and listen to the hum of his bees. Her
face was working, her strange eyes were gleaming, her hands were clasped
to pain.
"I know what I know, Abel Carew. Let him look to it if he brings home
any other wife than my Ketira."
"Nay," remonstrated peaceful old Abel. "Because a young man has
whispered pretty words in a maiden's ear, and given her, it may be, a
moonlight kiss, that does not bind him to marry her."
"And would I have wished to bind him had it ended there?" flashed the
gipsy. "No; I should have been thankful that it _had_ so ended. I hated
him from the first."
"You have no proof that it did not so end, Ketira."
"No proof; none," she assented. "No tangible proof that I could give
to you, her father's brother, or to others. But the proof lies in the
fatal signs that show themselves to me continually, and in the unerring
instinct of my own heart. If the man puts another into the place that
ought to be hers, let him look to it."
"You may be mistaken, Ketira. I know not what the signs you speak of
can be: they may show themselves to you but to mislead; and nothing is
more deceptive than the fancies of one's imagination. Be it as it may,
vengeance does not belong to us. Do not _you_ put yourself forward to
work young Stockhausen ill."
"I work him ill!" retorted the gipsy. "You are mistaking me altogether.
It is not I who shall work it. I only see it--and foretell it."
"Nay, why speak so strangely, Ketira? It cannot be that you----"
"Abel Carew, talk not to me of matters that you do not understand,"
she interrupted. "I know what I know. Things that I am able to see are
hidden from you."
He shook his head. "It is wrong to speak so of Hyde Stockhausen--or of
any one. He may be as innocent in the matter as you or I."
"But I tell you that he is not. And the conviction of it lies
here"--striking herself fiercely on the breast.
Abel sighed, and began to put his dinner-plates together. He could not
make any impression upon her, or on the notion she had taken up.
"Do you know what it is to have a breaking heart, Abel Carew?" she
asked, her voice taking a softer tone that seemed to change it into a
piteous wailing. "A broken heart one can bear; for all struggle is over,
and one has but to put one's head down on the green earth and die. But
a breaking heart means continuous suffering; a perpetual torture that
slowly saps away the life; a never-ending ache of soul and of spirit,
than which nothing in this world can be so hard to battle with. And for
twelve months now this anguish has been mine!"
Poor Ketira! Mistaken or not mistaken, there could be no question that
her trouble was grievous to bear; the suspense, in which her days were
passed, well-nigh unendurable.
* * * * *
This, that I have told, occurred on Thursday morning. Ketira quitted
Abel Carew only to bend her steps back towards Virginia Cottage, and
stayed hovering around the house that day and the next. One or another,
passing, saw her watching it perpetually, herself partly hidden. Now
peeping out from the little coppice; now tramping quickly past the gate,
as though she were starting off on a three-mile walk; now stealing to
the back of the house, to gaze at the windows. There she might be seen,
in one place or another, like a haunting red dragon: her object, as was
supposed, being to get speech of Hyde Stockhausen. She did not succeed.
Twice she went boldly to the door, knocked, and asked for him. Deborah
Preen slammed it in her face. It was thought that Hyde, who then knew of
her return and that the report of her death was false, must be on the
watch also, to avoid her. If he wanted to go abroad and she was posted
at the back, he slipped out in front: when he wished to get in again
and caught sight of her red cloak illumining the coppice, he made a dash
in at the back-gate, and was lost amid the kidney beans.
By this time the state of affairs was known to Church Dykely: a rare
dish of nuts for the quiet place to crack. Those of us who possessed
liberty made pleas for passing by Virginia Cottage to see the fun. Not
that there was much to see, except a glimpse of the red cloak in this
odd spot or in that.
"Stockhausen must be silly!" cried the Squire. "Why does he not openly
see the poor woman and inquire what it is she wants with him? The idea
of his shunning her in this absurd way! What does he mean by it, I
wonder?"
Now, before telling more, I wish to halt and say a word. That much
ridicule will be cast on this story by the intelligent reader, is as
sure as that apples grow in summer. Nevertheless, I am but relating what
took place. Certain things in it were curiously strange; not at all
explainable hitherto: possibly never to be explained. I chanced to be
personally mixed up with it, so to say, in a degree; from its beginning,
when Ketira and her daughter first appeared at Abel Carew's, to its
ending, which has yet to be told. For that much I can vouch--I mean what
I was present at. But you need not accord belief to the whole, unless
you like.
Chance, and nothing else, caused me to be sent over this same evening to
Mr. Duffham's. It was Friday, you understand; and the eve of the day
Hyde Stockhausen would depart preparatory to his marriage. One of our
maids had been ailing for some days with what was thought to be a bad
cold: as she did not get better, but grew more feverish, Mrs. Todhetley
decided to send for the doctor, if only as a measure of precaution.
"You can go over to Mr. Duffham's for me, Johnny," she said, as we got
up from tea--which meal was generally taken at the manor close upon
dinner, somewhat after the fashion that the French take their tasse de
café. "Ask him if he will be so kind as to call in to see Ann when he is
out to-morrow morning."
Nothing loth was I. The evening was glorious, tempting the world
out-of-doors, calm and beautiful, but very hot yet. The direct way to
Duffham's from our house was not by Virginia Cottage: but, as a matter
of course, I took it. Going along at tip-top speed until I came within
sight of it, I then slackened to a snail's pace, the better to take
observations.
There's an old saying, that virtue is its own reward. If any virtue
existed in my choosing this circuitous and agreeable route, I can only
say that for once the promise was at fault, for I was _not_ rewarded.
Were Hyde Stockhausen's house a prison, it could not have been much more
closely shut up. The windows were closed on that lovely midsummer night;
the doors looked tight as wax. Not a glimpse could I catch of as much as
the bow of Deborah Preen's mob-cap atop of the short bedroom blinds; and
Hyde might have been over in Africa for all that could be seen of him.
Neither (for a wonder) was there any trace of Ketira the gipsy. Her red
cloak was nowhere. Had she obtained speech of Hyde, and so terminated
her watch, or had she given it up in despair? Any way, there was nothing
to reward me for having come that much out of my road, and I went on,
whistling dolorously.
But, hardly had I got past the premises and was well on the field-path
beyond, when I met Duffham. Giving him the message from home, which
he said he would attend to, I enlarged on the disappointment just
experienced in seeing nothing of anybody.
"Shut up like a jail, is it?" quoth Duffham. "I have just had a note
from Stockhausen, asking me to call there. His throat's troubling him
again, he says: wants me to give him something that will cure him by
to-morrow."
I had turned with the doctor, and went walking with him up the garden,
listening to what he said. But I meant to leave him when we reached the
door. He began trying it. It was fastened inside.
"I dare say you can come in and see Hyde, Johnny. What do you want with
him?"
"Not much; only to wish him good luck."
"Is your master afraid of thieves that he bolts his doors?" cried
Duffham to old Preen when she let us in.
"'Twas me fastened it, sir; not master," was her reply. "That gipsy
wretch have been about yesterday and to-day, wanting to get in. I've got
my silver about, and don't want it stolen. Mr. Hyde's mother and Massock
have been here to dinner; they've not long gone."
Decanters and fruit stood on the table before Hyde. He started up to
shake hands, appearing very much elated. Duffham, more experienced than
I, saw that he had been taking quite enough wine.
"So you have had your stepfather here!" was one of the doctor's first
remarks. "Been making up the quarrel, I suppose."
"He came of his own accord; I didn't invite him," said Hyde, laughing.
"My mother wrote me word that they were coming--to give me their good
wishes for the future."
"Just what Johnny Ludlow here says he wants to give," said Duffham:
though I didn't see that he need have brought my words up, and made a
fellow feel shy.
"Then, by Jove, you shall drink them in champagne!" exclaimed Hyde. He
caught up a bottle of champagne that stood under the sideboard, from
which the wire had been removed, and would have cut the string but for
the restraining hand of Duffham.
"No, Hyde; you have had rather too much as it is."
"I swear to you that I have not had a spoonful. It has not been opened,
you see. My mother refused it, and Massock does not care for champagne:
he likes something heavier."
"If you have not taken champagne, you have taken other wine."
"Sherry at dinner, and port since," laughed Hyde.
"And more of it than is good for you."
"When Massock sits down to port wine he drinks like a fish," returned
Hyde, still laughing. "Of course I had to make a show of drinking with
him. I wished the port at Hanover."
By a dexterous movement, he caught up a knife and cut the string. Out
shot the cork with a bang, and he filled three of the tumblers that
stood on the sideboard with wine and froth--one for each of us. "Your
health, doctor," nodded he, and tossed off his own.
"It will not do your throat good," said Duffham, angrily. "Let me look
at the throat."
"Not until you and Johnny have wished me luck."
We did it, and drank the wine. Duffham examined the throat; and told
Hyde, for his consolation, that it was not in a state to be trifled
with.
"Oh, it's nothing," said Hyde carelessly. "But I don't want it to be
bad to-morrow when I travel, and I thought perhaps you might be able to
give me something or other to set it to rights to-night. I start at ten
to-morrow morning."
"Sore throats are not cured so easily," retorted Duffham. "You must have
taken cold."
Telling him he would send in a gargle and a cooling draught, and that
he was to go to bed soon, Duffham rose to leave. Hyde opened the
glass-doors of the room that we might pass out that way, and stepped
over the threshold with us. Talking with Duffham, he strolled onwards
towards the gate.
"About three weeks, I suppose," he said, in answer to the query of how
long he meant to be away. "If Mabel----"
Gliding out of the bushy laurels on one side the path, and planting
herself right in front of us, came Ketira the gipsy. Her face looked
yellower than ever in the twilight of the summer's evening; her piercing
black eyes fiercer. Hyde was taken aback by the unexpected encounter. He
started a step back.
"Where's my daughter, Hyde Stockhausen?"
"Go away," he said, in the contemptuous tone one might use to a dog. "I
don't know anything of your daughter."
"Only tell me where she is, that I may find her. I ask no more."
"I tell you that I do not know anything of her. You must be mad to think
it. Get along with you!"
"Hyde Stockhausen, you lie. _You do know where she is; you know that it
is with you she has been._ Heaven hears me say it: deny it if you dare."
His face looked whiter than death. Just for an instant he seemed unable
to speak. Ketira changed her tone to one of plaintive wailing.
"She was my one little ewe lamb. What had she or I done to you that you
should come as a spoiler to the fold? I _prayed_ you not. Make her your
wife, and I will yet bless you. It is not too late. Do not break her
heart and mine."
Hyde had had time to rally his courage. A man full of wine can generally
call some up, even in the most embarrassing of situations. He scornfully
asked the gipsy whether she had come out of Bedlam. Ketira saw how hard
he was--that there was no hope.
"It is said that you depart to-morrow to bring home a bride, Hyde
Stockhausen. _I counsel you not to do it._ For your own sake, and for
the young woman's sake, I bid you beware. The marriage will not bring
good to you or to her."
That put Hyde in a towering passion. His words came out with a splutter
as he spurned her from him.
"Cease your folly, you senseless old beldame! Do you dare to threaten
me? Take yourself out of my sight instantly, before I fetch my
horsewhip. And, if ever you attempt to molest me again, I will have you
sent to the treadmill."
Ketira stood looking at him while he spoke, never moving an inch. As
his voice died away she lifted her forefinger in warning. And anything
more impressive than her voice, than her whole manner--anything more
startlingly defiant than her countenance, I never wish to see.
"It is well; I go. But listen to me, Hyde Stockhausen; mark what I say.
Only three times shall you see me again in life. But each one of those
times you shall have cause to remember; and after the last of them you
will not need to see me more."
It was a strange threat. That she made it, Duffham could, to this day,
corroborate. Pulling her red cloak about her shoulders, she went swiftly
through the gate, and disappeared within the opposite coppice.
Hyde smiled; his good humour was returning to him. One can be brave
enough when an enemy turns tail.
"Idiotic old Egyptian!" he exclaimed lightly. "What on earth ever made
her take the fancy into her head, that I knew what became of Kettie, I
can't imagine. I wonder, Duffham, some of you people in authority here
don't get her confined as a lunatic!"
"We must first of all find that she is a lunatic," was Duffham's dry
rejoinder.
"Why, what else is she?"
"Not that."
"She is; and a dangerous one," retorted Hyde.
"Nonsense, man! Gipsies have queer ways and notions; and--and--are not
to be judged altogether as other people," added the doctor, finishing
off (as it struck me) with different words from those he had been about
to say. "Good-night; and don't take any more of that champagne."
Hyde returned indoors, and we walked away, not seeing a sign of the red
cloak anywhere.
"I must say I should not like to be attacked in this manner, were I
Hyde," I remarked to Duffham. "How obstinate the old gipsy is!"
"Ah," replied Duffham. "I'd sooner believe her than him."
The words surprised me, and I turned to him quickly. "Why do you say
that, sir?"
"Because I do say it, Johnny," was the unsatisfactory answer. "And now
good-evening to you, lad, for I must send the physic in."
"Just a word, please, Mr. Duffham. Do you know where that poor Kettie
is?--and did you know that Hyde Stockhausen stole her?"
"No, to both your questions, Johnny Ludlow."
* * * * *
Everybody liked Hyde's wife. A fragile girl with a weak voice, who
looked as if a strong wind would blow her away. Duffham feared she was
not strong enough to make old days.
Virginia Cottage flourished. Parson Hyde had died and left all his
fortune to Hyde: who had now nothing to do but take care of his wife and
his money, and enjoy life. Before the next summer came round, Hyde had a
son and heir. A fine little shaver, with blue eyes like Hyde's, and good
lungs. His mother was a long while getting about again: and then she
looked like a shadow, and had a short, hacking kind of cough. Hyde wore
a grave face at times, and would say he wished Mabel could get strong.
But Hyde was regarded with less favour than formerly. People did not
scruple to call him "villain." And one Sunday, when Mr. Holland told
us in his sermon that man's heart was deceitful above all things and
desperately wicked, the congregation wondered whether he meant it
especially for Stockhausen. For the truth had come out.
When Hyde departed to keep his marriage engagement, Ketira the gipsy had
again disappeared from Church Dykely. In less than a month afterwards,
Abel Carew received a letter from her. She had found Kettie: and she had
found that her own instincts against Hyde Stockhausen were not mistaken
ones. For all his seeming fair face and his indignant denials, it was he
who had been the thief.
"Of all brazen-faced knaves, that Stockhausen must be the worst!--an
adept in cunning, a lying hypocrite!" exploded the Squire.
"I suspected him at the time," said Duffham.
"You did! What were your grounds for it?"
"I had no particular grounds. His manner did not appear to me to be
satisfactory; that was all. Of course I was not sure."
"He is a base man," concluded the Squire. And from that time he turned
the cold shoulder on Hyde.
But time is a sure healer of wounds; a softener of resentment. As it
passed on, we began to forget Hyde's dark points, and to remember his
good qualities. Any way, Ketira the gipsy and Ketira's daughter passed
out of memory, just as they had passed out of sight.
Suddenly we heard that Abel Carew was preparing to go on a journey. I
went off to ask him where he was bound for.
"I am going to see _them_, Master Johnny," he replied. "I don't know how
they are off, sir, and it is my duty to see. The child is ill: and I
fear they may be wanting assistance, which Ketira is too proud to write
and ask for."
"Kettie ill! What is the matter with her?"