Sweet Content
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I fancy I did look rather white and startled.
“Connie is a little frightened,” said papa. “I told you I should say nothing to her, so that Lady Honor or Captain Whyte can question her themselves straight away. I should like to lose no time, if you please, Mr Bickersteth; I am extremely busy.”
“Of course, of course, very sorry to detain you,” said the old gentleman. “Just a little mistake, no doubt. You have taken it up too seriously, my dear Percy.”
But papa shook his head, though he smiled a little, too.
“Shall we go to the drawing-room?” he said; on which Mr Bickersteth opened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in a cheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were the matter.
A servant was standing close by. He threw open the drawing-room door, and papa, half slipping his arm through mine, led me in. There were several people in the room, and I shook hands all round, though scarcely knowing with whom. Then by degrees I disentangled them; there were not so many after all, and all well known to me. Captain and Mrs Whyte and Mary – not Yvonne Lady Honor, of course, and Anna Gale and her father. Anna was very pale, and I could see she had been crying. Mary came up close to me and stood beside me. I think she took hold of my hand.
“Now, Connie,” said my father, “I want to ask you something. It has been stated – it is believed by some of our friends here – but of course the moment you deny it, it will be all right – that some little time ago you met in the lane that leads to the Yew Trees an old lady, a stranger, who asked you the way. And that you, instead of replying courteously and civilly as one should always do to a stranger, above all to an old person, answered her rudely, and went on to speak to her with something very like absolute insult. That you called her an old beggar, a tramp – I know not what;” here Anna Gale began sobbing audibly. Papa took no notice, but went on coolly. “Furthermore, that you bound down your companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least a rather curious incident – strangers are not so common at Elmwood as all that – you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about it from some motive. Your companion supposes you knew you had done wrong, and that your conscience made you silent. Now, I shall be pleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirely unfounded; either that it is some strange mistake – or – or – no, I can’t accuse other people’s daughters of anything worse than making a mistake.”
He glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. I seemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gaze fell on me. And I think I was very pale, but while he spoke I don’t think my expression had changed or faltered. Now, however, when he looked at me again, I felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still I looked up.
“Yes, papa,” I said; “it is all quite true. I spoke even worse than that. I made Anna promise not to tell, and I have never told myself, because I knew I had behaved disgracefully. But – but – I thought she was some kind of a tramp – there are plenty of tramps about here.” I stopped for a second. “No,” I went on, something seemed pushing at me to tell the whole truth, “no, I didn’t think she was a tramp when she came close. I thought she was from the almshouses. But she called me ‘child,’ and – and I was cross already, and I didn’t think she was a lady, and – yes, I said it all, worse than you know even. And I didn’t want any one ever to know.”
Papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. He seemed turned to stone. I could not bear it.
“Oh, papa!” I cried, stretching out my hands to him, “don’t – don’t look – ”
But he did not move. Only two arms were thrown round me and clasped me tight. It was Mary.
“You should forgive her,” she called out in a voice that was almost fierce. “You should– everybody. She has told it all now bravely, and she didn’t mean it. She didn’t know it was our aunt.”
“Your aunt?” I gasped.
“Yes,” said Captain Whyte, coming forward and speaking very gently. “My aunt, Connie. You did not know it, but I fear you have injured us irreparably, my poor child. She took you for Mary; she was coming to see us, as a surprise on Evey’s birthday – and now nothing will make her believe it was not Mary. You allowed her to think so.”
“Yes; I suppose I did. I couldn’t explain,” I replied; “but she would believe – she must– if you told her.”
He shook his head.
“You cannot understand,” he said, quietly.
I don’t clearly remember what happened after this. I think Lady Honor spoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. I remember Anna going on sobbing till I turned to her.
“What are you crying for?” I said. “Nobody is vexed with you.”
“I should have told sooner,” she wept.
“Yes, I suppose you should. But it was my fault, not yours. Why can’t you be satisfied that it’s I – only I – to blame? Everybody thinks me as bad as I can be, but you needn’t go on. Did your father ever look at you as papa did at me?”
I was growing desperate. Papa had walked out of the room without speaking to me. I did not know any one heard what I said to Anna till I felt some one’s arm passed round me. It was Mrs Whyte. Her pretty, merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but the kind, true brown eyes – Evey’s eyes – were kind and true still.
“Don’t speak like that, Connie dear,” she said. “I am far more sorry for you than for ourselves. I will come and see you to-morrow. I wish I could go home with you now but poor Addie is so ill;” and I saw the tears glistening.
Then I found myself in the hall, and in another moment in the carriage again – alone! I heard Captain Whyte speak to the coachman.
“Take Miss Percy home, and then drive back to Todholes as fast as you can,” he said. “Dr Percy will be there.”
I would have liked to say I could walk, and that the carriage might go after papa at once, but I was too stupified. I think if all the village children had turned out and hooted after me as I drove along I should not have been surprised. I had only one thought – however wicked and horrid other people thought me, mamma would still love me. But for all that I hardly felt as if I could have kept my senses.
Perhaps I had better explain here how it had all happened and why, naughty as I had been, what was after all in itself but a trifling matter was considered so very seriously.
The old lady I had insulted was Mrs Fetherston, Captain Whyte’s own aunt. She had been many years a childless widow, was very rich and very peculiar. She was rich partly through her husband, partly because the Whytes’ family place was hers, left her by her father, for the property was not entailed. She had another nephew, Major Hugo Whyte, who as well as Captain Whyte had been partly brought up by her. But Captain Whyte had always been her favourite, and though he himself was younger than Major Whyte, his father had been older than Hugo Whyte’s father, so Mrs Fetherston made him her heir. There was no jealousy between the two cousins; they loved each other dearly. Major Whyte went into the army while Captain Whyte was still at school, and he was out in India when a quarrel occurred between the old lady and her favourite nephew. She wanted him to give up his profession, the navy, and live at home with her, doing nothing; she also, I think, wanted him to marry some girl he did not care for. He would not consent to either, and he would marry Mrs Whyte! So Mrs Fetherston disinherited him and put his cousin in his place. At first, he did not much care; he was very happy in his own home, and his aunt still continued his allowance. It was not a very large one, and as time went on and so many children came, it began to seem a very small one. At last he was forced to retire on half-pay. He had a little money of his very own, and Mrs Whyte had a little, and Major Whyte helped them as much as he could, though he was not, at present, rich himself. He also was always trying to soften his aunt to them; she had no real cause for disliking Mrs Whyte, who was very well-born indeed, only not rich. It was in consequence of one of Hugo Whyte’s letters that the queer old lady at last determined to see her nephew’s family for herself, and to pay them a surprise visit. Then – you know what happened.
Soon after Yvonne’s unfortunate birthday, Major Whyte, who had not been well for long – he was a delicate man, and had had much active service – got worse, and in consequence of this, as you may remember my overhearing at Lady Honor’s party, he came home. He had seen by his aunt’s letters that she was more bitter than ever against “Frank” and his family, but he did not know why till he saw her, and she told him the whole. He was dreadfully sorry; he did not think himself likely to live long, and his one wish was to see his cousin reinstated. For Mrs Fetherston was quite capable, if he died, of leaving everything, even the Whytes’ own old place, to some charity, away from Captain Whyte altogether. Hugo Whyte wrote to his cousin explaining what had happened, never doubting, of course, but that the rude little girl was Mary! Poor Mary at once denied it, and it became evident there was some strange mistake. Captain Whyte went off to consult Lady Honor, whose quick wits set to work to disentangle the riddle.
“There were two little girls,” she said. And that very day she saw Mr Gale and had a long talk with him. Mr Gale, in turn, had a long talk with Anna. Anna, it must be remembered, had only promised “not to tell” of our adventure conditionally; and she had often felt uneasy about it. In one sense it was a relief to her to have to tell; but she got more than her share of punishment, poor girl, I shall always think. Lady Honor was unwilling to tell papa about it. She knew how sensitive he was, and how he would take it to heart. So a letter was sent to Major Whyte, explaining the mistake, and asking her to allow Captain Whyte to take his two girls to see her. But the old lady had got an obstinate fit. She would not believe that the culprit was not Mary.
Then at last Lady Honor told papa. He took it up very seriously, just as she had feared, too seriously in one sense, though I well deserved all the blame I got.
And another long letter was despatched to poor Major Whyte, who ill as he was, was determinedly trying to put things right.
The answer to this letter did not come for some days. But I have forgotten one part of the sad business. Not only was no birthday present or Christmas present sent to Yvonne by her godmother, but for the first time no cheque was received by Captain Whyte’s bankers from Mrs Fetherston. Her rancour had gone the length of stopping his allowance! No wonder the poor Yew Trees people were anxious. And this was my doing.
Chapter Eleven.
Nothing Venture, Nothing Win
The short winters day was already closing in when the carriage stopped at our own door. I was crouched up in one corner, perfectly miserable, the fur rug was in a heap at my feet – when I glanced at it, and thought of how papa had tucked it round me that very afternoon, I felt as if I could not bear it. As I got out and entered the hall, where the light was dim, I saw some one standing at the drawing-room door. It was mamma waiting for me; she had heard the carriage stopping.
“Connie, is that you?” she said. “Is papa there?”
“No, mamma,” I managed to get out. “I’m alone.” Then she drew me into the drawing-room – it looked so warm and bright, the red firelight dancing on the old furniture – and I was so shivering and cold! Somehow the look of it all – the look, above all, in mamma’s eyes – was too much for me.
“Mamma, mamma,” I sobbed, and once I had begun my tears came like a thunderstorm, “do you know? Do you know about how naughty I’ve been?”
She had not really known of course; till I owned to it no one could have really known, except Anna. But mamma had guessed it was true – in some ways she knew me and my faults and follies even better than papa did, gentle as she was. She had been afraid it was true when he told her that afternoon what I had been accused of – and he had been rather vexed with her!
“Yes, darling,” she said, “I know about it, mostly at least.”
She drew my head on to her knee, as I crept close to her where she sat on a low couch, and let me sob out all my misery. Oh, mamma, dear little, sweet, unselfish mother – was there, could there ever be any one so kind as you? And I, who had sometimes almost dared to look down on her for her very goodness! That afternoon brought me the end of the lesson I had begun to learn. It was quite dark, and growing late, before mamma rang for lights. I had cried my eyes into a dreadful state, and I was still shivering every now and then from a sort of nervousness. Mamma took me upstairs and made me go to bed.
“You will feel better in the morning,” she said. “And I will talk more to you. We must not exaggerate things, you know, dear. Good-night, my Connie, my own little Sweet Content.”
Was it not nice of her to call me that! I did not go to sleep for a good while. When I did I slept heavily. It was quite daylight when I woke. Mamma was standing beside me, and Prudence was setting down a tray with my breakfast.
“I will come back when you have finished, dear,” mamma said. She did not mention papa, and when I asked Prue she only said he was already out.
So he was. Not only out, but away. When mamma came up again she told me that he had got a letter the night before, which had decided him on going to London for two or three days – I think it was to attend some scientific meeting.
“He came up to look at you last night,” mamma went on, “but you did not wake.”
I did not speak for a minute or two. Then I said timidly:
“Mamma, do you think he will ever forgive me? Mamma, do you know that he could scarcely have seemed more terribly angry if – if – I had done it on purpose to hurt the Whytes, and you know it wasn’t that I love them too much; and even if I didn’t, I couldn’t be as bad as that?”
“I know, dear,” said mamma. “But papa has very strong feelings about courtesy to strangers; above all to the old and poor – and that strange old Mrs Fetherston seemed poor. And then, too, the consequences are so very serious to the Whytes. Papa said to me he was afraid of judging your fault too much by the consequences; that was partly why he sent you home alone, and he is not sorry to be away for a day or two to think things over. I may tell you Connie,” she went on, “that bright and sweet-tempered, almost perfect as he seems to us, papa has naturally a very hot and violent temper. You have never seen it; he has learnt to control it so perfectly; but yesterday he was afraid of saying too much to you; that was partly why he went away.”
“I understand,” I said, “though after all I think I deserved everything any one could have said – mamma,” I added, “perhaps it’s from papa I get my temper: it’s certainly not from you. And people generally think I’m good-tempered, just as they do him. But he is good-tempered, because he has mastered himself, and I’m only not often bad-tempered, because I generally manage to get my own way, and am very seldom crossed!”
Mamma smiled. She was glad to see me really thinking seriously.
“Mamma,” I said, “even if that – that horrid old woman does leave everything to the other one – to Major Whyte,” – mamma had explained it all to me the evening before – “it couldn’t matter so very much, would it? For he’s so fond of them all – could he not make it up to them?”
“They fear he would be bound down by her will to do nothing for his cousins,” said mamma. “The old lady, once she has taken a thing in her head, seems very vindictive. Besides, Captain Whyte is a proud man, he has always hoped his aunt would leave him something – it would be hard for him to take it as a gift, almost like a charity, from his cousin. And what can they do for the present? They had little enough before; but now they must be terribly poor. And the old lady may live many years. The worst of all would be if Major Whyte died before her, without her being reconciled to his cousins.” This made it all clear enough to me – only too clear. I could think of nothing else. I got up and dressed, for I was not ill. I was only feeling very miserable and rather shaky with crying so. Mamma had very kindly sent to Miss Wade to tell her not to come, which was a comfort. I was very glad to see no one but mamma, even though I longed for papa. I wanted so to consult him, and see if nothing could be done.
It was a very rainy day; it went on steadily till late in the afternoon. It was one of those days which seem as if the sun had not risen.
I could not settle to anything. I tried to work and read, but it was no use. Then I began a letter to Evey; I did so want to let them know how miserably sorry I was, but the words would not come, and I gave it up.
“It would only seem a mockery,” I said to myself; “I don’t suppose they want to be reminded of me at all,” and I got up and stood drearily by the window watching the plash of the rain as it fell into the puddles of the gravel walk. Suddenly a feeble ray of light caught my eyes – where was it coming from? I looked up. Yes, there, over where the sun would soon be setting there was a little break in the clouds; some thin, cold, watery yellow was peeping out, and even as I gazed it reddened and warmed a little.
And at that moment an idea struck me, which, the more I reflected on it, the more my judgment approved of. I stood there some minutes thinking intently. Then I flew into the library where mamma was, I knew, tidying some of papa’s books that afternoon.
She had finished and was standing by the fire.
“Mamma dear,” I said, “I have thought of something;” and I went on rapidly to tell her what had come into my mind. She listened eagerly, but her face flushed and she looked half-frightened.
“We must wait till papa comes home and see what he says,” she replied.
I clasped my hands in entreaty.
“No, mamma,” I said. “I have a feeling that we mustn’t wait. There can’t be any harm in it. It is my duty to apologise. I could write her a letter, but that would not be the same good. I will not go to her to say ‘I’m not Mary’; I will just say I am the little girl that was so rude to her.”
Mamma considered.
“But if she refuses to see us,” she said. I saw she was yielding.
“Oh well, then – I don’t know. But any way I will have tried. Do you know her address, mamma?”
“I know the square she lives in, and the name is not common. We can easily find the number in any address-book when we get there. But, Connie – ”
I stopped any further misgivings by kissing her. And seeing me look so much happier, mamma had not the heart to say anything more against it.
I need not explain what it was I wanted to do, more particularly, for I think any one who reads this will understand. I will just go on to tell exactly what happened.
The next morning – it was a fine day; how glad I was of that! – saw mamma and me comfortably installed in a first-class railway-carriage, en route for London. We had no luggage, for we were only going up for the day – Elmwood is only two hours from Victoria. When we got there mamma hailed a four-wheeler —I would rather have had a hansom, but mamma is rather nervous about hansoms, and after all I was scarcely in the humour to care much – and told the man to drive first to one of the big shops she knew well. There she got an address-book and found out old Mrs Fetherston’s number, and off we set again. We scarcely spoke – I was growing so nervous – not out of fear for myself, but lest possibly it should all fail!
At last the cab drew up in front of a large, regular London house. We got out. The door was opened by a footman, and further back in the hall were one or two other men-servants. It was a stately, rather old-fashioned house. How strange to think that it belonged to the queer old woman I had so mistaken!
“Is Mrs Fetherston at home?” mamma inquired. It was now about half-past two; we had chosen the time well. The footman hesitated.
“I think my mistress is at home,” he said, “but she don’t see many visitors.” Mamma smiled so sweetly that he could not help adding: “I can inquire if – ”
“Perhaps you had better take my card to her, as it is really on business. And pray say I will not detain her many minutes.”
At the word “business” the man hesitated again; but he saw that we had kept the cab; that did not look much like ladylike impostors. “Will you step in?” he began again.
In her turn mamma hesitated.
“We could wait in the cab,” she said to me doubtfully. But it was a very cold day.
At that moment a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man – a gentleman, I mean – crossed the hall.
“Shut the door, David,” he said hastily. But then seeing us there he came forward a little way, courteously, “I beg your pardon, won’t you come in?”
We did so, sufficiently at least for David to shut the door; then the man turned to the gentleman to explain the state of the case.
“Do come in,” the gentleman repeated, throwing open the door of a library which looked warm and comfortable.
“I am half afraid Mrs Fetherston – ”
Mamma and I glanced at each other. She was going to speak, I think, but I forestalled her.
“Major Whyte,” I said, “please may we tell you about it? Mamma – mamma is Mrs Percy,” I added.
He was very quick-witted. He seemed to know in an instant. Indeed, though we did not hear that till afterwards, he had that morning got a letter from his cousin, explaining the mystery of “Mary’s” strange behaviour! And in another moment we were in the library with him, the door closed, and David told to wait till he was rung for, while mamma told our story. Major White listened most attentively while mamma, clearly and without hesitation – except just once, and that was at the part about my naughty rudeness, when she stopped and glanced at me; “I need not say how deeply Constantia has grieved over this,” she said – related everything. The only sound besides her voice was Major Whyte’s cough, the sort of cough one cannot bear to hear. And when she stopped, for a minute or two he could not speak for coughing; his thin brown face grew so painfully red, and he seemed to shake all over. How sorry I felt for him!
Mamma waited quietly. Then glancing round she caught sight of a carafe of water and a glass on the side-table. She poured some out and brought it to him.
“Thank you – so much,” he said, and in a little he was able to speak again.
“I see it all, of course,” he said. “It is brave of your daughter to have come herself, Mrs Percy, and it seems to me it was the best thing to do. There is certainly a very strong likeness between her and Mary, though I have not seen Mary for four years. If I had been told you were Mary,” he went on, turning to me with a smile, “I think I should have believed it. Now, have you the courage to beard the – to come with me to Mrs Fetherston alone? I think, perhaps, that is the best chance.”
Mamma and I looked at each other, and Major Whyte looked at us both.
“Yes,” I said, “I’ll come alone, if it’s best.”
“Bravo,” said our new friend – I felt he was a friend at once – and he held out his hand to me in a way I could not resist or resent, though generally I stood on my dignity a good deal. “We had been thinking of trying a rather desperate experiment to bring my poor aunt to her senses,” he said. “But I believe your effort will be more successful.”
We left the room together, he and I. I followed him upstairs to the first floor, and through two big drawing-rooms into a third and smaller one at the back. In he stalked, coughing a little now and then; in I crept after him. A big fire was blazing, an armchair was drawn close to it, and on, or rather in, the armchair, which almost seemed to swallow her up, was seated a small dark figure. She was reading the newspaper.
“What is it, Hugo?” she said, at the sound of my conductor’s footsteps. “There you are again, in and out as usual, exposing yourself to every draught, of course.”
The sharp tones, the queer, black, unnatural-looking curls were all too familiar to me. I could not help shivering a little.