Sweet Content

"We can't," said Yvonne, in a low voice.

But they explained no more, and I was not sorry. I did not want to spoil our afternoon by disagreeable subjects.

Christmas came. The day after, there was a large gathering at Lady Honor's, as there had been the year before. Captain and Mrs Whyte would not leave their own home on Christmas-day itself, as they did not like to separate from any of the little ones; but Mr Bickersteth was not satisfied without a Christmas party, so it was arranged to have it on the 26th. A good many Whytes came; all, down to the three youngest, I think. Papa and mamma and I were of the party too. Mr and Miss Gale, Anna and her two brothers from school, and two or three people staying with Lady Honor. It was a very nice party, and everything was done to make it so; but somehow it was not quite so merry as it should have been. Mrs Whyte, who was generally the life of everything, looked tired, and owned to a headache for once; Captain Whyte was very silent, and the boys and girls were rather subdued.

In the course of the evening, during some of the games, I happened to be standing near Lady Honor and Captain Whyte, and I could not avoid hearing what they said.

"Did you know, Frank," asked Lady Honor, "that Hugo is expected back next week?"

He started.

"No, indeed," he said. "I had no idea of it."

"I only heard it this morning," she went on, "in a letter from--" I did not catch the name. "He is not well--coming on sick leave, straight to--your aunt's."

Captain Whyte looked grave. Still there was a touch of something not altogether regret in his voice as he answered:

"I am very sorry, very--but, oh, I should be glad to see him again; and, selfishly speaking, just now--" he hesitated and glanced round. At that moment I was called for in the game, and I ran off and heard no more.

"I wonder who `Hugo' is," I thought, "and if his aunt is the Whytes' jacket-aunt too."

CHAPTER TEN.

THE LOOK ON PAPA'S FACE.

A week or two after, papa came in one day just as mamma and I were finishing luncheon, looking rather grave.

"I am very sorry for the Yew Trees people," he said; "I've been there this morning to see Addie. I'm afraid he's in for bronchitis, poor little chap, and troubles never come singly. Captain Whyte has heard that a favourite cousin of his--a Major Hugo Whyte, who has just come home from India--is very ill. He says he is like a brother to him, and he's very cut up."

"Is he going to see his cousin?" mamma asked.

"N-no; there seem other difficulties, family complications. He was going to tell me more, but we were interrupted. Lady Honor sent for Captain Whyte in a hurry. I hope there's nothing wrong there. I don't know what's coming to everybody." Papa, usually so cheerful, looked rather depressed. "The Whytes have some money bothers, too, I fear."

"Evey and Mary haven't got any new winter jackets," I said. "They're still wearing their tweed ones, with knitted vests underneath. The old lady can't have sent them any Christmas present."

Papa glanced at me in surprise.

"What old lady? You seem to know a great deal about our neighbours' affairs, Miss Connie."

"No," I said. "I don't know much. Only it's an old lady who's Evey's godmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn't this year."

Papa looked grave.

"I wonder," he said, consideringly, "if that is what's wrong. Whyte has an aunt, I know, who almost brought him up. I have heard Lady Honor speak of her as very eccentric. Perhaps--but I mustn't gossip about my friends' concerns," he added more lightly, "though truly, in this case, it is real interest in them that makes me do so."

"I am sure no one could ever accuse _you_ of gossiping, Tom," said mamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa's or my defence.

"No one has done so, my dear, except my own self. _Qui s'excuse, s'accuse_, you know."

And whistling in a boyish way, as he sometimes did, papa started off on his hard day's work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead as he passed me.

I have always remembered that morning, because of what came afterwards: it was _so_ miserable.

It was about three o'clock only; I was still at my lessons with my governess in the schoolroom. I had no idea of seeing papa again till perhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there was so much illness about. Still I was not exactly startled when I heard his voice in the hall, calling me. He did sometimes look in for a moment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at the surgery, or to fetch a book for himself, if he were going to drive far.

"Connie," I heard, "Connie, I want you at once."

"Run, Connie," said Miss Wade, my governess, for I was delaying a moment to finish a line; a bad habit of mine was want of prompt obedience; "run at once, Dr Percy has no time to spare."

She spoke rather sharply, and I got up.

"Yes, papa," I said as I opened the door, rather affecting deliberateness till out of Miss Wade's sight (I have told you that I had been "going back" lately in several ways.) "Yes, papa, I am here."

I moved quickly once I got into the hall. Papa was standing there, booted and spurred--how nice and big and manly he looked!--for he had been riding. But his face had a strange expression; he looked stern and yet upset. Under his rather sunburnt bronzed complexion, I could see an unusual flush of excitement.

"Is anything the matter?" I asked, startled, I scarcely knew why. "Addie Whyte isn't worse?"

"No, no, nothing like that. But I want you at once, Connie,"--he had begun to speak rather impatiently, but his tone softened as he saw that I looked frightened. "You needn't look so terrified, my dear. It is nothing--only--only a little misapprehension which you will be able to set right at once. I want you to come with me to Lady Honor's. I have ordered the carriage; it will be round in an instant. Run and put your things on, something warm; it is very cold."

"But papa," I began, "won't you tell--"

"No, my dear, I can't explain. You will see for yourself that it is better not I will tell Miss Wade that you cannot have any more lessons this afternoon, and I have already told mamma that I want you. Be quick, dear."

In five minutes I was seated beside papa in the brougham. He drew the soft, warm fur rug over me tenderly, and put his arm round me.

"Why are you trembling so, Connie?" he said. "You have done nothing wrong--what are you so frightened about?"

"I--I don't know, papa," I said, which was true. "It seems so strange."

But this was not the whole truth. I _had_ a queer, vague misgiving that the mystery had to do with the Whytes and their family affairs, though my mind was not collected enough to go into it properly.

"You will understand it directly," said papa. "Ridiculous--"--he gave a strange little laugh--"as if my Connie--so open too--"

But somehow this did not reassure me.

When we got to Lady Honor's, we were shown into the library. There was no one there, but in a moment or two old Mr Bickersteth hobbled in. He nodded to papa; afterwards I found, that he and papa had met already that afternoon. Papa had looked in to speak to Lady Honor about some poor _protege_ of hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling him of the Whytes' troubles. Old Mr Bickersteth spoke kindly to me--even more kindly than usual--almost as though he were a little sorry for me.

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!