Читать книгу: «Sweet Content», страница 6

“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.

“Aunt Angela,” he said – only fancy that being her name! – “I have brought a young lady to see you,” and he drew me forward a little. “You have seen her before,” – piercing eyes were upon me by this time – “but perhaps I can best introduce her and best explain her visit by telling you she is not your great-niece, Mary Whyte.”

He stood still to watch the effect of his audacity. The old lady began to tremble a little, though she tried to hide it. But this gave me courage, because it made me sorry for her.

“Who – who are you then? Who do you say you are?” she said, in a shaky, quavering voice.

I came towards her and stood full in the light such a light as there is on a winter’s day in a London back-drawing-room – I pushed my hat back – it fell off, and my fair hair came tumbling over my face. Major Whyte picked up my hat; I shook back my hair. The old lady could see me quite plainly.

“You will remember my face, I think?” I said, gently. “My name is Connie – Constantia Percy – papa is Dr Percy. He is the doctor at Elmwood; everybody there knows us. I have come to – to apologise to you very much for being so rude to you that day. I was in a bad temper before I met you. I don’t think I’d have been so rude – and – and unkind – to a stranger, if it hadn’t been for that I do hope you will forgive me.”

She looked at me still for some seconds, without speaking. Then she turned to her nephew.

“I can see now that there is no real likeness to Frank,” she said coolly. “Still the mistake was a very natural one, meeting her where I did, and the superficial resemblance of colouring, and so on, to what you had told me of the second girl, and to her photograph.”

“Yes,” said Major Whyte, his face flushing nervously, “the original mistake was natural enough, Aunt Angela: that is to say, if you could imagine, which I couldn’t, that one of Frank’s girls could have behaved so; but after you were assured that it was a mistake, when they absolutely denied it – ” he stopped – his indignation had carried him further than was prudent. He had hit Mrs Fetherston hard; he had hit some one else hard too. Indeed, I think he had forgotten I was there. But I was too much in earnest to resent the unflattering inference of his words.

“You could not think me like Mary if you saw us together,” I said eagerly. “She is ever, ever so much prettier, and, of course, just as good as I am naughty. It is quite true, neither she nor Yvonne could have behaved as I did.”

My voice began to break as I said the last words; the long strain was beginning to tell on me. I felt the tears coming, and I tried to choke them down. I knew Mrs Fetherston’s keen eyes were on me.

“My dear,” she said – I could scarcely have believed her voice could have been so different – “there are worse little girls in the world than you. I freely forgive you what I have to forgive. Some day I may see you and Mary together.”

Major Whyte started and a bright look of pleasure lighted up his face.

“Aunt Angela,” he began joyfully. Then I think the remembrance of what he had said came over him suddenly, for he turned to me.

“My dear child,” he said, “you must forgive me. I forgot.”

“No, no, please,” I said, though I was crying by this time. “I don’t mind; it was quite true.”

But at that moment we were all startled by a knock at the door – this room was the old lady’s private sitting-room and a man-servant, not David – an older one – appeared in answer to Mrs Fetherston’s “Come in.”

“A – a gentleman to see Major Whyte, if you please, ma’am,” he said; adding in a lower tone, “I think it’s something rather particular.”

Major Whyte turned to go, but a fit of coughing interrupted him.

“My poor boy, you are killing yourself,” said his aunt; “Freeland, bring the gentleman up here if it is anything particular. Your master can’t go running up and down stairs in this way.”