myfriends' 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," saidmamma, in the funny little way she had of bristling up in papa's or mydefence.
"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 onhis hard day's work again, stopping to give me a kiss on my forehead ashe 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 mygoverness in the schoolroom. I had no idea of seeing papa again tillperhaps late in the evening, for he was very busy just then; there wasso much illness about. Still I was not exactly startled when I heardhis voice in the hall, calling me. He did sometimes look in for amoment as he was passing, now and then, to give some directions at thesurgery, 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 momentto finish a line; a bad habit of mine was want of prompt obedience; "runat 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 affectingdeliberateness till out of Miss Wade's sight (I have told you that I hadbeen "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 hadbeen riding. But his face had a strange expression; he looked stern andyet upset. Under his rather sunburnt bronzed complexion, I could see anunusual 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 hadbegun to speak rather impatiently, but his tone softened as he saw thatI looked frightened. "You needn't look so terrified, my dear. It isnothing--only--only a little misapprehension which you will be able toset right at once. I want you to come with me to Lady Honor's. I haveordered the carriage; it will be round in an instant. Run and put yourthings 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 isbetter not I will tell Miss Wade that you cannot have any more lessonsthis afternoon, and I have already told mamma that I want you. Bequick, dear."
In five minutes I was seated beside papa in the brougham. He drew thesoft, warm fur rug over me tenderly, and put his arm round me.
"Why are you trembling so, Connie?" he said. "You have done nothingwrong--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 thatthe mystery had to do with the Whytes and their family affairs, thoughmy mind was not collected enough to go into it properly.
"You will understand it directly," said papa. "Ridiculous--"--he gave astrange 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 wasno one there, but in a moment or two old Mr Bickersteth hobbled in. Henodded to papa; afterwards I found, that he and papa had met alreadythat afternoon. Papa had looked in to speak to Lady Honor about somepoor _protege_ of hers, and she had taken the opportunity of telling himof the Whytes' troubles. Old Mr Bickersteth spoke kindly to me--evenmore 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 saynothing to her, so that Lady Honor or Captain Whyte can question herthemselves 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 oldgentleman. "Just a little mistake, no doubt. You have taken it up tooseriously, 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 Bickerstethopened the door and led the way, talking, as we crossed the hall, in acheery, ordinary manner; no doubt to make it seem as if nothing were thematter.
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 wereseveral people in the room, and I shook hands all round, though scarcelyknowing with whom. Then by degrees I disentangled them; there were notso many after all, and all well known to me. Captain and Mrs Whyte andMary--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 upclose 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 hasbeen stated--it is believed by some of our friends here--but of coursethe moment you deny it, it will be all right--that some little time agoyou 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 courteouslyand 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 withsomething very like absolute insult. That you called her an old beggar,a tramp--I know not what;" here Anna Gale began sobbing audibly. Papatook no notice, but went on coolly. "Furthermore, that you bound downyour companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least arather curious incident--strangers are not so common at Elmwood as allthat--you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about itfrom _some_ motive. Your companion supposes you knew you had donewrong, and that your conscience made you silent. Now, I shall bepleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirelyunfounded; either that it is some strange mistake--or--or--no, _I_ can'taccuse other people's daughters of anything worse than making amistake."
He glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. Iseemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gazefell on me. And I think I was very pale, but while he spoke I don'tthink my expression had changed or faltered. _Now_, however, when helooked at me again, I felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still Ilooked up.
"Yes, papa," I said; "it is all quite true. I spoke even worse thanthat. 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 wassome kind of a tramp--there are plenty of tramps about here." I stoppedfor a second. "No," I went on, something seemed _pushing_ at me to tellthe whole truth, "no, I didn't think she was a tramp when she cameclose. 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 alady, and--yes, I said it all, worse than you know even. And I didn'twant any one ever to know."
Papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. He seemed turned tostone. I could not bear it.
"Oh, papa!" I cried, stretching out my hands to him, "don't--don'tlook--"
But he did not move. Only two arms were thrown round me and clasped metight. It was Mary.
"You should forgive her," she called out in a voice that was almostfierce. "You _should_--everybody. She has told it all now bravely, andshe 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. "Myaunt, Connie. You did not know it, but I fear you have injured usirreparably, my poor child. She took you for Mary; she was coming tosee us, as a surprise on Evey's birthday--and now nothing will make herbelieve it was _not_ Mary. You allowed her to think so."
"Yes; I suppose I did. I couldn't explain," I replied; "but she wouldbelieve--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 Honorspoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. I rememberAnna 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'tyou be satisfied that it's I--only I--to
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