then, too, the consequences areso _very_ serious to the Whytes. Papa said to me he was afraid ofjudging your fault too much by the consequences; that was partly why hesent you home alone, and he is not sorry to be away for a day or two tothink things over. I may tell you Connie," she went on, "that brightand sweet-tempered, almost _perfect_ as he seems to us, papa hasnaturally a very hot and violent temper. You have never seen it; he haslearnt 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 everythingany 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 thinkI'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 seldomcrossed!"
Mamma smiled. She was glad to see me really thinking seriously.
"Mamma," I said, "even if that--that horrid old woman does leaveeverything to the other one--to Major Whyte,"--mamma had explained itall to me the evening before--"it couldn't matter so very much, wouldit? 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 hiscousins," said mamma. "The old lady, once she has taken a thing in herhead, seems very vindictive. Besides, Captain Whyte is a proud man, hehas always hoped his aunt would leave him something--it would be hardfor 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 manyyears. The worst of all would be if Major Whyte died before her,without her being reconciled to his cousins." This made it all clearenough to me--only too clear. I could think of nothing else. I got upand dressed, for I was not ill. I was only feeling very miserable andrather shaky with crying so. Mamma had very kindly sent to Miss Wade totell her not to come, which was a comfort. I was very glad to see noone but mamma, even though I longed for papa. I wanted so to consulthim, 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 nouse. Then I began a letter to Evey; I did so want to let them know howmiserably 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 theywant to be reminded of me at all," and I got up and stood drearily bythe window watching the plash of the rain as it fell into the puddles ofthe gravel walk. Suddenly a feeble ray of light caught my eyes--wherewas it coming from? I looked up. Yes, there, over where the sun wouldsoon 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 andwarmed 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 thinkingintently. Then I flew into the library where mamma was, I knew, tidyingsome 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 onrapidly 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 writeher a letter, but that would not be the same good. I will not go to herto say `I'm not Mary'; I will just say I am the little girl that was sorude 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 youknow her address, mamma?"
"I know the square she lives in, and the name is not common. We caneasily 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 somuch 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 Ithink any one who reads this will understand. I will just go on to tellexactly what happened.
The next morning--it was a fine day; how glad I was of that!--saw mammaand me comfortably installed in a first-class railway-carriage, _enroute_ for London. We had no luggage, for we were only going up for theday--Elmwood is only two hours from Victoria. When we got there mammahailed a four-wheeler--_I_ would rather have had a hansom, but mamma israther nervous about hansoms, and after all I was scarcely in the humourto care much--and told the man to drive first to one of the big shopsshe knew well. There she got an address-book and found out old MrsFetherston's number, and off we set again. We scarcely spoke--I wasgrowing so nervous--not out of fear for myself, but lest possibly itshould all fail!
At last the cab drew up in front of a large, regular London house. Wegot out. The door was opened by a footman, and further back in the hallwere one or two other men-servants. It was a stately, ratherold-fashioned house. How strange to think that it belonged to the queerold woman I had so mistaken!
"Is Mrs Fetherston at home?" mamma inquired. It was now abouthalf-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 manyvisitors." Mamma smiled so sweetly that he could not help adding: "Ican inquire if--"
"Perhaps you had better take my card to her, as it is really onbusiness. And pray say I will not detain her many minutes."
At the word "business" the man hesitated again; but he saw that we hadkept the cab; that did not look much like ladylike impostors. "Will youstep in?" he began again.
In her turn mamma hesitated.
"We could wait in the cab," she said to me doubtfully. But it was avery cold day.
At that moment a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man--a gentleman, Imean--crossed the hall.
"Shut the door, David," he said hastily. But then seeing us there hecame forward a little way, courteously, "I beg your pardon, won't youcome in?"
We did so, sufficiently at least for David to shut the door; then theman turned to the gentleman to explain the state of the case.
"Do come in," the gentleman repeated, throwing open the door of alibrary 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, butI forestalled her.
"Major Whyte," I said, "please may we tell you about it? Mamma--mammais 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 aletter from his cousin, explaining the mystery of "Mary's" strangebehaviour! And in another moment we were in the library with him, thedoor closed, and David told to wait till he was rung for, while mammatold our story. Major White listened most attentively while mamma,clearly and without hesitation--except just once, and that was at thepart about my naughty rudeness, when she stopped and glanced at me; "Ineed not say how deeply Constantia has grieved over this," she said--related everything. The only sound besides her voice was Major Whyte'scough, 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 facegrew so painfully red, and he seemed to shake all over. How sorry Ifelt for him!
Mamma waited quietly. Then glancing round she caught sight of a carafeof water and a glass on the side-table. She poured some out and broughtit to him.
"Thank you--so much," he said, and in a little he was able to speakagain.
"I see it all, of cou
rse," he said. "It is brave of your daughter tohave come herself, Mrs Percy, and it seems to me it was the best thingto 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 wereMary," he went on, turning to me with a smile, "I think I should havebelieved it. Now, have you the courage to beard the--to come with me toMrs 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 heheld out
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