the afternoon as I canmanage it." I spent that afternoon principally at the dining-roomwindow, watching for him, which was very silly I know, and certainly didnot make the time pass quicker. But I really _could_ not settle down toanything. Just fancy: I had not seen papa since he turned away from mein silent, cold contempt in Lady Honor's drawing-room, though it was acomfort to know that he had come up to my room that same night andlooked at me as I lay asleep.
When at last he _did_ come, I was, of course, not at my post: that isalways the way. I was in the drawing-room at afternoon tea with mamma.I did not even hear his latchkey in the lock, as I often did. He wasstanding at the drawing-room door, looking at us, before we knew he wasthere!
All my plans of what I would say, how I would ask him to forgive me,flew out of my head. I just rushed up to him and threw my arms roundhim and burst into tears.
"Oh, papa, papa!" I said.
He did not repulse me; he did not speak for a moment, but I felt hiskind, firm clasp. Then he said:
"My poor little girl," and he stooped and kissed me. The kiss saideverything.
Mamma came forward.
"Tom, dear," she began, a little nervously, "we have a great deal totell you."
Poor little mamma--what a shame it was that she should be nervous, whenif she _had_ done anything imprudent it had only been for my sake!
But papa's first words took away all our fears.
"No, darling," he said. I liked to hear him call mamma "darling"; hedid not often do so, for he is not at all what is called"demonstrative."
"No, you haven't; I know all you have to tell me, and a good deal more.Indeed, I rather think I have a good deal to tell _you_. But first,give me a cup of nice hot tea. It _is_ cold this afternoon;" and stillwith his arm thrown round my neck, he came close up to the fireplace andstood there, watching mamma as she poured out his tea in the nice neatway she does everything.
"This is comfortable," said papa; "it's worth having a cold journey tocome home like this, especially when--when one has good news, too, tobring back."
I started at this.
"Oh, papa," I said, "is it about the Whytes?--is it all right?"
"I think so. I quite believe so," he replied. "I had a most cheerfulnote from Captain Whyte this morning written from his aunt's house. Wewere together in London yesterday. He came to my hotel with Mary, onhis way to Mrs Fetherston's, little thinking of your stealing a marchon us! Indeed, it was a good deal my idea--the taking Mary to show thatshe was herself, and not--"
"Not _me_," I interrupted. "Oh, papa, I have been _so_ sorry, _so_ashamed."
"I know you have," said papa, gravely. "I would have spared it you if Icould; but yet, Connie--"
"I deserved it," I said, "and I wouldn't have minded its being twice asbad as it was yesterday, if it was to put things right. And the oldlady was really kind, papa, at the end."
"Captain Whyte told me all," he said. "I don't think any of them daredto hope in the least that things would turn out so well. They are allgoing up to town to-morrow--all, that is to say, except the three littlefellows. Mrs Fetherston is not one to do things by halves, I fancy.The saddest part of the whole is poor Hugo Whyte's precarious state."
"Have you seen him?" mamma asked.
"Yes," papa replied. "I called on him the day I went up to speak aboutCaptain Whyte's idea of bringing Mary. He is very, very ill. I don'tthink they quite realise how ill he is. Perhaps, however, it is just aswell. He may have a little breathing-time now he is happier and cheeredby having them all about him; he may live a few months in comparativecomfort. That is the best I can hope for."
"It is a comfort to think that his last days will be cheered and happy,"said mamma, softly.
But I could not help crying again just a little, at night when I wasalone, when I thought of Major Whyte's face, and that I could never hopeto see him well and strong and bright like papa and Captain Whyte.
Things turned out pretty much as papa had predicted. Two days after theevening I have been telling you about--the evening of papa's return--allthe Yew Trees people came home again. We knew they had come home byhearing accidentally that the fly from the Stag's Head had been orderedto meet them at the station at three o'clock. So I posted myself at thedining-room window, and had the tantalising gratification of seeing bothit and Lady Honor's brougham pass our door on their way to the YewTrees. I could distinguish Mrs Whyte in the brougham, and a bag ortwo, and the back of a hat which I was sure was Yvonne's. And the flywas well filled too. But none of them looked out our way, nor nodded tome, though they _might_ have seen me. I felt rather unhappy again.
"Mamma," I said, when I got back to the drawing-room, "I have seen themall pass, but they didn't look this way. Mamma, you and papa haveforgiven me, but perhaps--even if they _forgive_ me, they're perhaps notgoing to be the same ever again," and I could scarcely choke down a sob.
"Connie, dearest," said mamma, "how can you fancy such things? You willsee, dear, it will be all right."
But I was very unhappy all that evening.
"They have _never_ passed before without looking out," I kept saying tomyself, and mamma could not manage to cheer me. But just as I was goingto bed, the "odd man" from the Yew Trees made his appearance with a notefor "Miss Percy," from Evey! I knew the handwriting, and tore it open.
"Dearest Connie," it said, "we _were_ so disappointed not to find youhere, at the Yew Trees, when we arrived. I wrote yesterday from London,to ask you to be here to spend the evening, so that we could tell youeverything. I gave the note to Lancey, and he has just found it in hispocket! So please ask dear Mrs Percy to let you come to-morrow. Youmust have a whole holiday for once, and stay all day. Oh, we are sohappy.
"Your loving
"Evey."
"_Now_, Connie," said mamma, triumphantly, "surely you will nevermistrust your friends again."
I thought I never could, and I thought so still more when I came homethe next evening, after one of the very happiest days I ever spent. ButI have not _quite_ kept to it, as I will tell before I come to the endof my story.
I must go straight on--was it not sweet of them to make me so happy?--they would not let me keep the least sore feeling about what I had done;they would have it I had been so "brave and unselfish"--fancy _me_unselfish!--in going to see Mrs Fetherston on my own account, as I haddone. Everything was coming right, Mrs Fetherston had fallen in lovewith their mother, and what wonder! They were all to spend the nextsummer holidays at Southerwold--that was the old home of the Whytes,which none of the Yew Trees children had ever seen; "Uncle Hugo," asthey called him, was to get quite well immediately, and though I feltmore inclined to cry than to smile when they said this, knowing whatpapa thought about Major Whyte, I took care not to cloud their brighthopes. It was so like the Whytes. They could not see anything otherthan hopefully--some people think that a bad way to face life and itstroubles, but I really can't say. All I know is that when troubles docome, these dear friends of ours meet them bravely.
"Isn't Uncle Hugo a darling?" said Yvonne. "Of course we've known_hint_ all our lives, though we never saw Aunt Fetherston before. Butit's nearly five years since Uncle Hugo went to India, so of course wehad all to learn each other over again, as he says. He's taken such afancy to you, Connie. He's coming down here to stay with us as soon asever the milder weather really sets in; just now he's best in London.There's no pleasure in being in the country if one can't go out."
"No, of course not," I agreed. Evey's confident tone almost made mefeel as if, perhaps, papa was wrong, and that Major Whyte _would_ getwell again after all.
But, alas! it was not so. He did seem to get better for a little, andeven papa, who was up in London again, a month or so later, and went tosee him, allowed when he came home, that he could not have believedMajor Whyte could have rallied so much. And as the spring set in early,and the good symptoms continued, all was arranged for his coming down tothe Yew Trees; the very day and train were fixed, and w
e three werenearly as pleased at the idea of seeing him again as the Whytesthemselves, when the blow fell. Something, no one could say certainlywhat--it might have been a slight chill, or over-fatigue, or, perhapsmerely the pleasant excitement of the visit in prospect--something--hewas so far gone that a mere nothing was enough, papa said--brought onhis cough again fearfully. He broke a blood-vessel, I think, and therewas only time to telegraph for Captain and Mrs Whyte, and the elderchildren to go to bid him good-bye before he passed away, verypeacefully and very happily, Evey and Mary told me, when they were ableto tell me about
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