Then there had been something for which this Mr. Peterson might have prosecuted Mr. Dale. Something so serious in its nature, that Mr. Dale could have been had up in a court of justice, and possibly could even have been condemned to penal servitude. In which case Pattie would have been the child of a convict.
Mrs. Cragg leaped in a hurry to this conclusion, with very little to build upon. She found some gratification in it. Had she not taken a dislike to Mr. Dale at first sight? Had she not known by instinct that he was not a dependable person? Had she not warned Mr. Cragg to have nothing to do with him? Here was proof of her sagacity.
No very decisive proof, after all, when she came to think it over. Mrs. Cragg did not for a moment doubt her own sagacity, or the correctness of her own hasty conclusions—people of hasty and shallow judgment seldom do—but she was aware that the reasons which satisfied herself might not satisfy everybody. They would not, for instance, satisfy her husband. So she became impatient for further proof. The idea of reading that letter through took hold of her, and she argued with herself that she had a right to do so. She and her husband were giving Pattie a home—at all events for a time—and if Pattie refused to answer questions as to her past history, Mrs. Cragg had a right to find out what she wished to know in some other way.
So Mrs. Cragg stated to herself. She did not feel inclined to state the same to Pattie, nor had she the smallest intention of being discovered in the act of reading a letter not her own. Her "rights" would wear a different aspect at such a moment. She did, however, intend to see the letter again.
After all, she argued, it was only fair to Pattie and to Pattie's father that she should do so. Now that the notion was in her head, she could not get rid of it, and she might be doing an injustice to an innocent man. The rest of the letter would, of course, either confirm or destroy her impression; therefore it was desirable that she should read it.
Whether Mrs. Cragg believed this line of reasoning may be doubted. She said to herself that she did.
Difficulties thickened when she had made up her mind. During several days she could find no opportunity. Dot was unable to go out, except for a turn, on account of her leg, and Pattie seldom cared to go alone. She was willing to undertake any errand for Mrs. Cragg, but she always came back quickly. Besides, so long as Dot was to the fore, Mrs. Cragg had to be cautious. Dot might be too lame for a walk, but she was not too lame to go stumping about the place, poking her sharp little nose into every room in succession. If Dot's keen eyes should detect her "ma-ma" in Pattie's room, Dot's high-pitched voice would cheerfully proclaim the fact. Mrs. Cragg preferred to avoid this. She wished it not to be known that she ever went inside Pattie's door. So she had no choice but to wait.
Dot's leg mended, and at length a day came when it was decreed that she might venture on a good ramble. Pattie was to take her, and Mrs. Cragg fixed on a time of the day when no one else would be about. She saw them off the premises, waited for Dot's shrill little tones to die away, and then betook herself to Pattie's room, bolting the door inside. The box of papers was no longer where it had first been placed, under a small table. Mrs. Cragg took a look round, and went to the cupboard, within which she at once descried it, below a pile of cardboard boxes.
"What nonsense to put it there!" said Mrs. Cragg.
The cardboard boxes had to be dislodged, and then her own key had to be fitted. It turned easily, and Mrs. Cragg, lifting the lid, drew out the two or three letters which she had laid loosely at the top. As she did this, terror sent all the blood from her face.