Susan cowered into the dark cupboard. Nurse must be in a dreadful way to call her Miss Merrifield, instead of Missy!
Nothing more could be done. The pence could not be found. Nurse would not let Rhoda be examined; and all that could be found out from the children had been already elicited.
Christabel could only beg that no more should be said, and, her head aching with perplexity, hope that some light might yet be thrown on the matter. There must be pain and grief whenever it should be explained; but this would be far better, even for the offender, than the present deception: and the whole family were in a state of irritation and distrust, that hurt their tempers, and made her bitterly reproach herself with not having prevented temptation by putting the hoard under lock and key.
She ordered that no more should be said about it that evening, and made herself obeyed; but play was dull, and everything went off heavily. The next morning, Susan came back early from her housekeeping business, with her honest face grave and unhappy, and finding Miss Fosbrook alone, told her she had something really to say to her if she might; and this being granted began, with the bright look of having found a capital notion: “I’ll tell you what I wish you would do.”
“Well?”
“If you would call every one in all the house, and ask them on their word and honour if they took the pence.”
“My dear, I am not the head of the house, and I have no right to do that; besides, I do not believe it would discover it.”
“What! could a thief get in from out of doors!” said Susan looking at the window.
“Hardly that, my dear; but I am afraid a person who could steal would not scruple to tell a falsehood, and I do not wish to cause this additional sin.”
“It is very horrid; I can’t bear it,” said Susan, puckering up her face for tears. “Do you know, Miss Fosbrook, the maids are all so angry that you said anything about Rhoda?”