“Well, the best way will be to collect your wits and ask about them now,” said John, laughing.
And so she did. Matters of which her sister’s letters and chance callers had only given her hints were recalled, and discussed with a zest that greatly shortened the way. They were not very important matters, except as they were connected with home life and home friends; but if their way had been twice as long, the interest would not have failed.
“But, John,” said Christie, at last, “what was it that Davie McIntyre was telling me about Mr Portman’s failure? Is it really true? and has he left his wife and little children and gone—nobody knows where?”
“Yes, it is too true,” John said, and added many painful particulars, which he never would have given if he had had his wits about him. Christie’s next question recalled them, with a shock which was not altogether pleasant.
“Was it not Mr Portman who had Aunt Elsie’s money? Then she has lost it, I suppose?”
“Yes, it’s too true,” said John, with an uncomfortable conviction that Effie would far rather her little sister had not heard of it yet. He did not say so, however, and there was a long silence.
“I wonder what Effie will do?” said Christie, at last.
“Now, Christie, my woman,” said John, rather more hastily than was his habit, “you are not going to vex yourself about this matter. You know, if anybody can manage matters well, your sister Effie can; and she has a great many friends to stand between her and serious trouble. And I don’t believe she intended that you should know anything about this—at any rate, until you were safe at home.”
Christie was sure of that. There was no one like Effie. John could tell her nothing new about her goodness. But if it had been needful that they should be separated before, it was still more necessary now that she should be doing her part; and she intimated as much to John.
“But you must mind that Effie was never clear about your leaving home. If she had had her way, you never would have left.”