"Yes," said Clara, joyfully, "I know the white horses,—but why do they not drive to the door? What is papa going to the stables for?"
The question was soon answered. A servant entered with a note for Mrs. Wilmot; she glanced at it and then handed it to Clara, saying, "There, my dear Clara, you will find there is no further cause for anxiety. Your father has been detained by business, but he has sent the carriage for you and Grace."
Clara had seized the offered note, and was reading with such eagerness, that I do not think she heard what Mrs. Wilmot said. As she saw from the note that her father was not coming,—still more, that he would have left home before she could arrive there the next day, on business which might oblige him to be absent for some weeks—the thought that she must either keep Cecille waiting during all that time, or make the dreaded betrayal of her fault to Mrs. Wilmot, oppressed her so much that she burst into tears.
"Clara, my dear child, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Wilmot drawing to her side. "This is something more than sorrow at not seeing your father." She paused, but Clara did not speak. "Is there any thing you wished him to do for you, my dear? Surely, if there is, you will not hesitate to speak your wish to me." Clara was still silent. "I am grieved at this silence, Clara, I thought you loved me and confided in my affection; but perhaps you would rather speak to me alone. Come with me to the library."
Mrs. Wilmot then left us, leading Clara with her. She closed the library door after her, and we could then hear only the low murmur of her voice or Clara's heavy sobs. Grace seemed very anxious. She approached the library door at one time as if she was going in,—then went to the farthest part of the room from it. At length, her mother opened the door and called her. Grace sprang to the door and was admitted. There was something sad in the tone of Mrs. Wilmot's voice, which made me certain that Clara had told her all; but I did not hear how she had told it, till many days after, when Mrs. Wilmot related the scene to me as I am about to describe it to you.
As soon as they entered, Mrs. Wilmot seated herself on a sofa, and placing Clara by her side, strove to win her confidence by every soothing and affectionate word and action. At last with great effort Clara said, "You will be so angry with me, mamma Wilmot, if I tell you, that you will never love me again."
"Clara, I am angry only with those who are obstinate in doing wrong—never with those who confess their faults and try to amend."
"But you will think me so cruel and unjust."
"Cruel I cannot believe you to have been, Clara, and if you have committed an act of injustice, and you may by confiding in me be assisted in making amends for it, it is a new reason, my child, why you should speak at once. What is it, Clara?" Mrs. Wilmot's eye rested just then on the locket which she wore on her wrist, and this prompted the question—"Clara, did you speak the whole truth to-day when you told me this locket was paid for? Do you owe nothing on it?"
"No, mamma Wilmot; nothing on that, but I owe—" she stopped.