CHAPTER XIII
CONNIE’S SECRET
Kenneth was gone longer than usual that day, and was rather tired and somewhat out of sorts when he drove into the yard. He had met his father at the post-office, where there was a letter from Harry, who was still in Paris, issuing his orders for his villa, as he called it, sometimes by letter and sometimes by cablegram, irrespective of the cost. Since the failure of his father-in-law he had retrenched a little and countermanded an order for a rug valued at a thousand dollars, and thought himself very economical. Still the rug haunted him. He wanted it, and wanted an expensive set of Dresden china and a malachite mantel and tables for his green room, and the desire grew so intense that he at last wrote to a Mr. Jones, a hard-fisted man in Millville, who loaned money on good security and large interest, and demanded payment the day it was due. Three thousand dollars was the sum Hal asked for, and which he was sure Mr. Jones would loan him. His uncle, he knew, would sign the note with him, and with such security Mr. Jones would feel safe. Accompanying this letter to Mr. Jones was one to Deacon Stannard, asking for his indorsement, and saying it was only for six months, when all of Harry’s indebtedness would be paid.
“In any event,” he wrote, “you know I would not let any harm come to you and dear Aunt Mary,—the only mother I ever knew.”
Kenneth did not like the letter. Harry was spending too much money on his villa, unless he knew just where to get it. Three thousand dollars was a large sum for the deacon to be responsible for, and Phil Jones was not the man to wait a day. Like Shylock, he would have the pound of flesh if it took the deacon’s house and farm. It was this letter of Hal’s and the fear that his father might sign the note which Hal had sent, which was affecting Kenneth’s spirits as he came home from his long drive. Just for the moment Connie was forgotten. But his spirits brightened when he heard that she was sitting up waiting for him, and he hurried to her. It was a very thin, but a very lovely face which smiled at him as he entered the room into which the warm April sunshine was streaming, and in a square of which Connie sat, with the sunlight on her hair and hands which she held out to him.
“Just to shake,” she said. “No more counting pulse or taking temperature. I am getting well. I am sure of it. Did that woman help? And is she helping now, do you think?”
Kenneth’s countenance fell as he took the two small hands. He did not like to think about the woman. She had not been in the house since the day she sat by Connie, and said to him at leaving, “She will live.” He had heard, however, of such things as absent treatments, but had no faith in them.
“God cured you,” he said, “and made Dr. Catherin and myself the instruments. Perhaps the woman, too. Sincere prayer is never lost, and I know she was sincere. She is still at her friend’s. Do you wish to see her?”
Something in his manner made Connie think he did not care to have her call again, and she answered: “Oh, no; I am getting well so fast, and although I know I have been so much trouble, I am glad I am here. I should have died in Genoa.”
This reference to Italy reminded Kenneth of a letter he had found in the office for Connie, postmarked Florence. Disclaiming all sense of trouble, and speaking as if it had been a pleasure to watch by her day and night, he held the letter up and said: “A part of the time when you were so ill you were constantly asking for letters. Here is one. What will you give for it?”
In an instant Connie’s white face was crimson, and there leaped into her eyes a look of fear, rather than of pleasure, as she said faintly: “Give it to me, please.”