A servant was standing close by. He threw open the drawing-room door, and papa, half slipping his arm through mine, led me in. There were several people in the room, and I shook hands all round, though scarcely knowing with whom. Then by degrees I disentangled them; there were not so many after all, and all well known to me. Captain and Mrs Whyte and Mary—not Yvonne Lady Honor, of course, and Anna Gale and her father. Anna was very pale, and I could see she had been crying. Mary came up close to me and stood beside me. I think she took hold of my hand.
“Now, Connie,” said my father, “I want to ask you something. It has been stated—it is believed by some of our friends here—but of course the moment you deny it, it will be all right—that some little time ago you met in the lane that leads to the Yew Trees an old lady, a stranger, who asked you the way. And that you, instead of replying courteously and civilly as one should always do to a stranger, above all to an old person, answered her rudely, and went on to speak to her with something very like absolute insult. That you called her an old beggar, a tramp—I know not what;” here Anna Gale began sobbing audibly. Papa took no notice, but went on coolly. “Furthermore, that you bound down your companion not to tell of this, and that though it was at least a rather curious incident—strangers are not so common at Elmwood as all that—you have all these weeks concealed it and kept silence about it from some motive. Your companion supposes you knew you had done wrong, and that your conscience made you silent. Now, I shall be pleased if you will look up and say that the accusation is entirely unfounded; either that it is some strange mistake—or—or—no, I can’t accuse other people’s daughters of anything worse than making a mistake.”
He glanced round the room, a proud, half-defiant smile on his face. I seemed obliged by some fascination to keep my eyes on him till his gaze fell on me. And I think I was very pale, but while he spoke I don’t think my expression had changed or faltered. Now, however, when he looked at me again, I felt as if his eyes were stabbing me; still I looked up.
“Yes, papa,” I said; “it is all quite true. I spoke even worse than that. I made Anna promise not to tell, and I have never told myself, because I knew I had behaved disgracefully. But—but—I thought she was some kind of a tramp—there are plenty of tramps about here.” I stopped for a second. “No,” I went on, something seemed pushing at me to tell the whole truth, “no, I didn’t think she was a tramp when she came close. I thought she was from the almshouses. But she called me ‘child,’ and—and I was cross already, and I didn’t think she was a lady, and—yes, I said it all, worse than you know even. And I didn’t want any one ever to know.”
Papa stood looking at me, but he did not speak. He seemed turned to stone. I could not bear it.
“Oh, papa!” I cried, stretching out my hands to him, “don’t—don’t look—”
But he did not move. Only two arms were thrown round me and clasped me tight. It was Mary.
“You should forgive her,” she called out in a voice that was almost fierce. “You should—everybody. She has told it all now bravely, and she didn’t mean it. She didn’t know it was our aunt.”
“Your aunt?” I gasped.