“Yes,” said Captain Whyte, coming forward and speaking very gently. “My aunt, Connie. You did not know it, but I fear you have injured us irreparably, my poor child. She took you for Mary; she was coming to see us, as a surprise on Evey’s birthday—and now nothing will make her believe it was not Mary. You allowed her to think so.”
“Yes; I suppose I did. I couldn’t explain,” I replied; “but she would believe—she must—if you told her.”
He shook his head.
“You cannot understand,” he said, quietly.
I don’t clearly remember what happened after this. I think Lady Honor spoke to me, not unkindly, but with a very troubled look. I remember Anna going on sobbing till I turned to her.
“What are you crying for?” I said. “Nobody is vexed with you.”
“I should have told sooner,” she wept.
“Yes, I suppose you should. But it was my fault, not yours. Why can’t you be satisfied that it’s I—only I—to blame? Everybody thinks me as bad as I can be, but you needn’t go on. Did your father ever look at you as papa did at me?”
I was growing desperate. Papa had walked out of the room without speaking to me. I did not know any one heard what I said to Anna till I felt some one’s arm passed round me. It was Mrs Whyte. Her pretty, merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but the kind, true brown eyes—Evey’s eyes—were kind and true still.
“Don’t speak like that, Connie dear,” she said. “I am far more sorry for you than for ourselves. I will come and see you to-morrow. I wish I could go home with you now but poor Addie is so ill;” and I saw the tears glistening.