“I know, dear,” said mamma. “But papa has very strong feelings about courtesy to strangers; above all to the old and poor—and that strange old Mrs Fetherston seemed poor. And then, too, the consequences are so very serious to the Whytes. Papa said to me he was afraid of judging your fault too much by the consequences; that was partly why he sent you home alone, and he is not sorry to be away for a day or two to think things over. I may tell you Connie,” she went on, “that bright and sweet-tempered, almost perfect as he seems to us, papa has naturally a very hot and violent temper. You have never seen it; he has learnt to control it so perfectly; but yesterday he was afraid of saying too much to you; that was partly why he went away.”
“I understand,” I said, “though after all I think I deserved everything any one could have said—mamma,” I added, “perhaps it’s from papa I get my temper: it’s certainly not from you. And people generally think I’m good-tempered, just as they do him. But he is good-tempered, because he has mastered himself, and I’m only not often bad-tempered, because I generally manage to get my own way, and am very seldom crossed!”
Mamma smiled. She was glad to see me really thinking seriously.
“Mamma,” I said, “even if that—that horrid old woman does leave everything to the other one—to Major Whyte,”—mamma had explained it all to me the evening before—“it couldn’t matter so very much, would it? For he’s so fond of them all—could he not make it up to them?”
“They fear he would be bound down by her will to do nothing for his cousins,” said mamma. “The old lady, once she has taken a thing in her head, seems very vindictive. Besides, Captain Whyte is a proud man, he has always hoped his aunt would leave him something—it would be hard for him to take it as a gift, almost like a charity, from his cousin. And what can they do for the present? They had little enough before; but now they must be terribly poor. And the old lady may live many years. The worst of all would be if Major Whyte died before her, without her being reconciled to his cousins.” This made it all clear enough to me—only too clear. I could think of nothing else. I got up and dressed, for I was not ill. I was only feeling very miserable and rather shaky with crying so. Mamma had very kindly sent to Miss Wade to tell her not to come, which was a comfort. I was very glad to see no one but mamma, even though I longed for papa. I wanted so to consult him, and see if nothing could be done.
It was a very rainy day; it went on steadily till late in the afternoon. It was one of those days which seem as if the sun had not risen.
I could not settle to anything. I tried to work and read, but it was no use. Then I began a letter to Evey; I did so want to let them know how miserably sorry I was, but the words would not come, and I gave it up.
“It would only seem a mockery,” I said to myself; “I don’t suppose they want to be reminded of me at all,” and I got up and stood drearily by the window watching the plash of the rain as it fell into the puddles of the gravel walk. Suddenly a feeble ray of light caught my eyes—where was it coming from? I looked up. Yes, there, over where the sun would soon be setting there was a little break in the clouds; some thin, cold, watery yellow was peeping out, and even as I gazed it reddened and warmed a little.
And at that moment an idea struck me, which, the more I reflected on it, the more my judgment approved of. I stood there some minutes thinking intently. Then I flew into the library where mamma was, I knew, tidying some of papa’s books that afternoon.
She had finished and was standing by the fire.