I came towards her and stood full in the light such a light as there is on a winter’s day in a London back-drawing-room—I pushed my hat back—it fell off, and my fair hair came tumbling over my face. Major Whyte picked up my hat; I shook back my hair. The old lady could see me quite plainly.
“You will remember my face, I think?” I said, gently. “My name is Connie—Constantia Percy—papa is Dr Percy. He is the doctor at Elmwood; everybody there knows us. I have come to—to apologise to you very much for being so rude to you that day. I was in a bad temper before I met you. I don’t think I’d have been so rude—and—and unkind—to a stranger, if it hadn’t been for that I do hope you will forgive me.”
She looked at me still for some seconds, without speaking. Then she turned to her nephew.
“I can see now that there is no real likeness to Frank,” she said coolly. “Still the mistake was a very natural one, meeting her where I did, and the superficial resemblance of colouring, and so on, to what you had told me of the second girl, and to her photograph.”
“Yes,” said Major Whyte, his face flushing nervously, “the original mistake was natural enough, Aunt Angela: that is to say, if you could imagine, which I couldn’t, that one of Frank’s girls could have behaved so; but after you were assured that it was a mistake, when they absolutely denied it—” he stopped—his indignation had carried him further than was prudent. He had hit Mrs Fetherston hard; he had hit some one else hard too. Indeed, I think he had forgotten I was there. But I was too much in earnest to resent the unflattering inference of his words.
“You could not think me like Mary if you saw us together,” I said eagerly. “She is ever, ever so much prettier, and, of course, just as good as I am naughty. It is quite true, neither she nor Yvonne could have behaved as I did.”
My voice began to break as I said the last words; the long strain was beginning to tell on me. I felt the tears coming, and I tried to choke them down. I knew Mrs Fetherston’s keen eyes were on me.
“My dear,” she said—I could scarcely have believed her voice could have been so different—“there are worse little girls in the world than you. I freely forgive you what I have to forgive. Some day I may see you and Mary together.”
Major Whyte started and a bright look of pleasure lighted up his face.
“Aunt Angela,” he began joyfully. Then I think the remembrance of what he had said came over him suddenly, for he turned to me.