He nodded; for a moment or two it seemed as if he could not speak, and I think there were tears in his eyes. His voice was husky when he did speak, but that might have been from his cough.
“Yes,” he said, “I do—I do really hope so. Thank God.”
And as I glanced up at his kind, worn face, there seemed to me to be a light about it—a light such as one never sees save in the face of those who have suffered much, and have learnt to thank God for both sorrow and joy. I knew then that poor Major Whyte was not—as our simple country-folk say—was not “long for this world.” I never saw him again, and I had never seen him before, but I have never forgotten him.
He took me downstairs to where mamma was anxiously waiting. He had ordered tea for her and me; he knew we would be the better for it, he said, before setting off on our cold journey back. He was so gentle and considerate to mamma, telling her all that had happened upstairs as frankly as if she had been an old friend—I always notice that people who are quite, quite well-bred, are so much franker than commoner people, who make mysteries about nothing, and treat you as if your one object in life was to get their secrets out of them—and he was quite right, for she did indeed feel like one. And when we went away he took both my hands in his so nicely and thanked me—me, the naughty horrid little mischief-maker. Was it not more than good of him? When we were by ourselves in the cab I leant my head against mamma’s shoulder and burst into tears. I could not help it.
“All’s well that ends well, my Connie—my little Sweet Content,” she said. But I could not help going on crying when I thought of poor Major Hugo’s thin face and his terrible cough, and of how much I had added to his troubles and anxieties by my naughtiness on Evey’s birthday.
Papa came home the next day. We were longing to see him and to tell him everything. I fancy mamma was just a little afraid of his thinking we had been imprudent, though she did not say so to me, for fear of making me anxious. I was anxious all the same. We had heard nothing of the Whytes, and mamma thought it better not to go to see them or send to the Yew Trees till papa came home. We did not know what time to expect him; his letter only said “to-morrow, as early in the afternoon as I can manage it.” I spent that afternoon principally at the dining-room window, watching for him, which was very silly I know, and certainly did not make the time pass quicker. But I really could not settle down to anything. Just fancy: I had not seen papa since he turned away from me in silent, cold contempt in Lady Honor’s drawing-room, though it was a comfort to know that he had come up to my room that same night and looked at me as I lay asleep.
When at last he did come, I was, of course, not at my post: that is always the way. I was in the drawing-room at afternoon tea with mamma. I did not even hear his latchkey in the lock, as I often did. He was standing at the drawing-room door, looking at us, before we knew he was there!
All my plans of what I would say, how I would ask him to forgive me, flew out of my head. I just rushed up to him and threw my arms round him and burst into tears.