Chapter XIII

What Had Gone Wrong

CRAGG welcomed a change of subject. He could not, unhappily, feel sure that no cause existed for Dot's remarks, nor could he throw himself unreservedly into the defence of his wife. By this time he knew, only too well, that Mrs. Cragg was by no means always true in her utterances, that very often she was guilty of what Dot called "a tory." He was therefore the more anxious to divert attention at this moment.

"Why, Pattie, you've been crying!"

"One must—sometimes—cry a little," admitted Pattie, not trying to deny so patent a fact.

"Being a girl, perhaps one must. And it is nothing that I can set right? You are sure?"

"Quite sure," she said, tears in her eyes again. "I'll tell you more by-and-by; but there is nothing to be done."

"Pattie was crying, 'way in her loom," declared Dot, who never failed to put her small finger into every pie that happened to be going.

"You mustn't let Pattie cry any more, Dot. It's bad for her. If she does, come and tell me."

"All wite," nodded Dot cheerfully.

Tea presently came to an end, and Pattie noted as an unusual event that Mrs. Cragg had not flown into a passion. But little time remained for that or for other observations, since she and Cragg had to dress at once for church. Mrs. Cragg seldom troubled herself to go in the evening.

Coming out of church an hour and a half later, Cragg said, as he walked beside Pattie in the twilight:

"What has been wrong to-day?"

"I can't tell you all, but—part, if you like. It is about my father's letters."

"Yes. What have you done?"

"I have burnt them. Not to-day, but two or three days ago."

"You have!"

"I thought it right."

"In that case there's nothing to be said. People must follow their consciences, of course. But why?"

"I was afraid you might persuade me to read them—against what I felt to be right."

"Have I been so positive?"

"No. But you are so kind a friend to me, I might have felt bound to do what you advised. And I could not think it right. I could not feel sure that my father would wish it. So I glanced them through—just to see that there was no money, and that there were no directions to me about things he might want done. And then I burnt them."

"All of them! Every one?"

"I thought I had burnt all, but I found to-day that I had not. Three were in another place. I came across them to-day, and I have read them. I had a reason for doing so, or else I would have burnt those too. And they have made me very unhappy."

"Do you mind telling me what they are about?"

"I think I should like to do that. I think I would rather show them to you, if you don't mind. It would be a comfort. They tell me more about his past than I have known before. I mean, about the reason that we had to leave our old home."

"Poor girl!" he said, at the sound of a sob. "I'm sorry they distress you so much. After all, the thing is over now; and he is beyond the reach of such troubles. Can't you look upon it in that light?"

"Ah, but his name is not cleared," she said, very low.

"You have not got the letters with you, I suppose? You have? Shall we go into this field and sit on the log? It is not too dark for me to make them out. You would like that? Come along. Pattie, do you know that your father said something to me about this when he was dying? I have never told you."

"No. What did he say?"

"He implied that he had been wrongly accused. He said you did not know it, and he did not wish you to know, until the truth should come out; so I am sorry you should have read the letters."

"But you thought I ought to read them all."

"Did I say that exactly? Perhaps I hardly realised that you would discover more than your father meant you to know. In an ordinary case, if a man wishes his child not to know a thing after his death, he does not keep letters bearing on the subject. Now we can sit down, and no one will disturb us. Your father said something more, Pattie. He declared in the strongest manner, as in the sight of God, and as a man facing death, that he had not done the thing of which he was accused. He implored me to believe him; and I did believe him. I believe him still. I do not think any man, as he then was, could have said what he said—deliberately and more than once—if it had been a lie."

"You believe him? I am glad!" whispered Pattie. "Now I do not mind showing these to you. I think you will believe him still."

She handed the three sheets to Cragg, and waited patiently as he made his way through one after another—not an easy task in the waning light.

"Yes," he said at length gravely. "I see."

"You think—"

"My dear, I think things must have looked black. This Mr. Peterson does not give me the impression of being hard or unjust."

"O no; he was always just and kind—before this—always a friend."

"And you had known him for years? You may be sure he would not suddenly have changed without believing that he had reason. But, on the other hand, I cannot think your father guilty. Even the little that I saw of him gave me an impression that he was an upright man; and what he said when dying—No, I do not think him guilty. I believe that some day his name will be cleared. What do you mean to do with these?"

"What ought I to do? May I burn them?"

"Don't do anything in a hurry. Put them in a sealed packet, with a direction outside that they are to be burnt after your death. Then lock the packet up, and do not let yourself dwell upon it. You can do no good to him; and remember that he would wish you to be happy."

Pattie murmured a faint assent.

Neither of the two moved at once. It was a still and mild evening. Now and again a soft twitter showed that not all the birds had gone to roost. Sometimes a sound of voices came from the town.

"Mr. Cragg!"

"Yes, my dear."

"I want to find something to do."

"What sort of thing?"

"I want to get my livelihood. Will you help me?"

"There's no hurry. Some day, perhaps."

"I want it now."

"Are you anxious to leave us? To leave Dot?"

"Not Dot. I shall feel that dreadfully. And you—you are so good to me. But I cannot go on like this. I want to be independent—to make my own way; and if you would help me to find something—I don't mind what—"

"Pattie, I must ask one question. Has my wife tried to bring this about?"

"No," Pattie said at once; "I don't think so. She has not said anything lately about wishing me to go. It is my own thought."

"Not because of anything she has said or done?"

That put the question differently, and Pattie could not reply with a negative.

"It is my own wish," she repeated. "I want to be independent."

"But your father wished you to be with us. I promised him when he was dying."

"Yes, I know. I went in directly after, and he said something to me before he became unconscious. He said you had promised; but I could not agree to that, you know. I could not be a burden on you, except for a little while. Now I have been long enough; and I must find something else. Perhaps I might take care of children, as a nursery governess. Would not that do?"

"We must think about it. I am not in a hurry to get rid of you, though you are in a hurry to go. It is pleasant to have you in the house."

Then he stood up. "I'm afraid we ought to move; it is growing damp."

Not much more passed between them on the way home. Mr. Cragg was thinking what a difference Pattie's absence would make. Now he could always look upon one face not clouded by ill-temper. He dreaded a return to the old condition of things. Pattie, wondering over his silence, feared that she had said something to vex him.

"It isn't that I am ungrateful," she pleaded, presently.

"If I wished you to go, I should be ungrateful," he answered. "You don't know how much you have done to brighten life for little Dot and me, since you came."

"Have I? No, I didn't know it. My mother always said one could do a good deal in that way, if one would take the trouble; and I do try. But it isn't easy. It is very good of you to speak so to me. But still—I think I ought to work for myself."

"Well, we must consider. No need to settle hastily. There's time enough—by-and-by."

Then they went indoors, and had to submit to complaints on the part of Mrs. Cragg, who had been waiting ten minutes for her supper.

Cragg received the complaints in his usual silence, and not much was said during the meal. Dot, the great talker, was in bed, sound asleep; and Cragg and Pattie had had their say. Mrs. Cragg wished to know whatever in the world they had been about; and she requested another time to be told beforehand, if they meant to go dawdling round after church. She wouldn't wait for them in that case—not she! Next time she should begin without them. Cragg and Pattie were willing that she should; but to have said so would have aroused her ire afresh.

Later in the evening, when Pattie too had vanished, Cragg put a direct question to his wife. "Has anything gone wrong with you and Pattie to-day?"

"Whatever should make you fancy that?"

"She has been crying. I saw that at tea-time. And she said something this evening about wanting to find work for herself."

"She says that whenever she's put out. It doesn't mean much."

"I never can see that Pattie does get 'put out,' in the sense you mean. What has happened to 'put her out' to—day?"

"How should I know, Mr. Cragg?"

A little voice in Mrs. Cragg's mind tried to suggest that she should tell her husband the truth, but Mrs. Cragg refused to listen. "You are more likely than any one else to know. Pattie has told me about having destroyed her father's letters. She has not told me everything, though I cannot guess what she has held back. I thought you might know."

Mrs. Cragg was silent.

"I do not gather that she destroyed the letters to-day; but she seems to have come across two or three others unexpectedly, and for some reason to have felt bound to read them. Why should she have thought it right to read these, when she had burnt the others for fear of being persuaded to read them? Are you sure you cannot explain this to me?"

Suspicion was written in Mr. Cragg's face. Pattie had not managed so cleverly as she had intended to manage. Mrs. Cragg took the bull by the horns, which she was capable of doing, as we have already seen.

"It's no such tremendous mystery, after all," she said. "Pattie found that I'd read the letters, and then she said she must read them too."

"You had read the letters!"

"Yes, Mr. Cragg. I had read them! And I'd read them again, if it was all to come over fresh!" Mrs. Cragg tossed her head.

"You read—without leave—letters that did not belong to you? You do not mean it!"

Mrs. Cragg hardened herself against her husband's look.

"Pattie was so ridiculous. Wouldn't tell this, and didn't choose to answer that, and so mysterious! So I just got hold of the letters, and found out for myself. And I'd a right, too. As if we weren't taking her in, and doing for her, all at our own expense—and she, if it wasn't for us, pretty near a beggar! If I hadn't a right, I should like to know who would have! Oh, I'm not ashamed of it! I'd do it over again, this minute. And so I told Pattie."

Cragg was roused for once. He had always been a man of honourable feeling.

"I would not have believed it—even of you!" he said pointedly. "If somebody else had told me, I should have said it was impossible."

"Well, then, it isn't impossible; and you're wiser to-night than you were this morning!" retorted his wife.

Cragg stood up.

"Now I understand!" he said. "I understand—and I do not wonder—that Pattie should wish to live no longer under my roof. I have never been more ashamed—for myself—and for you!"

Then he left the room.