Chapter XX: Made Clear

"PATTIE, I don't know what to do. Tell me how I'm to make Dot love me."

This was three weeks later. Dot was asleep, and Pattie had come to the sitting-room, leaving the new nursery-maid in charge. Mrs. Cragg broke out with the above remark.

"But Dot does love you. I am sure she does. Dot is such a loving little thing."

"She don't care to have me with her. I can see that plain enough. I can see the difference when you come in."

"A little child's love is so easily won. Haven't you found it so?"

"I don't know. I suppose I haven't taken the trouble. I've been too busy—thinking about other things."

"You will never be too busy again for Dot—your own little Dot. Think how much you ought to be to her—and how much you have to teach her!"

"You said so once before. I've not forgotten. I don't think I can forget. It frightens me sometimes. Pattie, did you really mean what you said—quite all that?"

"All what?"

"The other day. Don't you remember? You said to me—you said something— something about—about Dot having to know what God is, through me. It frightened me then, and it frightens me now, when I think of what you said."

"It was true. Of course it was true. Don't you see?"

"No, I don't."

"But you can't help it. God has given little Dot to you, just that you may teach her about Him—that you may show her what He is. No one in all the world can teach her as you can."

"I can't! I don't know how."

"You have to learn how. You ought to be able. Other people can talk to her about God; but you can show her what the talking means, by what you are to her yourself. There's no love in the world so near to the love of God as a mother's love. And Dot can never have another mother,—so it all depends upon you."

"Pattie—you don't mean—"

"I mean just what I'm saying," Pattie replied quietly. "If you don't show her what is meant by the love of God, she may learn it in some other way; but she can't learn it in the best way of all. It isn't so much a question of what you say or don't say to Dot, as of what you are to her. She ought to feel that she can always turn to you in everything—that she can always be sure of your truth and your love. She ought to know that, if all the world went wrong, you could never fail her. And then that would help her to understand what is meant by the love and the truth of God and of Christ. Don't you see now?"

"Doesn't sound as if I ever could!" muttered the other.

"But if it is right, you can. There's always a 'can' where there's an 'ought.'"

"I do mean to try." Mrs. Cragg was looking down and twisting a corner of the tablecloth. "And I want you to help me. I know you can—more than anybody."

"I'd do anything I was able."

"Yes, I know you would. I'm sure of that. Pattie, I want to know— do you think you can ever forgive me for getting at your letters, and then telling Mrs. Smithers what I thought? I told Mr. Cragg the other day about it; and he says you behaved beautifully, and we've got to do the best we can to make up to you for what you've had to bear. And we want you always to live here,—to be like Dot's elder sister. If it hadn't been for you, we shouldn't have any little Dot now. Cragg and I can't forget that. Do you think you can forgive me?"

Pattie had had no chance of getting in a word thus far. As she could not make her voice heard, she spoke with her face.

"I'm sure I don't deserve you should. And I've given my husband a lot of bother lately. I can't think what's come over me the last few years. But I do mean to be different now; and I'll try to learn to be what you say I ought to be to Dot. Only, I shall want you to help me. And if you went away, perhaps I might forget. I don't think I should, but I might."

The conversation was interrupted. Cragg walked in, carrying a letter, which he gave to Pattie.

"Post this minute come," he remarked. "Dot is looking more herself this afternoon than I've seen her. Just been there, and she woke up. She's all right; you needn't hurry. Eh?"—as an exclamation burst from Pattie.

The girl clasped her hands.

"O! I am so glad! It's the one thing I wanted! I am so glad! My dear father!"

"Anything happened?" asked Cragg.

Pattie's face was a mixture of smiles and tears.

"Yes. A letter from Mr. Peterson himself—such a kind letter. He has found out who took the money, and he knows now that it was not my father. He is so grieved to think he could ever have suspected him. He says he would give his right hand to undo the past."

"The man must be a wretch! Why, he ought to have known your father better!" declared Mrs. Cragg. Like most persons of suspicious temperament, she was voluble in condemning others for doing what she would have done herself.

"I think he ought; but it is easy for us to say that now. I suppose it was not easy for him to feel sure then. My father never spoke a hard word of Mr. Peterson."

"And your father will never know that the truth is found out. I do think that's too bad."

Cragg was silent, watching the light on Pattie's face.

"Why should he not know? How can we tell? If he cannot see or hear for himself what goes on here—and we don't know anything about that!— I should think the angels would tell him. If he cares to know, I am sure they would. I am so thankful it is cleared up. It is like a great weight taken off me."

"And you mean to say,"—began Mrs. Cragg,—"you mean to say, Pattie, that you can feel kindly about that man—that Peterson?"

"I think he did wrongly. He was sure too quickly. He ought to have trusted longer. But it was difficult for him—things looked black, I suppose. And now he is very very sorry. No one could be more sorry."

"Well, you're not my sort. If a man had behaved so to me, I shouldn't forget it the rest of my life. I shouldn't want ever to see him again. Why, just think—if he hadn't turned your father away, you wouldn't have come here at all, and your father might be living now! Just think!"

"My dear!" remonstrated Cragg.

But even this suggestion could not shake Pattie's peace, though two tears fell.

"It must have been God's will," she said. "It wasn't only Mr. Peterson's doing. And if God meant to call my father Home just at that time, He would have done it in some other way—even if we had not come to Putworth. And if it was the right time for father to go, how could I want to keep him back?"

"You're right, Pattie," said Cragg. "And my wife is wrong to try you like this. It's a great mercy to know that your poor father's name is cleared. And you'll feel all the happier for it. You're right enough to forgive Mr. Peterson. Only I do think he ought, in some sort of way, to try to make up to you for the past. He has done you and your father a great wrong, though I dare say he didn't mean it. And, take it any way you will, it's through him in a sort of manner that you are an orphan. I think he ought to do something for you."

Pattie placed the letter in Cragg's hand.

"Read that, please," she said.

Cragg read part to himself, but one sentence he gave aloud:

"'As a small token of my undying regret, I intend at once to settle upon you the sum of fifty pounds per annum for the rest of your life. Then I shall know that the child of my old friend will not come to actual want. I am most thankful to have found your address.'"

"She won't come to want, if we can help it," remarked Cragg. "Pattie, does this mean that you'll want to go back among your old friends? I shouldn't wonder if it does."

Pattie looked, smiling, from one to the other.

"Not yet," she said. "I shall like to see them all again—some day. But, as long as you and Mrs. Cragg want me, I shall feel this to be my home."

And Pattie lived with the Craggs for two full years from that date. Then one day she went to church, with many friends, and came away as the young doctor's wife—Mrs. May. Some said he had won a treasure.

Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.