Chapter IV: Twice Good-Bye!

MARY RUSSELL was as near as possible gone that night. I'd better stop calling her "Miss Russell:" for mother always spoke to her as "Mary" by that time, and she had told me to do the same, though I wasn't altogether in the way of it yet.

Mother would not let me sit up late, but I was down early next morning. Needful enough I should: for there was everything to do, and mother not able to be five minutes out of the sick-room.

The doctor came in before breakfast, and he seemed better satisfied; but she wasn't to stir nor to speak, and the brother wasn't to be let in. "No, certainly not! keep him out!" Mr. Baitson said, speaking quite sharp, when mother asked. I was puzzled to hear him, for Mr. Baitson wasn't given to speaking sharp.

At five o'clock I left my bed, and I worked hard too; so things were well on by the time father had done his breakfast. I had to go upstairs then for a time; and when I came downstairs I wanted a bit of parsley from the garden, and I ran out.

It was a lovely morning; all a blaze of sun-shine, and such a blue sky overhead. Every leaf was sprinkled with big drops of dew wherever there was shade; and the birds were singing like wild. It did seem sad that the poor thing indoors should suffer so much. I stood still a moment, thinking of her, with a feeling as if it was selfish of me to enjoy the sweet air as I did. Then I saw the morning express was signalled, and I waited to see it rush thundering past, though there was no need this time for me to wave a red flag of warning.

When the train was gone, I thought I would take one little run to the end of the path on the top of the embankment, just to freshen up myself for the rest of my work. I was so used to a breath of fresh air early, when mother could spare me.

So I ran, not looking ahead; and all at once I found myself close to Mr. Russell.

He was sitting on the bench beside the gate; the same bench where I had found mother's red shawl that other day. He seemed perfectly wretched. I never saw any man look more miserable than he did just then, dropping the corners of his mouth, and hanging his head, as if he'd got no spirit to sit up.

The moment when I caught sight of him was just the moment when he caught sight of me, and that wasn't till I was near.

"Kitty!" says he, and a sort of groan came with the word. He had never called me so before, but I suppose he forgot. "Kitty," he said, "how is my poor Mary?"

"O I think she's a little better," I said. "Not worse, and that is something."

"Mr. Baitson been again?" he asked.

"Not since breakfast," I said.

"Poor Mary!" says Mr. Russell, and he sighed like a furnace.

"I hope she is going to get on now," I said, for I thought he wanted cheering.

Mr. Russell sighed again.

"And I would make her come this journey," he said, self-reproachful like. "If I had been content to stay at home as she wanted, she might have been all right now, and as merry as a grig."

Somehow I could not fancy Mary Russell exactly merry. It wasn't her way.

"You could not know beforehand what would happen," I said.

"Well, no, that's true," he said, and he brightened up. "Nobody can know beforehand what'll happen. That's true enough. It's a horrid thought that if she didn't get well— But after all, I'd got my reasons for coming away, just as much as she'd got her reasons for wanting to be at home. She needn't have been with me if she hadn't wanted. As you say, one can't tell beforehand how things are going to turn out. Kitty, you're a little comfort!" and he looked up at me, sitting on the bench still, while I stood on the path. "May I call you Kitty'—sometimes?"

I said, I shouldn't mind if he did. What else was I to say? Easy enough now to know how I ought to have answered, but not easy at the moment.

"Kitty, I wish I could have you for my little comfort always!" says he, fetching another sigh.

My cheeks got as red as fire, and I didn't say a word.

"I've never seen anybody like you," says he softly, looking at me again. "No, never! Kitty, do you know how pretty you are?"

"I mustn't stop. I've got all the work to do," I said, knowing mother wouldn't like this. And yet I did not want to go. His soft words took hold of me. I thought that to be "his little comfort always" would be the best happiness I could have.

"So busy!" says he. "Ah! I should like you to be where you needn't work; able to sit still and amuse yourself, and have folks to wait upon you."

Little goose that I was, I thought this sounded first-rate. As if anybody was ever the happier for being idle! There's different kinds of work, no doubt; and everybody is happiest doing the sort of work for which he's best fitted by nature and training. No; I don't know as I've put that rightly either: for everybody's happiest doing the work which God has set him to do; and if he isn't fit for it by nature, God can shape him into fitness. But to have no work at all to do means nothing but discontent and unhappiness.

"That's what I should like," he said again. "To have lots of money, and a nice house, and you to sit there in a pretty parlour, with pretty dresses, and plenty of servants, and nothing ever to bother you."

Easy to see he had never kept house. If he had, he wouldn't have talked in the same breath about "plenty of servants" and "nothing to bother." But I didn't see through his words then.

"Well, I may be rich yet one day," he went on. "Who knows? And when I am—you may be sure I'll not forget. Kitty," says he slowly, "supposing some day I was to ask you to cast in your lot with me, when I'm a rich man? Or supposing I didn't wait to be rich?"

It was not an easy question to answer. For mind you, he didn't say, "Will you cast in your lot with me?" but only, "Supposing I was to ask you?" That might mean anything or nothing.

My heart went pit-a-pat, and I hung my head. His next words were not what I looked for. "Kitty," he said, "you mustn't tell anybody what I said just now. If you do, I shall have to leave by the next train, and never come back. Promise you won't."

And I, like a little goose again, frightened at the thought of driving him away, and never waiting to consider what was due to my father and mother, was so in his power that I said, "No, I won't!"

The moment the words had passed my lips, I knew they were wrong; yet I did not try to take them back.

"That's my own little Kitty!" he said. He spoke in an undertone, but I heard the words; and I felt as if all the world was changed to me. His own little Kitty! Was I to be that? It wasn't till later that I noticed he hadn't asked if I wanted to be anything of the sort. He seemed to take all that for granted, which no man has ever a right to do with any woman. But at the moment I could only be joyful.

The next instant Mr. Russell was saying in a careless loud voice—

"Yes, I'm going for a stroll, and then I shall call again to see how poor Mary is getting on."

The change of voice gave me a sort of stunned feeling. I couldn't think what he meant, and all that had gone before looked unreal. Then I understood, for Rupert was walking along the path straight toward us.

"Your mother wants you, Kitty," he says in a short gruff voice, as he came up. He always spoke to me now in that voice; and he didn't so much as cast a look at Mr. Russell.

"Indoors?" I asked.

"Where else?" Rupert answered.

"Well, you might speak civil when you bring a message," I said, foolishly enough, for where was the use of angering him?

"Civil!" burst out Rupert, and something in the tone frightened me, it was so sore and fierce. I just said, "I'm going," and ran straight off, my cheeks burning still, and a strange new happiness beating at my heart.

Not all happiness, though. It could not be all happiness for a girl to be sought in such a fashion. For it was as if Mr. Russell was afraid or ashamed to speak out.

I could not see why he should fear. Father had taken to him from the first; and if mother didn't do that, at least she never snubbed him, which was, I suppose, because of his trouble about Mary, for mother could snub, and no mistake!

But why should he not go to them, and say plain out that he wanted me? That was the question.

He had not so much as asked whether I cared for him! I could have been vexed to remember this, if only I had cared for him less. He seemed so sure that he only had to ask me, and I would jump at it. At least he had only said, "Suppose," in a way that mightn't mean anything.

And I was not to tell a word to my father or mother. That was hard. I had never had a regular secret from them before; and I was so used to speaking out. It didn't feel natural to have to hold my tongue.

But I had promised! I had said I wouldn't tell! And I had been brought up to think a deal of keeping my word.

Many a time mother had said to me, "Mind you, Kitty, a promise is a promise! Don't you ever make one lightly; and when it is made, don't you ever break it lightly."

Right enough too. To my mind there's judgment on the breaking of a promise; no matter how small a one. It's "least said, soonest mended," in the matter of promises, as well as in most other things. A promise once given can't be taken back, without the consent of the person it's given to; and a broken promise can't be mended.

I can remember once, when I was a little child, mother was away for the whole day, and she promised to bring me a packet of pink candy. Somebody said to me, "Oh, you mustn't count on that; she's pretty sure to forget!" And I stamped my foot, and said, "Mother won't forget! Mother always keeps her promise!"

Well, and I was in the right. She kept her promise, and brought the candy. But she did forget for a while; for there was an accident, which upset her, and drove it out of her head. On the way home she recollected. Some would have said, "Oh, it's too late now! It can't be helped, and Kitty must wait!" But mother wasn't that sort. She went near a mile back to the only shop where the pink candy could be got; and we all wondered what was making her so late.

If she hadn't! Well, of course, she could have said she had forgot, and she was sorry.

You don't think, though, do you, that I should ever have felt so certain sure again, when she promised? I should always have thought, she might forget!

Ah! mother was a rare one. There's not many like her. She wasn't overmuch given to promises at any time; but once she did promise, she'd do it.

And I had promised Mr. Russell not to tell. I had promised lightly—that's to say, without weighing it first. Was I to break the promise lightly?

Something whispered to me, as I went back, dropping into a slow walk—something whispered, "Tell out plain to Mr. Russell that the promise was wrong, and that you can't keep it."

But I did not like the idea. I knew he would be so vexed, and I could not bear to vex him. I feared it might drive him away from me for always. The wish to please him stood out first, not the wish to do what was right.

I began to have a feeling that all my happiness was bound up in him. For days past I had let myself think a deal too much about Mr. Russell; and now the words he had spoken had taken me altogether captive. Rupert was nothing to me any more. I was ready to leave father, mother, home, everything—for him.

It is natural for a girl to feel so; natural and not wrong, when other things are right. If Mr. Russell had been a man of the right stamp, coming openly and honestly to seek me, with my parents' consent, there was no reason why I shouldn't be willing.

Only, I didn't know him at all to be a man of the right stamp; and he had not said a word to my father or mother. He had got me to promise not to tell them either. That was wrong to begin with. And if the first step into a path is wrong, then each step after which takes one along the path is only a going more astray.

Mother saw me pass the window, and she came into the kitchen. I felt her eyes on my face, and I could not look up to meet them.

"Where have you been?" asked she.

"In the garden, mother," I said, hanging my head, and wishing my cheeks didn't burn so.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of, is it?" says she. "What took you into the garden?"

"I—wanted some parsley," I said. For a moment I couldn't recollect what had taken me first.

"Did the parsley keep you all this time?" says she, as quiet as anything.

"No, mother," I said; "it wasn't only the parsley. It was—I went along the path. And Mr. Russell was there. He came to ask —"

"To ask about Mary, I suppose?" says mother, in her dry-like tone. "Yes; but he heard about her just an hour ago, Kitty. He's in a great hurry to hear again."

"She's so ill," I said.

"Yes, that's true. She's been worse," mother said.

"And he seemed—he seemed—so unhappy," I went on. "I just stayed a minute—to—to comfort—" And then the thought of the way he had used that word, calling me "a little comfort," rushed up, and my cheeks burnt redder than ever.

"To comfort him!" says she. "Yes, that's very pretty. But you're a young woman now, Kitty, and he is a young man. So next time you find him unhappy, you had best come straight and tell me, and I'll do the comforting."

Mother meant it for a rebuke, I knew, though she didn't speak angrily; for it never was her way to show anger.

But she did not suspect how things really were. That was plain enough. If she had had the least suspicion, she would not have taken it so quiet. She was afraid of me getting to like Mr. Russell overmuch; yet all the same she trusted me. It went to my heart with a stab that mother should trust me so, when I wasn't worthy of it. I longed to speak out plain and tell her everything; yet I couldn't bear to do what would vex Mr. Russell. So I clung to my secret, though it made me miserable.

I had told her the truth, but not the whole truth, and mother had a right to know the whole. My promise to Mr. Russell could not undo her rights nor father's rights over me, a mere girl of seventeen. The promise was wrong; and whether I kept it or whether I broke it, either way I should be doing wrong. That's the sort of muddle that hasty speech gets one into. Once plunge into a quagmire, and whichever way you get out there's sure to be some of the mire sticking to you.

The question for me was—Which of the two ways would be the most wrong, since neither could be altogether right? But I didn't care to look that question in the face. I didn't want to find that I ought not to keep my promise. I liked to feel that I was bound to silence, even while it grieved me not to be open with mother.

Mary Russell began to get better much faster from this second attack than from the first. Still, for a few days, mother was a deal taken up with her; and I'm ashamed to say how often I saw Mr. Russell.

He was always meeting me somehow—out of doors or in the garden, or else calling to ask after his sister just when he knew he might catch a word with me alone. I didn't see then that this was deceit, or that I was helping forward the deceit; at least, I didn't let myself think that I saw it so.

I got so to feed upon his looks and words, so to crave for another and another glimpse, that there seemed to be no room for anything else in my head. Work was hurried over or left undone many a time those days. Mother said nothing in haste; she only watched and waited. I don't think she had an idea how far things went; but she was afraid her Kitty's silly little heart was being caught in a net, and she was on the look-out to prevent it.

Ah, but she could not, for I was not open and true with her; and no mother's love, or any other love, can guard against the evil results of deceit.

When Mr. Russell and I were alone he would call me again "his own little Kitty," and the words made my heart spring with joy—only it was a secret trembling joy, which feared to be found out. But he took care not to call me "Kitty" before anybody.

Sometimes I was on the very edge of asking him to let me tell mother, and yet again I was afraid. For all this while he had never once exactly put the question—Would I promise to marry him? He only seemed perfectly sure that if he did put it I should say, "Yes."

That wasn't a state of things father nor mother would have allowed.

"Kitty," he said one day, all of a sudden, "I've got to go to-morrow."

Mother had sent me to a shop for some thread, and Mr. Russell came upon me just outside the station, in the little lane that ran round the back of our garden. I suppose he must have been expecting me there. Nobody else was in sight. We stood under the high hedge, on a patch of grass, and I can remember now the feel of the grass under my feet, and the sunset light that came through the hedge opposite, and how handsome Mr. Russell looked—at least, I thought so then; but, you know, girls' tastes do change as they get to womanhood, and it isn't only black hair and eyes and an air of being somebody that makes good looks—more especial if it's a case of being nobody.

"Must you?" was all I said, and I turned queer all over, as if I was ready to drop.

"Yes; it's a 'must,'" says he. "I shall have to be at work again in a few days, and there's a lot of things to do first. I've been here too long as it is."

"But you couldn't help it, with Mary so ill," I said.

He gave a sort of little laugh.

"Well—yes," says he. "But Mary's been getting on all right some days past. You don't think it's that has kept me, do you? eh, Kitty?" says he. "Can't you guess what has been the real tie? Not good old Mary, but somebody younger and prettier and sweeter?"

Yes, I guessed what he meant, of course. I couldn't do otherwise, and the colour came back to my face.

"It is very hard to say good-bye to that somebody, I can tell you," said he. "But never mind. You'll soon see me again."

"How soon?" I asked, with such a heart-sinking: for it seemed as if all the world was going when he went.

"Oh, soon," he said. "As soon as ever I can get away. Those little school brats take up a lot of time, you know. But I shouldn't wonder if I had to come and fetch Mary soon."

"Will it be next week?" I tried to say.

"Next week! Dear, no! not so soon as that. Why, the doctor says it won't be safe for Mary to go by train for another month; and I mightn't be able to get away just then, you know. But I'll come, never you fear! Why, Kitty, you dear little pretty silly thing," says he, "I'm not worth crying for!"

It was true, but did he mean it? I've often thought of his face since, as it was that moment, and wondered if the look meant real pity or was only just put on.

"I shan't know how to get on without you," I whispered.

"Well, but it won't be for long. I'll be sure to come again," says he. Then he added, "Mind you keep my secret, Kitty!"

"Mayn't I just tell mother?" I begged.

"Tell your mother!" he said; and I couldn't understand his face. "Tell her what?" says he.

I was struck dumb. For what had I to tell? That he wished me to be his wife? But he had never asked me if I would, never once outright! That he called me "his little Kitty?" But he had no right to call me so.

"No, it won't do yet," said he. "I can't let you speak out yet, Kitty. You don't understand why, of course; but it won't do. I'm not in a position to have it known yet, and till I am, you mustn't let it be thought that we—" He bungled there, and didn't finish his sentence. "I should only be told I wasn't to see you again, and you wouldn't like that, eh? No, we've got to wait a while."

"But if it isn't right—if I ought to tell?" I got out feebly. You see, I'd given in so long, it was doubly hard to make a stand then.

He laughed at this.

"Wrong!" says he. "Why, you dear little goose, what's right or wrong to do with it? And, in point of fact, there's nothing to tell," says he. "We've not settled anything; only you're a dear little charming Kitty, and—well, you like me, don't you?"

"How do you know I like you?" I asked.

"That's not so hard to see," said he, laughing again. "I mightn't have been so sure at first, if I hadn't had a word from a friend of yours; but I can't feel any manner of doubt now."

I knew he meant Mrs. Hammond: yet I could not be angry just then, with him going away next day.

"And I like you too, of course," he went on. "So it is give and take, isn't it? All fair and square, you know. You're the prettiest and sweetest girl I've ever seen in all my life. That's saying a good deal, isn't it? And some day—Well, you've got to go indoors now, I suppose, and you can tell Mary I shan't be able to see her in the morning, because I must be off by the early train. I've seen her this afternoon, and she knows I'm going."

The sharp change of voice took me all aback, as when there had been the same once before; and the cause was the same too; for once again Rupert stood staring hard at us, with a strange look, as if his mouth was made of iron.

I heard a sort of mutter from Mr. Russell, which sounded like— "Meddlesome chap!" Rupert said nothing. He only stood stock-still, and stared.

"Well, it's getting late, and I must be gone. Good-bye, Kitty," said Mr. Russell.

He must have been flurried by Rupert's sudden coming, to call me "Kitty" before another. I saw it was a forget, by his start; but the word once said couldn't be unsaid, and I suppose he thought he'd better carry it off well, so he gave a little laugh, and repeated, "Good-bye, Kitty!" in a tone as if he'd been speaking to a child.

Then he was gone; and Rupert and I were left together. I would have run away, but I did not.

"You've been crying," Rupert said, very short.

"It's not your business if I have," I said.

"About that worthless chap, I suppose? And he daring to call you 'Kitty!'" Rupert looked as if he was ready to foam at the mouth, and yet it was in a sort of dead-quiet way, not like a man in a regular passion.

"You call me 'Kitty,'" I said, "and I'd rather you wouldn't."

"Kitty, this can't go on," says he in a hoarse voice.

"No. I would rather you should leave off calling me 'Kitty,'" I said, not knowing what he meant by "this." "I'm not a child now," I said, "and I don't like the way you behave."

"Behave!" Rupert burst out, and then he pulled himself in, and spoke quiet again: "What will your mother say, Kitty?"

"Say to what?" I asked.

"When I tell her I found you two here! Sort of tender leave-taking, wasn't it?"

I could not guess how much he had seen or heard, and I would not stoop to ask him not to speak: so I did not say a word.

"Kitty, this can't go on!" says he again.

"What can't? I don't know what you mean, and I don't care!" I said, in a pet with him, because I was so unhappy. "You are cruel to me, Rupert; and I hate you when you plague me like this."

"You—hate—me!" Rupert said the words slowly. The light fell full on his face—only a rough plain boyish face; but such a look of sorrow and love came into it that moment as I had never seen before, and it seemed to change the whole face. He put out both his hands towards me for a moment, with a sort of longing; but I don't think he knew he did that. Then he folded his arms tight, and the softness went out of his eyes, and his mouth grew hard and cold.

"No, it can't go on," he said. "I've borne as much as I could; and I can't bear more. I can't be untrue, and I can't betray you! That's where it is. You see, Kitty, I can't hate you back, and I can't make myself not care. There's nothing for me but to go right away. You needn't tell my mother it was you who drove me to it! She'll understand."

"Rupert, what nonsense you are talking!" I said, only half taking in what he said, for my mind was with Mr. Russell. "What nonsense! How can you say such foolish things? I don't know what you mean by 'going away.' It is nonsense. I don't want to vex you, if only you wouldn't behave so unbearably. I can't be spied and meddled with, and I can't pretend to like you more than I do."

"No, there's no sort of pretence about it," says Rupert. "None at all. Folks don't 'pretend' to hate; and you 'hate' me. I could stand anything short of that, Kitty. Except seeing you throw yourself away on an empty-headed puppy, who'll make your life a burden to you. So I'm off; it don't matter where! and this is another good-bye."

He went away slowly with his shuffling walk, not straight and quick like Mr. Russell. I noticed that, and at first I felt almost like laughing. For I little thought how deep my words had cut. There's many a word that goes in like a knife, and leaves a wound which doesn't heal for years. But I didn't see that, or believe what he said. Go away! It was so ridiculous. He had nowhere to go, and there was his work at the station, and his mother and sister couldn't do without him.

I half laughed, though my heart was so sore for Mr. Russell that tears lay nearer than laughter. Then I thought of the strange look that had come to Rupert's face, and I called out "Rupert!" but had no answer. "Rupert!" I cried again. It was too late. He had gone out of hearing. And, after all, what matter? I could tell him in the morning that I had only been cross, and that I had not really meant anything so bad as "hating;" only he must leave off meddling and saying hard words to me.

I went back into the house, for I knew mother would be expecting me. She gave a look up, and said—

"What's the matter?"

"I'm—tired," I said. My feet seemed to have turned to lead, and I felt as if I would do anything to have a good cry.

"Sit down and rest," says she. "You've gone as white as a sheet."

But I didn't dare sit down and think, for I couldn't have kept up then. The thought of Rupert was fading away like smoke. I could only feel that Mr. Russell was gone, and that everything was different.

"I must get in help," mother said. "You've done too much lately."

"O no," I said.

"Yes. Mary will be here another month: Mr. Baitson says so; and I'm glad enough to keep her; but I can't have you knocked up."

After a minute, mother said—

"Mr. Russell is going."

I didn't say a word.

"He's been in to bid Mary good-bye. It's rather sudden. I'm not sorry for my part," mother said.

I stood leaning against the dresser, and felt as if I must choke. Mother gave me another look. Then she came close, and put her arms round me; and I clung to her, and cried—oh, how I did cry! Mother just petted and soothed, and didn't ask a single question; only presently she talked of other things, and tried to lead my thoughts away from him.

For, you see, she hadn't a notion of anything between us two. She only thought her Kitty's silly heart was touched. She trusted me so, she could not fancy anything said which I would not tell her. And she had no notion of making matters worse by a lot of talk about Mr. Russell.