Chapter V: Rupert

"WHAT'S become of Rupert?" father said at breakfast next day.

We always breakfasted at half-past seven, partly because father had to be up so early, and partly because mother liked it. Rupert ought to have been in the ticket-office half-an-hour before, in time for the first passenger-train that stopped at Claxton. Plenty of luggage-trains went by in the night, but happily for father and the men, there wasn't much shunting of them at our station, like at the next station. They had to work there through a good part of the night.

"Hasn't he come as usual?" mother asked, in answer to father's question. Rupert was so regular, it seemed astonishing he should fail.

"Not a sign of him. If it was anybody else, I'd say he was lazy; but Rupert's not given to laziness. I'm afraid he can't be well," father went on. "We shall hear presently."

Just at the moment I did not remember what Rupert had said to me the evening before. It would be thought more natural for me to remember at once, but I didn't. My head was so full of the thought of Mr. Russell.

"Anybody come or go?" mother asked. It was the very question I wanted to put, only I had not courage.

"Russell has left. That's all," father said.

Then he was really gone! A sick feeling came over me, and I couldn't eat my breakfast. I knew mother saw, and I knew she wouldn't say a word: she'd always such a notion of the harm done by too many words. But father happened to look my way. "Why—Kitty!" says he. "The child's not well."

"She has had too much to do lately," said mother. "Kitty's not overstrong."

"Why, she's as white—" father said. "Come here, Kitty, and let's see what's wrong."

I came as I was bidden, and he took hold of me, looking hard. I couldn't stand that. The next moment I was clinging to him, with my face down on his shoulder.

Maybe mother made him some sort of sign. I shouldn't wonder if she did; for he cuddled me in his arms as if I'd been a small child again, and whispered— "Poor little kittenkins!" once or twice, which was my old nursery name. But he didn't ask any more questions.

"She's been a good girl to help so steady all through Mary's illness," mother said presently. "I wish now I'd had a girl in to help; and I might have done it, but I thought I'd lay by what the Russells paid us. Maybe I've been penny wise and pound foolish, for once. But I did think, too, the work was good for Kitty."

"So it is! so it was!" says father. "Good for everybody. And a good thing to lay by a few shillings too! But it isn't worth while to make our Kitty ill. That 'ud cost a lot more shillings than we could have laid by. Eh, Kitty? Come, cheer up!" says he. "We'll see what we can do to make you right again."

How good they were to me, both father and mother!—and I deceiving them all the while!

"Now I must go and see if Rupert has turned up," says father. "Kitty must get a run on the common, eh?"

And all at once it darted into my head about Rupert the evening before, and how he had said good-bye. I started up in a moment.

"O father! Oh, see about Rupert!" I cried, hardly able to speak yet, but scared at the thought that had come to me.

"To be sure I will," says he. "You wouldn't like Rupert to be ill, eh?"

"I hope he is—I hope it is that—I hope it isn't anything worse," I cried, scarce knowing what I said; and father did stare, but, I went on, pretty near out of breath with fright—

"Oh, do make haste and see."

"To be sure I will," says father again. "Why, Kitty, what's come over you to-day?"

That very moment the kitchen door was pushed open, and Mrs. Bowman stood there.

She was a puny sad-faced woman at the best of times, one of those folks who take life hard, and never get any pleasure out of it; but I'd never seen her look so haggard before.

"Where's—Rupert?" she said, and she fixed her eyes on father.

"That's the very question I've been wanting to ask you," father said.

"Sit down, Mrs. Bowman," says mother. "Sit down and tell us what's gone wrong."

Mrs. Bowman dropped into a chair, close to where she was standing.

"He came in late last night," she said. "And he wouldn't say where he'd been. And he wouldn't take his supper. And he looked so strange. And this morning he never came to breakfast. And his door was locked. And he didn't answer. And when we got in he wasn't there. And his bed wasn't slept in. And a lot of his things are gone!"

"Poor dear!" mother says, pitying-like, as the "And" got to be a gasp, and then a sob. "I shouldn't have thought it of Rupert."

"But you don't think he's—gone!" father said.

"Yes, I do think it," Mrs. Bowman cried, in a weak, broken sort of voice. "I do think it, and I'm sure of it! Kitty knows why! If you ask Kitty she can tell. She's driven him off, and that's what she's done."

"Kitty!" father said, looking at me.

Then he walked up to Mrs. Bowman.

"Come, come, that's nonsense, you know," says he. "Kitty and Rupert are good enough friends, and always have been; but Kitty's not bound to favour him special, Mrs. Bowman. You can't say she is. And what's more, she's a deal too young for that sort of nonsense; if it's that you mean. Kitty's a child still, and Rupert's another. If he's got into a huff about Kitty, so much the worse for him; but I don't see that Kitty's to blame. However, I hope the lad's not so silly. I've got to go to the station now, and you'd best come along with me. I shouldn't wonder if we find Rupert there, all right. It's been a freak, going off early this morning—at least I hope so; and he'll be back soon, if he isn't back yet. Come along! If he's not at the station, I'll go home with you, and we'll think what to do."

Father went off, walking sharp, and Mrs. Bowman trailed after him in a weak way, as if she wasn't sure whether she'd go or stay. Then mother said—

"What does it mean, Kitty?"

"Rupert has been so—tiresome, lately."

"Tiresome what way?" says she.

"Oh, just getting cross," I said.

"What about?" says she.

"He'd got a notion," I said.

"Yes—a notion?" says she, waiting as quiet as anything, and I knew she didn't mean to let me off.

"He wanted—wanted me—to—marry him," I said, crying anew. "And I— couldn't."

"How do you know he wanted that?" said she.

"He said it one day. And I ran away and left him, mother."

"Not a bad plan," says she. "I wish a few more girls would run away from a few more lads. There'd be a lot of trouble spared. Well, how long ago was it?"

I had to think a moment, before I could remember that it was just before the express train having to be stopped.

"Rupert was wrong to speak to you," mother said. "He ought to have come first to father and me."

But I thought of Mr. Russell, and I didn't say "Yes."

"He was so vexed," I said. "And he's been angry and disagreeable since. And yesterday evening he told me—told me—he meant to go away. I didn't believe him. I thought it was all nonsense."

"When did he tell you?"

"Out-of-doors," I said.

"When, Kitty?" says she again.

"When I was coming back from the shop," I said, wishing mother wouldn't put so many questions.

"Ah—was it Rupert who kept you so long?" says mother, looking straight at me, and I felt myself get scarlet.

"I saw Rupert—then," I said. "And—I met Mr. Russell too—and he told me he was going—and said—good-bye."

It was hard to get that word out; but I felt sure mother had an idea of Mr. Russell, and I knew if I didn't tell she'd ask.

"Ah!" says she again.

"Rupert needn't have been so cross and jealous," I went on.

"Jealous, was he?"

"He can't bear me to speak to—anybody," I whispered, wishing I hadn't let that word slip.

"He was jealous of Mr. Russell, you mean?" said mother.

I think I said "Yes," quite low.

Then another question came, which I had been dreading all along—

"Kitty, did Mr. Russell say anything of that sort to you too?"

I didn't know what to say, for I dared not tell a lie.

"Did he ever ask you to marry him?" mother said; and I knew she was drawing a long breath up and up, as if she felt a weight somewhere.

"No, mother," I said, for he had not.

"No! But he has said soft words, maybe. Soft words don't cost much, Kitty, nor they don't always mean much."

I couldn't speak. Mother came close, and I held her tight, and she sighed again, though she wasn't given to sighing commonly.

"Well, it can't be helped now," she said. "I might have had more sense at my time of life. I do wish I'd been sharper. Kitty, if you're a wise girl you won't let yourself spend time thinking about Mr. Russell's soft speeches, nor Rupert's hard ones. I don't doubt Rupert's gone off in a temper, and I shouldn't wonder if he didn't come back for some days—a week or more, maybe. That's bad for his mother! You'll get the credit of his going, and you'd best take it quiet. Least said 'll be soonest mended in the end."

If I had but thought of that the evening before, and not spoken the hasty words which drove Rupert away! Poor foolish boy!

For he was gone. Father came soon and told us so. He wasn't at the station nor anywhere in the village. Nobody had seen him.

He didn't come back in a week either! Mother was wrong there!

It was a terrible blow for Mrs. Bowman and Mabel. Mabel could do fine needlework, and Mrs. Bowman was used to go out for a day's work; but now they would have to keep themselves altogether, Rupert's wages being gone.

He had done very wrongly; everybody said that. But people blamed me too; and I knew it, for Mrs. Hammond told me so. And if they had known all, they would have blamed me more. Wasn't it hard enough that I couldn't return Rupert's honest love? What call had I to go and say harsh things to him as well, when his heart was sore already? Ah, folks called me humble and gentle, because I had a soft manner; but they didn't know me in those days. No, not even my mother knew me fully, and least of all did I know myself.

Another lad came as ticket-collector in Rupert's place; at first, only to fill up the gap for a while, since father and everybody hoped Rupert wouldn't be gone long. But time went on, and he did not return, so at last the post was lost to him.

I could hardly bear to meet Mrs. Bowman or Mabel, they looked so reproachful at me; yet they couldn't really tell what had passed. They only guessed that he had been jealous of Mr. Russell, and vexed not to be liked most.

It came out that Mrs. Hammond had spread all over the village about my saying that I liked Mr. Russell best; and the story was told in a way that made a great deal more of my words than the reality. That's common enough.

When the tale reached mother's ears, it fairly upset her. She did so hate gossip. She had not said a sharp word to me before, since Mr. Russell went; but she did then. She wanted to know all about the truth of the matter; so I told her how Rupert had bothered, and how I had answered him, saying more than I meant, and how Mrs. Hammond had happened to hear, and how she had promised not to repeat, and hadn't kept her word.

"Yes, that is the way," mother said, seeming terribly vexed. "If nobody would ever say what oughtn't to be overheard, there would be a lot less harm done." And then she repeated— "Mrs. Hammond's word! And you expected anything from her promise! That's the sort of woman you can be fond of, is it?"

I was too down-hearted to make much of an answer, or to defend myself, if any defending was needed. After all, mother was a deal more angry for me than with me. She couldn't stand the thought of her Kitty's name being bandied about in such a way among the villagers.

Mary Russell was up and dressed for almost the first time, and able to sit in the garden. She heard mother speaking, and presently she beckoned to me to come and sit by her with my work, while mother was busy indoors.

I didn't mind going, though everything felt so flat and dull those days, with Mr. Russell gone, that I could not care much about anything. However, I took up my work, and dragged myself across to where Mary sat, smiling at the flowers.

"Come, Kitty," says she; and when I was by her, she asked— "Has something gone wrong?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, getting red, for I did not want to explain.

"I think it does," said she, "if it makes Kitty look so unhappy. Come, put down the work, and tell me all about it."

"I can't!" I said, beginning to sew fast.

"I think you can," said site, and she spoke quiet, but in a determined sort of voice that I hadn't heard in her before. "Kitty, tell me! Was it something about my brother?"

I couldn't look up in her face, and I wouldn't say "Yes."

"I think I know part already, and I want to know the rest," she said. "Don't think me meddlesome, for I have a reason."

And she took hold of both my hands, so I couldn't work.

"Look up in my face and tell me," she said. "Is it something about Walter—and Mrs. Hammond—and Rupert—and yourself?"

"It's all nonsense; only Mrs. Hammond's talk," I said, half crying. "It wasn't anything, really. Only Rupert got cross one day and he called Mr. Russell a puppy. He often did that. And he wanted me to promise never to like Mr. Russell better than him. And I told Rupert he was rude, and I said I did like Mr. Russell the best. And Mrs. Hammond heard me, and laughed about it. And I made her promise not to tell, because—because it sounded silly. And she has told."

"Yes; it sounds very silly," Mary said. "But was that all, Kitty? Are you sure? The story has grown."

"Yes, I am sure that was all," I answered. "It couldn't be more. Why, that was the day you came, and I didn't even know Mr. Russell then. I was only cross with Rupert, and wanted to tease him, so I said the first words that came into my head."

"Mrs. Hammond forgot to mention the date," Mary said gravely. "There's a wonderful difference made by when a thing is said. And she didn't put it exactly in that way, either. She told Walter that Kitty Phrynne cared more for him than for anybody, and made no secret of wanting to marry him."

"O no! She couldn't say that!" I cried, dreadfully ashamed.

"She did, Kitty."

"But—how—?" I tried to ask.

"Walter told me himself—not till yesterday. I wish I had known sooner."

I turned my head away. Walter had told her! But in what way had he told?

Mary seemed to see the question which I could not ask.

"He laughed a little about it," she said, in a low voice. "We agreed how absurd it was of Mrs. Hammond to invent such a story; for of course it could not be true. But, Kitty—"

She stopped again, and my heart went down, down.

"Kitty, I never can be sure if Walter means or does not mean exactly what he says, or whether he tells me the whole. I don't know whether you have found out yet that he does sometimes—that he is not perfectly straightforward. At first I understood that he had only just heard this bit of foolish talk, and then he let slip that he had known it from the first. I can't help being afraid that he may, perhaps, in some way have acted upon it—may have treated you as if—"

I think she hardly knew what to say, and what not to say, for she stopped again. She wanted to find out more, yet she did not want to put into my head any fancies not there already. I kept my face turned away, and would not speak.

"Kitty, did he?" she whispered.

Then I looked round suddenly.

"He has always been kind," I said. "Kinder than Rupert. I think it is a shame of Mrs. Hammond to say such things. I shall never like Mrs. Hammond again."

"No, you will hardly trust her," Mary said. But I fancy she had expected something different from me. She sat still, looking thoughtful, even sad; and I made an excuse about wanting cotton, and so got away. I felt so wretched, I could bear no more.

Yet all this did not shake my belief in Mr. Russell. If he meant to keep it a secret about what he and I felt for each other, or what I thought we felt, he was likely to try to put his sister off the scent. No doubt he found that Mrs. Hammond's gossip was getting to be known, and so he told Mary himself to be beforehand. I did wonder whether it was that story coming out which helped to settle him so sudden to leave the place.

Mary had not done with the matter yet. When she was in bed, I always slipped in to say a last good-night, and she liked it. Often she was sleepy, and said only a word. But that evening she was wide awake, and she took my face between her hands, and looked at it.

"Kitty, you are getting pale," she told me.

"O no," I answered.

"Saying no doesn't alter things," she said. "Are you poorly?"

"No," I said.

"Poor little Kitty!" she whispered, and she kissed my cheek.

"I'm only come to—say good-night," I said.

"Yes, I know," said she; yet she wouldn't let go. She pulled me down till I lay beside her, with my face against hers, and then she asked— "Kitty, do you ever pray?"

"Yes," I said, "every morning and evening."

"You say your prayers, don't you?" said she. "But is it real praying?"

"I—don't know," I whispered.

"Because there is no such comfort in anything else," she said. "When one is troubled or puzzled, there's nothing like going straight to God, and telling Him all about it. Not only telling, but putting the whole thing into His hands, and asking Him to arrange everything. Do you remember how the disciples went and 'told Jesus' directly they heard of St. John the Baptist's death?"

"Yes," I said faintly.

"And we can do the same about everything—we ought to do the same," she went on. "He is always near—always kind and ready to help. He always answers if we really call upon Him."

I only said "Yes." The words didn't come home to me particularly then, though perhaps they did later.

"I think you are troubled now about something, and puzzled too," said she.

"Oh, I don't know," I said.

"You see, I know so well what that is," she said: "I have been so often puzzled and troubled. It couldn't be otherwise, having to stand alone early, as I have had to do. Sometimes it has been about money matters; sometimes about somebody else's wrong-doing; sometimes about my own wrongdoing; or, perhaps, just not knowing what to do, not being sure which step was right or wrong. And you know, Kitty, one may always come to God, with every wrong, and ask Him to set it right or to help one through. Always! always!" she repeated very earnestly. "If we can't see our way, He will show it to us. And if we don't know what we ought to do, He will make it clear. We only have to be willing, and to wait for the showing."

But did I want to have it made clear? That was the question. I wanted to have my own way. I wanted to keep Mr. Russell's secret. I wanted to feel myself bound by the promise I had spoken. I did not want to be shown God's will, unless it were my own will too. So how could I honestly pray for God to guide me to what was right, if I wasn't willing to do what was right when I saw it?

Mary said no more, and let me go, which was wiser than if she had kept on talking at me. People commonly don't know when to stop, and they'll spoil the best advice by nagging on too long at it; but that wasn't Mary's way. She had said what was needful, and she said no more. And her words didn't fall to the ground, though at the moment they didn't seem to weigh with me.

I wonder if any words ever do really "fall to the ground." There's a deal of power for good or evil in a word. And there's no measuring the effect of any word. Like a stone thrown into a pond, it sends circle after circle outward, even when it has disappeared itself, and the water over it is smooth.

Once speak a word, and you can't stop circles. They'll go on and on, till they're done. That's the meaning of "least said, soonest mended." And it's true even of good advice, as well as of other sorts of talk. Piling on words don't do good in the end.

I thought a lot of what Mary had said; but I always came round to the same point. I didn't want to be freed from my promise.

It was curious how many things happened together that year. Sometimes it does seem so in life; ever so many uncommon events near after one another, and then a long spell with nothing particular.

There was Rupert's asking me to marry him; and the narrow escape of a bad collision; and the Earl giving me his watch; and my silly little head being turned. Then there was Mary Russell's illness; and her brother always about; till my silly little heart was turned too. And then Mr. Russell bidding good-bye, and Rupert running away.

It didn't seem likely anything more would happen out of the common yet awhile. But one never can tell. That's the strangest part of life. However steady the days seem to go on, one never can be sure of a single day ahead.

No, I don't know either that that is the strangest. There's something stranger yet in the way we manage to go slipping and sliding along, never able to see if a precipice don't lie just ahead, and yet not troubling ourselves, but expecting things to keep on always the same. At least, that's how it is with some people. Some are over-anxious, and some don't think enough. It's right to trust God for our future; but it isn't right to be reckless and indifferent.

Something lay ahead that summer, which mother and I little dreamed of. If we had—but, after all, isn't it a mercy that we don't see what's coming? Only I do think we should be wiser to live more as if things might come, so that we shouldn't need to be saying afterward with a heart-ache— "Ah! if only I'd guessed, how different I'd have behaved to him or her!"

But I've got more to tell first, before coming to that sorrow.

About a month after the evening when Mr. Russell and I said good-bye to one another in the lane, Mary Russell left us. She was ever so much better by that time, and Mr. Baitson was quite willing she should travel. He'd have given leave a week sooner, I believe, only mother wouldn't let Mary go.

For days before she went, I was all in a quake and stir, thinking how Mr. Russell would run over to Claxton to fetch her. He wouldn't surely let her travel alone, after such an illness.

But nobody seemed to think of such a thing, and not a word was spoken about it. I wanted to ask Mary if he didn't mean to come, and I couldn't, for the words stuck in my throat. It wasn't till the last evening before she left, when she and I went for a turn in the garden, after dusk fell, and I knew she couldn't see my face, that I managed to say—

"Is Mr. Russell coming to take you home, Mary?"

I wanted to speak careless-like, and as if it was a thing I didn't mind about either way; but I have a notion that my voice told what I was feeling.

"Walter!" she said, as if surprised. "No, Kitty; why should he?"

"I—don't know. I only—only thought he might," I said, stumbling over the words. "He seemed to think—at least he said—"

"That would be a needless expense—no object in it," said she. "My illness has cost us enough already. Walter is hard at work, I hope—" and she made a little stop, as if she didn't feel quite sure. "Hard at work, I hope," said she again. "He ought not to think of another break before Christmas."

"There's Michaelmas," I said.

I saw her give a little shake of the head, dark as it was getting.

"Perhaps you'll come to Claxton at Christmas?" I said; and all at once there were tears running down my face. Mary couldn't see them—and even if she did, she would only think it was because of her going away.

"Hardly," she said. "No, that is very unlikely. Walter and I have to be careful now about every penny we spend. I think we shall have a snug Christmas together at home this year." Then she stooped to kiss me—she was the tallest, you know. "Kitty, you must be brave," says she. "You and I will feel very much being parted, after so many weeks together, and I shall miss your mother sorely. But we have to be brave, dear. After all, though friendship brings with it the pain of saying goodbye, one wouldn't be without the friendship, would one?"

"No," I said; and I was thinking of Mr. Russell. I was so glad she took my distress as having only to do with herself—if she really did, which I have my doubts about now. I've a notion she and mother thought it was a case of "least said" about her brother being "soonest mended."

We saw her off early in the afternoon of next day; and oh, how I longed to send a message to Mr. Russell; but I didn't dare. A word of remembrance would have been natural enough, only I knew I could not say it without flushing up and perhaps crying. And mother didn't speak of him either. She never seemed to give him a thought, no more than if there hadn't been such a person alive. And father only said: "Mind, Mary, you are to come again. You'll always be welcome." She was "Mary" to all of us by then.

How strange the house did look without her! She had grown to be part of it, part of ourselves; and I didn't guess how much I loved her till she was gone, nor what a gap her quiet face would leave.

Mother was more silent than usual that afternoon, and hardly said a word about Mary going. I wondered at first, knowing how fond those two had grown of each other. Then when mother had to speak about putting the bed upstairs again out of the parlour, she choked, and couldn't go on for a minute.

"I'm a stupid," says she. "Kitty, you run off and get a blow on the common. That'll do you good, and when you come back I'll be myself again. I'll make you a cup of tea, and then you needn't hurry," says she. "Father won't be in till late to-day."

"But you'll be dull, mother," I said.

"I don't know as there's any harm in being dull," says she. "When it comes in the way of one's duty, I mean. Folks have got to go through dull times, as well as lively times; and maybe they're none the worse after."

"Only, if I stay in—" said I.

"That's no good," says she. "Two dull folks don't make one cheerful one, however much they're mixed. You put on the kettle, sharp, and cut a slice of bread-and-butter. Yes; you've got to eat that; it don't matter whether you want to eat or don't want; and then you'll go and get a big bunch of wild-flowers. Mind you don't sit on the grass and brood."

It was late in the afternoon before I set off, and I didn't walk fast. A sort of tiredness was on me those days, and not caring much for anything; so I hadn't the spirit to run and be gay, as I'd have done a few weeks back. I loitered through the village, finding my way to the common by slow degrees, and then I loitered round it, getting ragged-robins out of the hedge, and blue speedwells, and meadow-sweet.

For a good while I kept near that part of the common where the big village boys were playing cricket; but presently I left them behind, and got away to a lonelier part.

The sun was low by that time, shining with a yellow light through the branches of the trees; for there were many trees scattered about by ones or twos, and in little clumps, divided by open spaces. I liked to feel myself alone, to know that nobody was watching me. If mother hadn't said what she did, I should have sat down on the grass and given myself over to thinking—not of Mary mostly, though I did feel her going, but of her brother. I could always sit and think of Walter Russell, for any time, and never want to be disturbed. It's wonderful how little I thought of poor Rupert in those days.

But I knew mother would question me when I got home; so I walked on, till I was so tired I had to stop. And then I stood, leaning against the trunk of an old elm, with the sunbeams shining full on me, and a gold light all over the grass. It was a pretty evening; one of the prettiest I have ever seen.

I wondered what Mary was doing just then. She would have reached home some time before,—the little home she had often described to me, till I seemed to know every corner of it. Most likely she had unpacked and put everything away, and she and her brother would be sitting down for a long talk together, one on each side of the round table in their parlour.

How happy they would be! He was such a kind good brother, and Mary so devoted to him. She might sometimes find fault with "Walter," but she loved him with all her heart. I didn't think that any wonder either.

So happy together: talking, smiling, laughing, telling everything that had happened, making merry little jokes. Yes, I could picture it all! And I, out there on the common, away from them both, felt so lonely.

These thoughts were filling my mind, and I think I sighed more than once, with the longing to see Mr. Russell again.

I had shut my eyes, that I might the better picture those two in their parlour. Something made me open my eyes—I don't know what, unless it was the sound of a step on the grass, which I could not have said I heard—but I looked up.

And he was there; in front of me!

For a moment I felt stupefied, dazed! I couldn't believe what I saw. I couldn't believe he was Mr. Russell himself.

He said "Kitty!"

And then I had no more doubt.