Chapter VI: The Earl's Gift

"Kitty!" says he. "Why, Kitty, don't you know me?"

I think I said "Oh!" It didn't seem as if any other words would come at first. Such a rush of joy filled my heart, that I was almost afraid to look up in his face. I didn't want him to see all I felt. But I believe he did.

"Poor little Kitty!" said he. "So you are glad to see me, eh?"

"Oh—glad!" I said, and stopped again.

"And I'm glad to see you. So we're even there," said he.

I wonder now that the words could satisfy me: yet they did.

"How ever did you come here?" I asked him.

"How? Why, by train part of the way, and the rest I walked," said he. "No, I didn't come to Claxton Station. I wanted a word with you, and nobody else. I should have been too well known at Claxton Station." Then he stood and looked at me. "Kitty, you are prettier than ever," says he. "You dear little thing! I've never seen a lovelier girl. No, never. When I saw you just now, with your back against the tree in the sunshine, you looked just like a little angel," says he.

I suppose it was natural I should be pleased with this rubbish, being, as I was, only a silly girl, and nothing at all of the angel in me. I might have told him it wasn't, to my knowledge, the way of angels to stand leaning against tree-trunks, doing nothing. But I only dropped my eyes, and felt happy.

"Just like a little angel," says he again.

"I like you to think me pretty," I said, in a whisper. And then, with a start, I went on: "But you are too late. Mary is gone."

"Yes, I know," said he. "If I'd come to see Mary, I should have come to Claxton Station, and not have walked six miles for nothing."

I'd forgotten that for the moment.

"Kitty, I mustn't stay long," said he. "I've something very particular to say, and I've got to make haste and be off."

Such an unhappy look came over his face as he spoke. I was facing the sun, and he had his back to it; but even so I couldn't help seeing his look nor how pulled and haggard he was. It flashed on me that something had happened, and I was frightened, thinking at once of Mary.

"I've not seen Mary yet," said he, when I asked. "I have been away for hours. I couldn't see her till I had seen you first. The fact is, Kitty, I'm in dreadful trouble, and if you can't help me nobody can."

"Oh, what can I do? I would do anything," I cried. "Then doesn't Mary know you are here?"

"Nobody knows," said he. "I left word I meant to be home as early as I could. But I don't know, I'm sure, whether—"

"Then she is all alone there," I said, thinking how I had pictured the two making merry together.

"Yes, I suppose so," said he. "It can't be helped. I meant to catch you earlier somehow, and I couldn't. I was watching from the hill, and I saw you go out, and come this way, so went round and got to the common too. But it was ever so long before I could find you."

"And if you hadn't found me at all?" I said, wondering.

"Then—" and he stopped. "But I have—so that doesn't matter," says he. "Kitty, I want your help."

"What help? I'd do anything to help you," I said.

"Anything! Would you?" says he.

"Anything except what's wrong," I said. "And you wouldn't ask that."

"No, no, of course not," said he, in a hasty way, not looking at me. "Of course not."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Why," he said, "the fact is, I've got myself into an awful muddle, and I don't know how in the world to get out of it."

"Can't Mary help you?" I said.

"I wouldn't tell Mary for the world," says he. "I'd sooner never see her again."

It seemed very strange to me. I didn't like to think how strange it was. For surely the natural way would have been to tell his trouble to Mary, who had been sister, mother, friend, everything to him. And yet the very thought of his turning to me was a joy that made my heart flutter and the whole place seem bright. I didn't so much trouble myself with thinking what the "muddle" was that he had got into. He wanted me to help him! That was the joy.

"Don't say that," I begged. "Mary is so sweet and good."

"Mary is goodness itself," he said. "But she has a hard side. You haven't seen Mary yet in one of her stern moods, sitting in judgment on a poor chap."

I wouldn't have believed that Mary ever sat in judgment on anybody, if they had been any lips except Walter Russell's that said it. But I could not contradict him.

"What is it I can do for you?" I asked, and I looked up in his face. "Tell me!" I said.

"Kitty, you are a little angel," he exclaimed again, and most likely I blushed.

"Well, but tell me," I said. "It'll be getting late soon."

"So it will, and I haven't a moment to spare," says he. "Kitty—" and there he stuck.

"Yes. What is it?" said I.

"Kitty, I want—" said he.

I couldn't help thinking of Rupert asking me to marry him, and a wonder came whether, perhaps— But no, I could see it wasn't that with Mr. Russell. Being in a "muddle" couldn't mean that he was going to try to get a wife.

"Yes, you want what?" said I, to encourage him.

"I want—money," he blurted out at last.

I won't say it wasn't a blow. Somehow I had never thought of his coming to me for money. It seemed so odd. I couldn't help a sort of feeling that he lowered himself by it.

"Kitty, don't you misunderstand me," says he earnestly, seeing, I suppose, that my face fell. "I wouldn't have you think ill of me, Kitty, for anything. It's just a thing that I—that I can't help, you know. And I don't know where to turn; so I felt I must come to you. The truth is, I've been very much pressed; you know, Mary's illness has been such a pull, and I—well, in fact, I had to borrow a small sum. Only a small sum for a short time, just to tide me over a time of difficulty. And it has to be repaid now, and I don't know how to repay it. Don't you misunderstand me, Kitty," says he, and he looked at me so soft and kind that my silly little heart beat fast, and I felt I would do anything for him.

"Only I have no money!" I said.

"No; but I thought—" said he, and stopped.

"If only I could! I haven't five shillings of my own," I said. "Shall I ask father?"

"No, no! not for the world," says he. "Not a word to him nor anybody. Promise me you'll keep it quiet, Kitty! Promise."

"I won't say a word without you give me leave," I said, not at the moment thinking how I was making a second wrong promise; and yet I ought to have thought. He had a strange hold upon me, and I was willing to be in his power. I didn't want to break loose.

"That's my own little Kitty!" said he, and my heart bounded again with joy at the words.

"But I don't see what I am to do for you," I said. "Won't the person you have borrowed from wait a bit, till you can save up enough to pay him back?"

"Why, no; you don't exactly understand," says he. "It's not exactly that, you see—not exactly borrowing from a person."

"Not a person!" said I, wondering, and he gave a laugh.

"Why, no. Properly speaking, it's only using what I've got."

"I don't think I know what you mean," I said.

"No, I was sure you didn't," —and he laughed again. "Only just that I'm in need of the money. That's enough too!"

I didn't speak, I felt so puzzled; and, after a minute, he burst out—

"Well, I'd best make a clean breast of it! I can trust you, Kitty. Not a word 'll go a step farther, I know that! I can trust you, as I wouldn't any other living creature."

And I was foolish enough to be pleased at his saying so.

"You see, it really isn't exactly borrowing," he went on. "The fact is, a lot of money comes through my hands—children's school-pence, and so on—and I've got to account for it all. It's paid to me, and I've got a right to do as I like till the day I have to pay it over, which isn't just yet. But Mary is awfully fussy about such things, poor dear! and she always will have every penny put straight into a cash-box and kept apart. Well, she made me promise I'd go on the same while she was at your house; and I did mean—but somehow I got so close run, I couldn't, and I had to spend it all. The thing doesn't matter in itself; of course, I shall pay up all right when the proper time comes, but there'll be such a row when Mary finds her beloved cash-box empty! That's where it is, you see! I want to put in the money all right before I give it back to her. There's another purse, with money put by for the rent, and I had to borrow some of that too, for I was short, and I couldn't write and bother her. It's not borrowing really, you see, for what's hers is mine. Only I know there'll be a dreadful rumpus when she finds out. You haven't a notion how hard Mary can be!" He gave a sigh as he spoke. "She's a good creature, but she can be hard and no mistake; and somehow she never has any mercy on me. So now you understand why I've come to you, eh? I knew you wouldn't be hard, Kitty," says he.

If I did "understand" it was with blinded eyes. I would not have any shadow cast upon my idol. I would not let myself take in what all this truly meant.

"Kitty, you see, don't you?" says he again. "I've nobody to go to except you. It's just a few pounds I want, just to tide me over this pinch. Only a loan, not a gift. I'll repay it faithfully. I declare I will."

"But—" I said.

"No, you haven't the money, of course," said he. "But I've been thinking, there's something else you have, which wouldn't be missed for a few days—something one might raise a few pounds on, only for the moment, you know. It seems such a shame to think of such a thing, and if I wasn't in desperation what to do I would not! Still, if you didn't mind—if it were possible, just to save me from ruin and disgrace, and poor Mary from a broken heart, not to say another illness—yet I'm sure I don't know how to ask it of you. I really don't."

I was so bewildered, I stood and looked, wondering whatever he could mean.

"Don't you understand yet?" said he, his face falling.

"No," I said. "Something that I have!"

"Your watch!" says he, half in a whisper.

"My watch!" I said; and what he meant began to dawn on me. It made me feel queer, I can tall you.

"If you could, just for a few days or so," said he, and he spoke pleading-like. "Is that so very much to do for a friend, Kitty? It's only the loan I ask. You see, I could raise a few pounds on that watch, for the moment, just to tide me through; and then in a few days or so I would buy it back all right from the—the jeweller—and get it back to you. There'll be money coming in soon, one way and another, only I can't wait for that. If I haven't a few pounds now, either to-night or to-morrow morning, I don't know whatever I'm to do. I can't stand telling Mary, and that's flat. If I can't get the money, I can't go home, and then you'll never see nor hear of me again, Kitty!"

I felt a cold chill all through me at the thought.

"Oh, don't say that, please don't!" I begged. "It sounds too dreadful. I do wish you hadn't used up the money."

"Why, Kitty, as if I hadn't the right!" says he, quite short.

But had he the right? For strictly the money was not his. If he knew himself to have the right, and to be doing right, why should he mind speaking out to Mary? I tried not to see this, for I didn't want to blame him.

"I would lend you the watch for a few days," I said; "only I don't know what father and mother would say."

"They mustn't know, of course," said he. "You've promised not to tell, not to let slip a word."

"Yes," I said. That promise was lying heavy on my conscience. "But if they asked me to fetch the watch and to show it to anybody?"

"Oh, they won't. I dare say it doesn't happen once in six weeks."

"I don't think it's so seldom as once in six weeks, and it might be any day," I said.

"But you don't wear it commonly?"

"No," I said.

"Oh, well, it'll all come right," says he. "They won't speak of it, or if they do, you must just put them off somehow. You can say you can't find it, and that'll be true enough. Only mind you don't let out where it is."

The marvel is that my eyes weren't opened. For wasn't it plain as daylight that he cared not a rap about my feelings, but only for his own? So long as he could get things straight for himself, I might have any amount of worry and difficulty. Besides, there was the untruthfulness of what he wanted me to do. He might be sure that I should find myself obliged either to betray him or to deceive.

He knew I wouldn't betray him. That meant that he expected me to deceive.

But he had got the mastery of me, with his soft looks, and his threat that I might never see him again. I had given in to temptation earlier for his sake, so it was doubly hard to conquer now. I hardly thought of conquering. My one wish was to help him. That came first, and the question of doing right or wrong came second.

"Kitty, will you save me?" he asked. "Will you save me from—" and he stopped. "From Mary!" says he.

And I was overcome. I burst into tears and said "Yes."

He told me I was an angel again, and said a lot of absurd things. Then he comforted me, and said I mustn't cry, for "all would be right now," and he hoped very soon to come again. I asked, "When?" and he said, "Oh, very soon indeed—in fact, it must be soon, for he would have to bring back the watch."

"Please don't be long about that," I begged. "Father thinks so much of the Earl giving it to me, you know. I don't know what I shall do if he finds out."

"Oh, he won't find out. There's no fear," Mr. Russell said. "You've just got to shirk the subject. But I shan't be long. I'll just turn up with it as I've done to-day."

"In a week?" I wanted to know.

"Oh, well, perhaps in a week or two," says he.

"It's only the watch you want, not the chain too?" I said.

"Why, I don't see the good of dividing them," said he. "And they mightn't be willing to give me—lend me, I mean—quite enough on the watch. I'd better have both."

I made no resistance. Having let him take his own way so far, he had matters in his hands, and I had only to obey.

He would not walk homeward with me, lest he should be seen; but we settled that I was to take the watch out into the garden after dark. And all the time I tried to hold myself from seeing how very very wrongly I was acting.

It didn't take me long to reach the station. Mother met me indoors with a smile, and I could see she was better for her quiet time. She told me I looked better too, and there's no doubt I was flushed, and not so tired.

"I didn't expect you to be so long, Kitty," said she. "But no matter, if it's done you good."

Another half-hour brought darkness, and the puzzle then was how to get away. I had slipped the watch and chain into my dress, all ready; and I was in a tremble of nervousness. Mother wanted me to settle down to some mending, and she seemed uncommon disposed for talk.

"Why, Kitty, you're all in a fidget," says she. "What's the matter?"

"I don't feel like sitting still," I said.

"No more did I, but it don't do to give in to that sort of thing," said she. "It's Mary's going: nought else. Saying good-bye does unsettle folks. But you've had your walk, and now you'd best be busy."

Mother got out her work, and took a chair opposite: so I knew she meant to keep me at it.

"I wonder what Mary is doing now," says she.

Poor Mary! I couldn't but wonder too, thinking of all those hours spent alone. And every minute that I put off seeing Mr. Russell kept him longer away from her!

"She is having a talk with her brother, I don't doubt," mother went on. "He's no favourite of mine, that young fellow, for I don't trust him; but all the same he's fond of Mary, and he'll give her a welcome. I shouldn't wonder if they're having a merry time together."

Mother hadn't spoken of him before, since I don't know when. It took me by surprise, and I said, "O mother, don't!"

"Why, Kitty!" says she. "Poor little woman! Can't you bear to speak of Mary yet?"

I couldn't bear to hear her spoken of so, knowing how different things really were. I would not let myself blame Walter Russell, yet I could have no happy thoughts of him, after what had passed. For a minute I tried to keep on at my needle, but it was no use. I couldn't; and I just dropped the work and went to the window, where it was grown too dark to see anything outside.

Mother said nothing at first. She let me stand there for awhile; and when all at once I walked to the door, she only asked— "What now, Kitty?"

"I'm going for a turn outside," I said. "It's quite warm."

"Yes, so it is; but put on my shawl, and don't stay," says she. "Just leave the fidgets behind you, and come back."

The moment I had shut the door I set off running, and reached the back corner of the garden, where Mr. Russell had said he would wait for me, close to the lilac bushes. I was barely able to see him, and I said "Mr. Russell!" under my breath.

"I thought you didn't mean to come at all," says he, in a whisper.

"I couldn't sooner," I said; "and I mustn't wait now." Then I put the gold watch and chain into his hands. "Take care of them, please!" I begged. "And oh, please don't keep them long! I shall be so frightened till I have them safe again."

"Not a minute longer than I can help," says he. "Good-bye, little Kitty—I can't thank you enough. You've saved me from no end of bother," says he.

Then he was gone, making no sound, but stealing off like somebody in disgrace; and I went back with a heart as heavy as lead. I knew I had let him draw me into a tangle of wrong-doing, out of which I could see no way of escape. I could only rest my hopes on his promise not to keep the watch long.

As I had told Mr. Russell, it was not so seldom as only once in six weeks that I had to show the Earl's present to somebody. Still, for some time past the watch had been allowed to lie undisturbed; and it didn't seem likely I should be called upon in a hurry. Most friends in the neighbourhood had seen it; and father wasn't one to make a great fuss and talk about the matter.

But only two days after I had parted with the watch I found myself in difficulties.

Mother had a note from Mary that morning by post: a short note, saying that she was at home, and sent love to us all. She spoke gratefully of all the kindness we had shown her, but she never mentioned her brother. I could not understand this: for the note was written next day after she left us, so of course he was at home with her. Mother seemed puzzled too, though not exactly about that.

"Mary is in trouble," she said. "I wish I knew what is wrong."

Well, in the afternoon of that same day, Mr. Armstrong came to call. That was nothing unusual; but he had a lady with him, a stranger to the place. The moment I saw them walking up the garden-path I had a sort of sinking with fright, for I guessed what would follow.

If I could have run away, I would have made my escape. It was no use to think of that, though. I should only have met them at the door, as I went out; and besides, I was holding a big skein of grey yarn for mother to wind, which kept me fast to the spot.

Father had just come in with a newspaper in his hand, and he had sat down to read it.

Mr. Armstrong was sure of a welcome in our house. He had been a kind friend to us for many a long day.

Mother laid aside the grey wool, and set a chair for the lady, while I got another for Mr. Armstrong. He told us he had brought his sister-in-law, Mrs. Withers, to make our acquaintance; and then he thanked me for the chair, shaking hands. "Why, Kitty," said he, "you don't look well, child. What's the matter?" For indeed the fright had made me queer.

"Kitty don't seem just as she should be lately," mother said. "She has a sort of turn like that once in a way. Sit down, Kitty," says she.

I did as mother told me, trying not to let them see how I shook, and getting a little less frightened as the minutes went by, and they only talked of things in general.

"So your invalid has gone at last," Mr. Armstrong said to mother.

"Yes," said she; "and sorry we are to lose her. There's not many folks like Mary Russell."

"I am sure of that," said he. "She carries her goodness in her face."

"It's genuine out-and-out goodness too," father said. "Why, now, she's been like a mother to that young brother of hers."

"And he is grateful for it?" Mr. Armstrong spoke as if he was putting a question, not as if he was sure.

"No doubt," says father.

"He talks gratitude," mother says quite low.

"But doesn't act it, perhaps," Mrs. Withers said.

"Talk is easier than action, any day," Mr. Armstrong added, with a smile.

"Yes, sir. I can't abide talk," mother answered him.

"You don't like talk of the wrong sort," says Mr. Armstrong.

"It's sure to be wrong, when there's much of it," says mother.

"Too often, I'm afraid—yes," Mr. Armstrong said. "'In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,' you know."

"That's just it," mother said.

And then what I was dreading came all of a sudden.

"Mrs. Phrynne, I saw a friend of yours last week," says Mr. Armstrong.

Mother waited to hear more.

"I mean Lord Leigh," said he.

"His lordship wouldn't thank you to call him my friend," says mother.

"I'm not so sure," says Mr. Armstrong, smiling. "He asked most particularly after you and Kitty, and he said he wished there were more mothers like you in the world."

"I'm much obliged to him, sir," mother said; and though she tried not to look too pleased, she was pleased.

"And that reminds me," says Mr. Armstrong, "I want Mrs. Withers to see the Earl's present to your Kitty—the famous gold watch. Would you have any objection?"

"Not a bit," says father. "Run and fetch it, Kitty."

I got up and went, though going was no good. At least it would give me time to think what I was to say or do. It's a wonder they didn't all see how dazed I was, and how I could scarce stand, for my knees were knocking together; but somehow they didn't. Father was talking to Mr. Armstrong; and mother was listening to Mrs. Withers; and nobody happened to look.

I can't explain the sort of odd feeling that crept over me—a feeling as if I really had to look for the watch, even while it was no manner of use. I walked upstairs to my room, going slow because I couldn't go fast; and I opened the drawer where I always kept the watch, and peeped into other drawers as well. It must have been a temptation to deceit, though at the moment I seemed to do it in a sort of natural way.

Then I went to the glass, and saw my own face, without a scrap of colour, and the lips all yellow-white. I didn't wonder; I felt so shaky and sick.

What would they say downstairs? What would they think? How could I keep from saying what wasn't true and yet shelter Mr. Russell?

"But I mustn't betray him! I have promised! Nobody is to know!" I said aloud.

I didn't dare to go back, though I knew they were expecting me. I stood leaning against the table, counting the moments, in a sort of dull, half-stupid state. Perhaps if I waited long enough, Mr. Armstrong would get tired, and go away.

All at once father shouted "Kitty!"

I said "Yes," so as he couldn't possibly have heard.

"Kitty, make haste!" he called again. "What are you after, child? Come along!"

There was no help for it. I had to go. I went downstairs step by step, holding on to the banisters. As soon as father saw me, he said— "Make haste, child!" and went back to the others; so I had to follow alone.

Mr. Armstrong was the first to catch sight of my face. "Why, Kitty! what is wrong?" says he. "The child is ill, surely."

Father got bold of me, and the next moment I was sobbing as if my heart would break.

They were all in a puzzle at first. Mother thought I was taken sick, and Mrs. Withers brought out a bottle of smelling-salts. Father seemed to understand better, for I heard him say,— "Something is worrying the child."

"It's Mary's going," mother answered. "She hasn't been right ever since."

"Well, but that wouldn't make her cry like this, all in a moment," says father. "What is it, Kitty? Eh, dear? Don't you feel well?—or anything gone wrong?"

"Come, cheer up, Kitty," Mr. Armstrong said. "You'll see Mary again soon, I don't doubt. Come, where is the pretty watch you were going to show us?" I suppose he thought that would take my thoughts off my trouble, whatever it was.

"Yes, where's the watch, Kitty?" says father.

I managed to get out— "It—it—isn't there!" and cried harder than before. The crying wasn't put on; for I did feel it to be dreadful that I should deceive them all like this.

"Not there! You don't mean to say the watch is gone!" father exclaimed.

"Kitty, you must tell us plainly. Is the watch gone? Cannot you find it?" Mr. Armstrong asked gravely.

"No," I sobbed.

"Where did you look? In the place where you always keep it? Anywhere else?" father asked.

"I know where Kitty keeps it. I'll go and look," mother said.

She was gone some minutes, and they put more questions, while I hid my face, and said as little as I possibly could. Father seemed very troubled, and so did Mr. Armstrong. It would be a grievous thing, Mr. Armstrong said, if such a theft had taken place. He could not help hoping that I had merely mislaid the watch.

"That don't seem likely either," father said. "Kitty wouldn't let the watch lie about anywhere."

"When did you have it out last, Kitty?" Mr. Armstrong asked.

I could say truly that I had held it in my hands a few days ago. But when Mr. Armstrong questioned whether I was quite sure I had put it safely back, I burst into fresh crying, and couldn't answer him.

Then mother came back, looking downright pale with worry.

"No," she said; "the watch isn't in its right place, nor anywhere else that I can see. We'll have a turn-out of every corner, before I go to bed to-night. But I'm very much afraid—" and she stopped. "Though who could be the thief I haven't a notion."