Chapter VIII: Found Out

MOTHER didn't say a word. She sat down, and a queer grey look came over her face.

I stood leaning against the dresser, feeling—but I couldn't tell what I felt. All the wrong I had done, all the falsehoods I had spoken, had been for nothing. I hadn't even the poor little reward that I had sinned for! I had not shielded Walter from blame. Somehow or other the matter had come to light.

Mary said nothing either. She looked so sad, so pitying.

We couldn't all have kept silence many seconds, I suppose, but it seemed an age. Before anybody spoke, father walked in.

"I haven't a moment," says he cheerily, "but somebody tells me Mary Russell has come, and I wanted to make sure. Why, so she is! Well, Mary, how d'you—Hallo!"

For his eyes fell on mother's face, and then on the watch and chain lying just in front of Mary.

Father forgot to finish his greeting, and the hand he was reaching out to Mary dropped down by his side.

"Hallo! How's this?" says he.

"I have brought back Kitty's watch," says Mary.

"Brought it back!" says father. "Back from where?"

Mary turned to me, speaking under her breath— "Kitty, if you haven't told yet, tell now! tell now!" whispered she.

But father heard, and such a look of pain came into his face as might have made anybody's heart ache. I never can bear to think of his look that moment.

"No—no!" says he. "Too late for that! I'll have no more questioning of Kitty. I never would have believed that the word of a child of mine mightn't be depended on! Tell me yourself, Mary, and quick, for I must be off. Where does the watch come from?"

"From Walter," she said sorrowfully. "He has been the tempter."

"Whose tempter?"

Mary spoke clear and firm, as if she wouldn't mince matters, either for Walter's sake or for mine.

"Walter was the tempter," she said; "and Kitty has been wrong to give in to him. Walter was in difficulties, and he got the watch from Kitty to raise money on—borrowed it, he says! But—"

Father stood like one struck by a bolt, his head hanging down.

"And Kitty gave the watch to Russell. Our Kitty!" says he, in a dazed way. "Kitty! And she making believe she didn't know aught of where it was! Telling a pack of miserable lies! Our Kitty! I wouldn't have believed it!" says he.

"I blame Walter most," said Mary. "He is the oldest. If he were not so weak!"

Strange to say, even in that moment, it angered me to hear her speak so of him. She might call me weak, if she liked; but not Walter.

"Well, I must be off," father said, fetching a heavy sigh. "I never could have believed it of a child of mine. I'll see you by-and-by, Mary, and hear all about the matter. But it's not you that's to blame."

"The first I heard of it was yesterday," says Mary, looking up into his face.

"Yes, yes—I know," says father.

Then he was gone, walking like an old man, and never casting one glance towards me: not one.

Mother spoke next. She said in a dry sort of tone, "It'll half kill him. He's always thought so much of his Kitty."

And I felt as if my heart would break: as if I couldn't bear any more: yet I wanted to hear all that Mary had to tell. I craved to know how she'd found out about the watch; and I was frightened for Walter, with a fear that he might have to go to prison for it. Being half-strangled with sobs, I made a sort of movement like going away, not knowing whether to go or stay; and mother said in that same dry voice—

"Kitty, you are to stay."

"I think Kitty ought to know the whole," Mary says gently.

"I'll have everything open and above board. Kitty is to stay," said mother, looking at Mary, not at me.

Then the tale came out slowly, bit by bit, as much as Mary knew. I think I'd best tell it, partly at all events, in my own words; for there were some things I heard later, not just at that moment, and I couldn't well separate them in memory.

When Mary went home from Claxton, Walter didn't meet her at the station, as she expected; and when she got home, he wasn't there. The little maid that they kept to help, and to set Mary free for dressmaking, told her he'd had to go off somewhere, directly after dinner; she didn't know where, only he said it was business, and he'd be back as soon as possible. It was a half-holiday at the school, so he was able to get away.

Mary had all the afternoon and evening alone: for he never turned up till quite late, somewhere about eleven o'clock. When he got in he was vexed to find Mary sitting up still. "It was absurd," he said, "after her illness!" and he would only talk of that, but wouldn't tell her where he had been. "Just a matter of business," he said. "What did women know of business?"

If Mary had not been so worried, she must have smiled; for she had twice as good a business-head as he. But she was in no smiling mood. She knew too well that secrecy on his part meant mischief.

As Walter had told me, Mary always kept a sharp look-out over the money that came into the house, more especially school-money. She told mother and me this, telling too her reason frankly, though with shame. She seemed bent on hiding nothing. When they first went to Littleburgh, she had left things more in Walter's hands; but very soon she had found it would not do. He never could keep from spending what he had in hand; and he never cared to look forward beyond the present moment.

"Not that he means to be dishonest," she said. "Walter never means to do wrong; but he is so easily bent. There is no strength of will. Sometimes I think weakness is the worst of evils, it leads to so much wrong-doing."

Then she told us how she had set going a cashbox for every penny that wasn't strictly their own, but would have to be accounted for; and every week she went into accounts with him, and paid the right amount into this box, keeping the key herself.

Before he went back to Littleburgh, leaving her ill in our house, she made him promise to go on with the same plan. Walter gave his word easily enough; and he broke it as easily. While she was away, and he was free, he spent every penny that came to him.

Then the day was fixed for Mary's return.

Up to that moment he had not troubled himself, never looking forward; but the news of Mary's coming sent him half desperate. He hadn't the courage to face her displeasure. Before Mary he was a coward. I don't think I wonder—now! There was something in those honest eyes of hers which might well make him shrink; and she had the mastery over him too, of a strong over a weak nature. I didn't believe him to be weak then; at least, I wouldn't let myself allow that he was; but one's sight gets clearer as one goes on.

Well, as I say, Walter was in despair. There was the money short; and Mary would go into the matter straight, and every penny would have to be accounted for to her. If not to her, it would have to be accounted for to others, only a few weeks later. But Walter never looked far ahead, Mary said, speaking of this. He lived just in the present, and put off anxieties, and always expected everything to come straight somehow.

In his dread he fled away from the sight of Mary, building his hopes on poor little me, and resolving not to go home at all if I failed him. Getting hold of my watch wouldn't really help him out of his trouble, of course; but all he thought of was just being tided over the moment's pinch, and so long as he could put off the evil day he was content. Anyway, he was sure I wouldn't betray him.

I didn't fail him; more's the pity! for by giving in I was helping him along an evil road.

So he went home, telling Mary not a word; and next morning he shirked giving over the money-box to her, until he'd been to a jeweller's and had raised money on the watch, enough to pay back all that was missing; enough, too, for a good sum to be in his own pocket as well.

Mary found nothing wrong when she looked into money-matters, which was a great relief to her; and Walter was in high spirits— "particularly affectionate," she told us. And yet she couldn't help an uneasy feeling that things weren't right; and Walter would not let drop a single word about where he had been, the day she went home.

Two or three nights went by, nothing out of the way happening, and all seeming to go smooth: only she got puzzled at Walter having more money than he ought to have had. He wasn't "deep," though he was deceitful, and he'd often let slip things that he meant to keep to himself.

Mary found him buying a new tie, which he didn't need, and then some smart new studs turned up. When she asked how he'd been able to afford them, he said something about having been "careful," and next he told her the studs were "a present from a friend," only he wouldn't say what friend.

There was a good deal altogether, you see, to worry her.

On the afternoon of the day before Mary brought back the watch, the policeman called to speak to her. She knew him at once for a policeman, though he was in plain clothes. He said he went so, because he didn't wish to make a stir, nor to draw attention, but there were a few questions he must ask.

"Do you want to see my brother? He is out now," says Mary, wondering what it could all mean.

"It'll do if I can speak to you first," says the policeman.

Then he put some questions about us—how long she'd known us, when she'd left us, and so on.

Mary gave him the date of the day she was hurt, and, quite natural-like, spoke of me stopping the train with holding up mother's red shawl as a danger-signal.

"Yes, to be sure," says the policeman. "She had a reward for that too" —meaning me.

"The best reward was knowing of all the lives she'd saved," said Mary. "But the Earl of Leigh gave her a gold watch and chain too."

"And you've seen 'em, no doubt," says the policeman.

"Many times, while I was in the house," Mary answered.

"And know where they were kept," says the policeman.

"Yes; quite well," says Mary.

Then of a sudden it darted into her mind what all this meant.

"Has Kitty lost the watch?" says she.

"That's just it!" says the policeman.

"Did they send you to tell me?" says Mary.

"No; they don't know I'm come," says he.

Mary said "Ah!" to this, and a little smile came over her face. She looked up at him with that same smile—you see, we heard the story after, from him as well as her, so I've got both sides of the picture, so to speak—and she says, "You don't think I've had anything to do with that, I hope!"

"No," says he, "I don't. I'm sure you haven't."

"I didn't know of the watch being lost till this moment," says Mary.

"No," says he, "I'm sure you didn't. It isn't you!"

And there was something in the way he stopped a moment, and then said the "you," as if to mark that though it wasn't her it was somebody. It brought up the thought of Walter with a blow. What did he mean? Mary's smile went, and she said—

"I don't understand."

"There's one or two things I don't understand neither," says the policeman. "And I've come to you to help me. Maybe you can explain 'em."

"I'll try," Mary said; and a fear crept over her mind. Was it Walter— Walter? She kept saying this to herself.

"Can you tell me where your brother was the afternoon of the day you came home?" says the policeman. He was very civil and kind all through. He couldn't have been more so, Mary said. There wasn't a rough word.

"No," Mary said; and her heart did sink, for she had suspected mischief of some sort all along.

"He wasn't here, eh?" says the policeman.

Mary never thought of such a thing as shuffling, or trying to put him off. She always was as open as the day. If I had but been the same! Mary would never say a word that wasn't true, to shelter anybody.

"No," she said, "he wasn't here! I thought he would be, and I was disappointed. He had gone off for the afternoon."

"Gone off where," says the policeman.

"I don't know where," says she.

"He didn't tell you."

"No," says she; "he only told me it was business."

"And he didn't let out he'd been to Claxton."

Mary gave a regular jump. Somehow she'd never guessed that.

"You hadn't heard it," says the policeman.

"No," says she, looking quiet still, for all she was upset. "What makes you think he went to Claxton?"

"I know he did. He was seen," says the policeman.

"What time?" Mary asked.

"Just before dark, in a lane near the line."

"Near the station?" says Mary; and he nodded.

"I can't think why he shouldn't have told me," says Mary, thinking out aloud.

"Something he wanted to hide, that's plain," says the policeman.

Mary went as white as a sheet.

"O no, not Walter! O no, not that!" she cried, and a big sob came from her heart. "He never would! He never could! How dare you say such a thing of my Walter?"

The policeman wasn't vexed. "I didn't say it," he answered. "Maybe I didn't think it, either."

"But you said—" and Mary stopped.

"No," says he, "I didn't say that. If I thought anybody had gone and stolen the watch, my duty 'ud be plain. I shouldn't need to stand talking here."

Mary sat down and waited, not speaking a word; and he went on—

"I don't say it's that. But I've a notion there's something between Mr. Phrynne's daughter and your brother. I've a notion they both know where the watch and chain are."

"Kitty!" says Mary.

"That's it," says he, grave-like. "Easy to see she wasn't speaking truth to her father nor me; and folks say she was wonderful taken with him. Now if so be she gave him the watch, he didn't steal it, and yet maybe he's got it! More than that I don't say—only I've got to find out where the watch is; and the quieter it's done, the better pleased Mr. Phrynne'll be."

Well, that wasn't all that passed, but by this time Mary pretty well understood how things were.

The worst of the matter was that she couldn't help fearing the policeman was in the right. Putting two and two together, it seemed likely.

You see, she'd no manner of security about Walter. She might cry out in hot defence of him: "He never would! He never could!" but to say the same words in quiet certainty was another matter.

After a while it was settled that Mary should have a talk with her brother the same evening, and the policeman would call again later. It showed his trust in Mary, that he was willing to wait. She told him she knew she had more power over Walter than anybody else; and she thought she could bring him to confess. She promised for Walter that he should be there, when the policeman called.

"Well, I'll risk it," said he at last. "I'll risk it. Don't seem to me there's been downright dishonesty: though there's been a lot of deceiving. Anyhow, I've got to get to the bottom of the matter. And the quieter it's done the better; only mind you, Mr. Phrynne is bent on getting back the watch."

Then the policeman went away, and Mary knelt down just where she was, all alone, to pray to be made to say the right words. It must have been a sorrowful hour that she passed, waiting for her brother; only she had the comfort of praying.

Walter had his tea when he came back, and he seemed uncommon lively, as he'd been the past few days. Mary couldn't eat nor talk through the meal, but Walter did plenty of both.

"What's the matter?" says he at last. "You look dumpish."

Mary had not made up her mind when nor how to speak; but in a moment she resolved not to put it off.

"Walter!" says she, looking at him, "why didn't you tell me you had been to Claxton the day I came home?"

Walter went as red as fire.

"So Kitty's let that out, has she?" said he. "The little ass!"

Well, you can suppose I didn't like to be called an "ass," even by Walter. Mary told it out quietly, telling the story.

She did not at once say that he was mistaken.

"Why should Kitty keep your going there a secret?" said she.

"Why, of course—because—oh, only because—well, of course she needn't!" said he, floundering.

"Wouldn't it be natural she should speak after she'd seen you?" says Mary.

"Natural!" says he; and he muttered again, "The little ass!"

"Did you see Kitty alone, or all of them together?" Mary asked.

"Only Kitty!" says he sulkily. "It wasn't anybody else's concern."

"Then that was the business you went after," Mary said. "I don't see why you should make such a mystery of it," says she.

Walter wouldn't answer.

"However, you needn't blame Kitty, for it was not Kitty who told me," Mary went on.

"Not Kitty!" says he, staring.

"No," said she, "Kitty never said a word—more's the pity."

"Then what did you mean by telling me she did?" said he.

"I didn't tell you so, Walter. It was you accused Kitty, not I," says Mary. "I heard in another way. It has made me very unhappy," says she.

"Rubbish," says he. "I'm not bound to tell everything to everybody."

"No," said she. "But you are bound not to run after Kitty without her parents' consent—not to see her in secret—and not—"

Mary couldn't go on.

"Well! anything else?" says he gloomily. "I suppose you'll go and make a fine tale of all this to the Phrynnes."

"It's too much of a tale already," says she. "I've no need to make any more of it." And then she said, "Walter, how could you?"

"How could I what? See Kitty! Stuff and nonsense!" said he. "If I did have a word with her, what's the harm? 'All's fair in love and war!'" says he, and he tried to laugh.

"Wrong-doing is never fair," Mary told him. And she said, "If you loved Kitty, you could not wish to make her deceitful."

"Well, you needn't bother," said he.

"And that is not all," Mary went on. "How could you—"

"How could I what?" said he, very short. "Tell Kitty she had a pretty face?"

"How could you rob her of her watch?" Mary said.

He was taken by surprise, and Mary's words struck home at last. He turned as white as paste, and a frightened look came into his face. If she'd asked him whether he'd done it, he'd have said, "No;" but she didn't ask him that, and no doubt he felt sure she knew a deal more than she did know.

"Why—why—why—" says he, stammering, "I declare, Mary, that's a—a nice thing to accuse a chap of! 'Rob,' indeed! When she gave it me!" says he.

"Did Kitty make a present to you of her watch and chain?" Mary asked.

When Mary came to this part in her story, I could understand what Walter had meant by calling Mary stern. As she said the words, telling mother all about it, she did look stern.

"Well, not exactly a—present, perhaps," says he, stumbling over his words. "But she gave them over to me. I do assure you she did, Mary," says he, as if it was an excuse for himself.

"Gave them over to you—what for?" says Mary.

Walter wouldn't tell at first, and then he shuffled. I'd given them over to him to do what he liked with them—at least, it wasn't exactly a present, but a loan—at least, it was just to tide him over a difficulty, when he was hard-pressed—at least—

Mary got out of patience with him, I suppose, for she cut sharp into his talk. "At least, you wheedled poor little Kitty out of them!" says she.

Mother hadn't looked at me once for ever so long, and I don't think Mary had either. I stood leaning against the dresser still, feeling like one stupefied, yet able to take in every word that Mary said, so that I never could forget any of it again. I had stopped crying. I was listening too hard to leave any time or power for tears.

I heard a sort of catch in my own breath, when Mary got so far; and Mary must have heard it too, for she turned round towards me, and said—

"Kitty, did you give the watch and chain to Walter?"

I was startled by the sudden question, and I said, "O no!" —not stopping to think.

"Then you lent them to him! But what for?" said she.

"He—asked me!" I said.

"Come here, Kitty," said she, and I came close. Mary took my hand in a grave sort of way, not stern now.

"But if you lent him the watch and chain, you did not mean him to sell them?"

I was startled again into saying "O no!"

"No; so I supposed. He talked to you about loans, and raising money, and passing difficulties—did he not?"

It was so exactly what he had done, that I hung my head.

"Poor silly child!" Mary said.

I couldn't bear to have them both looking at me, and I dropped down on the floor, hiding my face in Mary's dress. Somehow her touch was a comfort, even while it made me more ashamed.

"Then he sold the watch," mother said, in a hard voice.

"Yes," Mary told us. He had sold the watch and chain—sold them, after all his promises to me! To be sure, he had spoken to the jeweller of "pressing difficulties," and of hoping to buy them back in the course of a few weeks; but anybody might know what that was worth.

Mary had had hard work to get at the truth of the matter. Walter had shuffled and doubled, and tried every means in his power to put her off with half-answers. But she had refused to be put off.

"What on earth made the girl tell of me?" Walter burst forth angrily at last.

Then Mary explained how things had oozed out; and when Walter heard of the policeman's call, he turned yellow-white again, and was like a terrified child.

"I can't see the man, Mary! I can't see the man!" says he, shaking with fright. "You'll see him, there's a dear! I'm going to bed," says he.

But Mary wouldn't let him off. She had given her word to the policeman, she said.

Walter gave in then, and made a clean breast of everything from first to last—all about how he'd got into difficulties, and how he'd used all the money he could lay hands on, and how he'd begged the watch and chain from me for just a few days, meaning to take them to a pawnbroker's, and how the temptation had come over him to sell them outright, and how of course he was very miserable, and never, never, would do anything of the sort again.

But the miserableness wasn't repentance! Walter minded being found out—not being in the wrong!

The policeman was so far satisfied with what he heard, that he left it in Mary's hands to get back the watch and chain from the jeweller's in the morning: which she was happily able to do, since he had not sold it. I did not hear till long after that Mary had to pay a good deal over what Walter had received for it. Thanks to his extravagance, the only way in which she could do this was by parting with the two or three trinkets of value which had come to her from her mother.

"Kitty, it has been a foolish business—worse than foolish," Mary said, when her story was ended.

And that was true enough. It did look very foolish, very wrong. I felt as miserable as Walter could have felt: partly knowing how I'd been in the wrong: partly a sort of disappointment in him. I did think, after I'd done and borne so much, he needn't have been so ready to say hard words of me. I'm almost afraid that was the uppermost thought with me, as I sat on the floor, hiding my face in Mary's dress; and yet there was real sorrow below.

"You'll stay here to-night," mother said to Mary. She spoke still in a hard sort of voice, as if she couldn't trust herself.

"O no—only to dinner. I must go home early," Mary said.

Mother didn't press for more. She seemed too down-hearted to care.

"Kitty, you'd best be about your work. You've sat there long enough," says she.

It was the first time in all my life mother had ever spoken to me in that tone—almost as if I was a stranger. Mother wasn't given to showing anger in her manner, as I've said earlier. But then she'd never before found me out in a course of deceit, and she was bitterly disappointed in her Kitty. She and father too—ah, poor father! If I had but been able to look forward, and to see what was coming!

When mother spoke, I got up, and stood still in a dazed way. Mary said, almost whispering—

"Haven't you a word to say to your mother, Kitty?"

But mother broke in, sharp and short—

"No, Mary, I won't have Kitty prompted," said she. "If Kitty don't know what she ought to do, she needn't do it! Saying at somebody's bidding don't mean much. And I don't know either as Kitty's words 'll be worth anything to me ever again," says she. "I did think I could trust her; and I can't."

"Kitty will win her way back to your trust," says Mary.

"Maybe," mother said. "It'll take a lot of winning, though. I wasn't easy persuaded that she could deceive me—not even when the policeman said so, for I thought it was a mistake. And I shan't be easy persuaded to trust her again."

"But you love her still," pleaded Mary. "A mother always loves her child. You'll help her to get back into the right path." And then Mary turned to me again, and said, "Kitty!" —pleading-like.

I knew she meant I ought to beg mother's pardon; and it's hard to tell now why I didn't. Mother's manner kept me off, partly, and I felt stupefied, and the real pain at my heart was about Walter, not so much yet about mother and father.

"You can go and finish the bedrooms," mother said to me. "And take that watch away; I don't want to see it again," says she.

But I wouldn't touch the watch; and Mary took it up.

"No," said she; "I think you had better keep the watch for a time, Mrs. Phrynne, until Kitty has proved herself trustworthy."

Mother let Mary put it into her hands; and then I ran off.

Some days do seem long compared to others; and that was one of the longest I've ever known. The minutes crawled so, I didn't know how to get through them.

I made the work upstairs last as long as I could, and then I sat mending, not speaking a word to anybody. It is strange now to remember how silent I was; and I do remember it, and how when Mary spoke to me I hardly answered; yet at the time I didn't feel silent. My thoughts were so busy, going round and round in a whirl.

Walter—Walter—Walter—just filled my mind. I felt as if a great wall had grown up between him and me; and I longed to get beyond the wall. I couldn't respect him for the way he had gone on, and I was angry with the way he had spoken of me, and yet I couldn't bear to think that most likely he thought I had broken my promise and had betrayed him. Somehow that weighed upon me more than anything. I did long to make it all clear to him, even if he and I were never to meet again after; and the thought of never meeting made my heart come into my throat, as it were.

One moment I was vexed with him, and felt how meanly and unworthily he had acted. Then the very next moment I'd see his face, as he had looked when he called me "his little Kitty," and I seemed ready to cry out with longing to have him near me again—even while in my conscience I couldn't but condemn his deceit and cowardice. Not that I let myself use any such words about him at that time. I only felt: I didn't say.

A little while before dinner, father came in. I had gone upstairs again, for I was so restless I couldn't keep still; and I saw him from my window. I knew he and Mary would have a talk together about me; and I didn't go down, but left mother to get the dinner. Mother never called me, as she'd have done usually. And when I went down, father scarce looked at me. That did pierce deep, for I was used to such tenderness. It was as much as I could do to bear the change in him.

I don't know much of what was said by anybody at dinner. I only know how sad and down-hearted father seemed, and how Mary looked as if she did feel for him so.

But he never said a word to me all dinner-time. For I hadn't so much as told him nor mother yet that I was sorry for all I'd done.

Father went off again the moment he had finished; and mother was called out to speak to somebody in the kitchen. That left Mary and me alone.

I thought in a moment that she would begin by finding fault with her brother, and that I would not agree.

But her first words were not what I expected; they took me altogether by surprise.

"Kitty," says she, "what am I to say to Walter from you?"