Chapter XIII: Connie’s Secret

Kenneth was gone longer than usual that day, and was rather tired and somewhat out of sorts when he drove into the yard. He had met his father at the post-office, where there was a letter from Harry, who was still in Paris, issuing his orders for his villa, as he called it, sometimes by letter and sometimes by cablegram, irrespective of the cost. Since the failure of his father-in-law he had retrenched a little and countermanded an order for a rug valued at a thousand dollars, and thought himself very economical. Still the rug haunted him. He wanted it, and wanted an expensive set of Dresden china and a malachite mantel and tables for his green room, and the desire grew so intense that he at last wrote to a Mr. Jones, a hard-fisted man in Millville, who loaned money on good security and large interest, and demanded payment the day it was due. Three thousand dollars was the sum Hal asked for, and which he was sure Mr. Jones would loan him. His uncle, he knew, would sign the note with him, and with such security Mr. Jones would feel safe. Accompanying this letter to Mr. Jones was one to Deacon Stannard, asking for his indorsement, and saying it was only for six months, when all of Harry’s indebtedness would be paid.

“In any event,” he wrote, “you know I would not let any harm come to you and dear Aunt Mary,—the only mother I ever knew.”

Kenneth did not like the letter. Harry was spending too much money on his villa, unless he knew just where to get it. Three thousand dollars was a large sum for the deacon to be responsible for, and Phil Jones was not the man to wait a day. Like Shylock, he would have the pound of flesh if it took the deacon’s house and farm. It was this letter of Hal’s and the fear that his father might sign the note which Hal had sent, which was affecting Kenneth’s spirits as he came home from his long drive. Just for the moment Connie was forgotten. But his spirits brightened when he heard that she was sitting up waiting for him, and he hurried to her. It was a very thin, but a very lovely face which smiled at him as he entered the room into which the warm April sunshine was streaming, and in a square of which Connie sat, with the sunlight on her hair and hands which she held out to him.

“Just to shake,” she said. “No more counting pulse or taking temperature. I am getting well. I am sure of it. Did that woman help? And is she helping now, do you think?”

Kenneth’s countenance fell as he took the two small hands. He did not like to think about the woman. She had not been in the house since the day she sat by Connie, and said to him at leaving, “She will live.” He had heard, however, of such things as absent treatments, but had no faith in them.

“God cured you,” he said, “and made Dr. Catherin and myself the instruments. Perhaps the woman, too. Sincere prayer is never lost, and I know she was sincere. She is still at her friend’s. Do you wish to see her?”

Something in his manner made Connie think he did not care to have her call again, and she answered: “Oh, no; I am getting well so fast, and although I know I have been so much trouble, I am glad I am here. I should have died in Genoa.”

This reference to Italy reminded Kenneth of a letter he had found in the office for Connie, postmarked Florence. Disclaiming all sense of trouble, and speaking as if it had been a pleasure to watch by her day and night, he held the letter up and said: “A part of the time when you were so ill you were constantly asking for letters. Here is one. What will you give for it?”

In an instant Connie’s white face was crimson, and there leaped into her eyes a look of fear, rather than of pleasure, as she said faintly: “Give it to me, please.”

He gave it to her, and at a glance at the superscription the blood receded from her face, leaving it pale as before.

“It’s from Auntie,” she said, breaking the seal and reading that the count and countess were in Florence, and had been and still were exceedingly anxious about Connie, whose illness had been reported to them by Kenneth.

“As soon as you are able we shall expect you to return to us,” her aunt wrote, and further on she added: “I have heard of your whilom lover at Monte Carlo playing heavily, and there was a lady with him. I told you he was a cheat, and you are well rid of him.”

At this point the hot blood surged again into Connie’s face, then left it paler than before, as she closed her eyes wearily.

“You are tired. You have sat up too long,” Kenneth said, while Connie opened her eyes and looked at him pitifully, as she replied:

“My aunt writes me to come back, but I can’t. I’d rather stay here. Shall I be in the way?”

Kenneth would like to have taken her in his arms and told her that was her resting place forever, but something in her eyes and manner since she became conscious had seemed a barrier he could not understand, and now he only replied: “No, Connie; never in the way. This is your home as long as you choose to make it so.”

Evidently her letter had not done her much good, and Kenneth saw her tear it in bits, which she threw into the fire. She was not tired, and when Kenneth suggested that she lie down, she said: “I’m not going to be tired any more. That’s Mrs. Foster’s creed, isn’t it? And I am going to try it, and pray all the time till I feel that I am well.”

Her improvement was very rapid, and by the second week in May she was able to walk as far as the ledge where the Christmas tree had been. To Kenneth the place was sacred because of the little girl in the blue hood and cloak, who had come at his call and smeared her rosy cheeks with sugar and grape juice, as she answered to her name, with Chance at her side. His grave was in a corner of the inclosure, and Kenneth pointed it out to Connie, whose eyes filled with tears as she stooped over it and said: “The dear old dog; he was a part of that happy week, the happiest I have ever known. I mean the happiness which left no sting, no ache, no wish that it had never been.”

She was sitting now in a rustic chair Kenneth had substituted for the wooden one, and he was standing in front of her. How lovely she was in her convalescence, the delicate color coming back to her cheeks and the old-time brightness to her eyes, in which there was always a far-away look of sadness which Kenneth could not define, and which it seemed to him deepened whenever she met his gaze fixed upon her, as it was now with a meaning she could not mistake. There was a quivering of her eyelids; then the tears gathered in her long lashes as she looked steadily at him, as if bidding him speak and be done with it. He did not need any bidding. He had intended to speak when he brought her there, and when to his question, “Why are you crying?” she answered, “I was thinking of things, and wishing I were a child again,” he burst out, “I am glad you are not a child, but a woman,—the loveliest I have ever seen, and the dearest.”

Then, rapidly and passionately, he told his love, which began years before, when she said her prayers at his side and played with the cats and Chance and worried the hens and fed old Sorrel, and he drew her on the sled and set up the Christmas tree for her. Nothing was omitted, and as she saw it all again her tears came hot and fast until, by the time he asked her to be his wife, they were falling like rain, and her hands were stretched toward him as for help. He took it as a good omen, and going to her, wound his arms around her, while for one brief moment she let her head rest on his bosom like a tired child. Then, with a great sob, like a cry of pain, she released herself from him and said: “Oh, Kenneth, if I only could, but I can’t. There is something in the way. But just this once I may say I am happier for your love, and sometime, perhaps,—God only knows, and I have borne so much, and there is such an ache in my heart, such humiliation and shame, that the knowing a good, honest man like you loves me is a comfort, even though it cannot be, and I must _not_ tell you why. Something happened in Switzerland a year last summer which will keep me from being your wife. I was some to blame, though not as much as the other party, for, shut up in a convent school as I had been for years, I knew little of the world, while he——”

“It was a _he_,” Kenneth said a little sharply, and Connie replied: “Yes, but I cannot tell you any more now, except that I was foolish,—not wicked; never that. Oh, Kenneth, you must believe me a good girl, even if I do not tell you all, and you must stand by me and let me stay here. I should go insane anywhere else. Strange that the knowing you love me helps me so much. Don’t let your father and mother know.”

She stretched her hand to him again, and he took it and held it between both his own. It was terrible to lose her, but would be more terrible for her to go away where he could not see her, and while his chin quivered with the emotion he tried to suppress, he asked, “Do you love that man?”

“_No!_” and a hot gleam of passion leaped into Connie’s eyes. “I thought I did, but that is past, and if he stood here now as you stand suing for my love, I’d spurn him as I would a snake. I have thought he might be dead. I shall find out in time, and when I do I will tell you all. Now I cannot. Don’t refer to it again. Let me be just Connie, a weak girl, trusting you as a brother, happier to be here than anywhere else.”

She had talked rather incoherently, but Kenneth understood that for the present at least he could only love her with no hope of a consummation by marriage. There was a bar between them, but she was as pure as the wintry snow. He was sure of that, and said to her at last: “I’ll wait, and hope and pray that the obstacle may be removed.”

“I knew you would, and you have made me as happy as I ever can be until it is removed,” she said, lifting her face in such a confiding way that a hundred obstacles could not have prevented him from stooping down and kissing it, feeling, as he did so, that it was a kiss of betrothal which would last during all time.

They were very silent on their way back to the house, where, fortunately for Kenneth, he found several calls for his professional services. It was well for him to be busy, as it kept his mind from dwelling on Connie and the mystery he must not try to fathom. It was some comfort to know she was in his home, a sunbeam in his parents’ life and all the world to him, with her sunny face and smile and words of welcome when he came in from his round of calls.

“Sometime I shall know,” he thought, and the time was nearer than he supposed.