Betty dropped on to the window-seat and covered her face with her hands. "Don't look at me; I don't want to see you look mad with me. It was Aunt Pike's fault first of all. If she hadn't said nasty—oh, horrid things about you, I shouldn't have told her what I did, but—but she made me, Kitty; I couldn't help it, and—and I told her right out that Anna could have cleared you long ago, and that she and Lettice were mean and dishonourable to let you bear the blame for them all this time. And when she spoke after that, her voice sounded so—oh, so dreadful, as if she was talking in her sleep, or was far away, or drowning, and she looked—oh, her face frightened me, and then she said, 'Did—Anna— know?' all slow and gaspy like that, as if she hadn't any breath, and I said 'Yes'—I had to say 'yes' then, hadn't I? Of course I didn't know it would make her ill, but she fell right down, all of a heap, and oh, I nearly died of fright, and I ran and ran all the way to Wenmere Woods, and I meant never to come back again—never! And it was all Mrs. Henderson's fault that I did come—at least Mrs. Henderson's and Bumble's, and," drawing herself up with great dignity, "I am never going to speak to either of them again. When I had had my tea—she gave me cream and jam, but not any ham—and when I had played about for a little while, she told me she thought I had better be going home, as I was alone; and at last I had to tell her I was never going home any more, and I would be her little servant, if she would take me, only no one must ever see me, or I should be discovered, but she wasn't a bit nice as she generally is. She said, 'Oh, nonsense; little girls mustn't talk like that. I am going to Gorlay to chapel, and I will take you back with me.'
"Then I knew it wasn't any good to ask her to help me, and that I must sleep in the wood with all the wild beasts and things"—Betty's face and her story grew more and more melodramatic—"and as soon as she had gone to put on her bonnet, I ran into the woods for my life. I expect when she came down again and didn't see me she thought I had gone home. I don't think anybody went to look for me, and I think it was very unkind of them, for I might have been eaten up, for all they knew, by wild beasts—"
"Oh no," said Kitty, rousing for the first time from the shock and distress Betty's revelations had thrown her into. "There is nothing in the woods more savage than rabbits and squirrels."
Betty looked hurt. "Oh yes, there is," she protested, "or I shouldn't have gone up and kept close to the railway lines. I saw something, quite large, staring at me with great savage eyes, and if it wasn't a wolf, I am sure it was a badger or—or a wild-cat."
"Did it fly at you?"
"No, but it looked at me as if it wanted to, and I ran until I came to the railway; and after a long time, when it was nearly dark, I saw some red lights coming and heard a noise, and that was the 'Rover.' I—I didn't like the woods at night, so I went up and shouted and signalled to Dumble, and asked him if he knew anybody who wanted a servant, 'cause I'd left home for good, and wanted a 'place.' I didn't tell him who I was, and I thought he wouldn't know me. After he had thought for a minute or two, he said yes, he reckoned he could put me in a good 'place,' if I'd come along of him. So I got up in the carriage—I had it all to myself—and oh it was lovely going along in the dark and seeing the fire come out of the funnel! But," growing very serious and dignified again, "I consider Dumble the most dishonourable man I ever met, and I'll never speak to him again—never; and I'll have to leave Gorlay 'cause I can't never meet him again, for he ackshally took me up in his arms when the 'Rover' stopped at the wharf, and—well, I was rather sleepy and I didn't see where I was going, but of course I trusted him, and when I opened my eyes—why, I was home! Oh, I was so angry I didn't know what to do, and I'm never going to speak to Dumble again. I hope I never see him."
The corners of Kitty's mouth twitched, but she did not dare to laugh. "I expect he thought he was doing right," she said excusingly. "He couldn't have helped you to run away; he would have been sent to jail. And oh, Betty, I am so glad you did come home; there is trouble enough without losing you too. I was so frightened about you all the way down in the train—"
"Did you get my letter?"
"Yes; it was that that brought me. I didn't know anything about Aunt
Pike until I got to Gorlay Station."
Betty crept over from her window-seat and stood by Kitty as she sat on her little bed. "Kitty, do you hate me for telling that to Aunt Pike?"
"Hate you!" cried Kitty. "As though I ever could, dear. I am sorry she was told—but—but I know you couldn't help it, Bet. I couldn't have myself if it had been you, and she had said unkind things about you."
Then Betty flung her arms about Kitty's neck and began to sob heavily. "I do love you so, Kitty! I do. I really do. I think you are the splendidest girl in all the world, and—and I'll never do anything to make you sorry any more, if I can help it."
Kitty held her little sister very tightly to her, and with Betty's head resting on her breast, and her cheek laid on Betty's curly head, they talked, but talk too intimate to be repeated.
At last Kitty got up. "Where's Tony?" she asked. "I have to find each of you separately, and it seems as if I shall never see all, I want to stay so long with each. Betty, where is Tony? He is all right, isn't he?"
"Oh yes. He went to try and make Anna stop screaming, and I think he has done it. I haven't heard her for a long time."
Kitty made her way to Anna's room, and tapped gently at the door. At first there was no reply, then through the keyhole came a whisper. "Who is there? You must be very quiet, please. Anna is asleep." It was Tony's voice, but by the time Kitty had opened the door he was back on his chair by Anna's sofa, waving a fan gently, as he had been doing for so long that his poor little arms and back ached. His face was very flushed and weary-looking, but his eyes glanced up bright with satisfaction.
"She is gone to sleep, she'll be better now;" but at sight of Kitty the fan was dropped and Anna forgotten, and nurse Tony flew across the room and into his sister's arms.
"Oh, I'm so glad! oh, I'm so glad!" he said again and again and again. "There wasn't anybody but me and Dr. Yearsley, and I was frightened 'cause I didn't know what to do, and everything seemed wrong. I wish daddy was home; but it won't be so bad now you are here," and he snuggled into her arms with a big, big sigh of relief, and put his little hot hands up continually to pat her face and convince himself that she had not vanished again. And thus they sat, held in each other's arms and watching the sleeping Anna, until the handle was gently turned, and Betty appeared in the door-way. A very pale, weary Betty she looked now she was away from her own darkened room.
"Kitty, Dr. Yearsley is looking for you. I think Aunt Pike is awake and asking for you." Then, as Kitty hurried past her, "He says she is a little better, only ever so little; but it is good news, isn't it? She will get well, won't she, Kitty? Oh, do say 'yes,'" and Betty, who had never before bestowed any love or thought on her aunt, had as much as she could do to keep her tears back.
It was a very nervous, trembling Kitty who presently entered the large, dim bedroom where Aunt Pike, so helpless and dependent now, lay very still and white on her bed. Kitty almost shrank back as she first caught sight of her, half fearing the change she should see. But the only change in the face she had once so dreaded was the expression.
When Dr. Yearsley bent over her, and said cheerfully, "Here she is; here is Kitty," the white lids lifted slowly, and Aunt Pike's eyes looked at her as they had never looked before. Kitty went over very close to her, and kissed her.
"I am so sorry," she said sympathetically, "that you are ill, Aunt Pike, but so glad you are a little, just a little bit better."
Mrs. Pike did not answer her; she seemed to have something on her mind that she must speak of, and she could grasp nothing else. "I—I have been—very—unjust—to you," she gasped, speaking with the greatest difficulty. "You—should—have—told me."
"No, no," said Kitty eagerly, bending and kissing her again, "you haven't. You didn't know. I meant you never to know."
"Anna—knew. She—should—"
Kitty bent down, speaking eagerly. "Anna did more for me—for us all.
She saved Dan's life—in that fire."
The poor invalid looked up with a gleam of pleasure in her eyes.
"Did she? I am—very glad; but it—it did not excuse—the other.
That is—beyond forgiveness."
"Oh no!" cried Kitty warmly, "nothing is that. It is all forgiven long ago, and we will never think of it again."
Aunt Pike's hand was almost helpless, but Kitty felt it press hers ever so slightly, and stooping down she laid her fresh warm cheek against her aunt's cold one. "You must make haste and get well," she said affectionately, "and then we shall all be happy again."
"It-doesn't matter. No one cares," gasped the poor invalid, tears of weakness creeping out from between her lids.
"Oh, you mustn't say that," cried Kitty sturdily. "You must get well for all our sakes. Anna cares, and I care very much. We all care, more than we thought we did till we knew you were ill."
"Anna," whispered the invalid, "is she—all—right?"
"Yes, Tony has soothed her to sleep, and is sitting by her, and I am going to sit by you while you go to sleep. Dr. Yearsley says you mustn't talk any more now," and Kitty, seated in a chair by her aunt's bedside, held her helpless hand lovingly until she had fallen into the easiest sleep she had had yet. By-and-by the nurse came back, and Kitty was free to move.
"I think I must go and talk to Fanny now," she thought, and she made her way to the kitchen, thinking very soberly the while.
"Fanny," she said, "you and I have to steer this ship between us, and for the honour of the ship we must do it as well as ever we can. I—I am afraid I am not very much good, but I am going to try hard; and I think we shall be able to manage it between us, don't you?" wistfully. "Of course having strangers in the house makes it more difficult; but we will do our best, won't we?"
"That we will, Miss Kitty," said Fanny heartily, "and between us all we ought to be able to do things fitty."
The strangers, Dr. Yearsley and Mrs. Pike's nurse, made housekeeping a more serious matter certainly, and illness complicated things; but Aunt Pike's reign, though unpleasant in many ways, had made others easier for Kitty. The house was in good order, rules had been made and enforced. Fanny and Grace had learned much, and profited a good deal by the training, and, best of all, all worked together with a will to make things go smoothly.
There was hope and good news to cheer them too. Aunt Pike grew daily better; by very, very slow degrees, it is true, but still there were degrees. Good news came from their traveller too—news of restored health, good spirits, and, presently, a longing to be at home and at work again.
And then, so quickly did the busy days fly, they had only a very few left to count to the return of the two absent ones, for Dr. Trenire and Dan were to meet and travel home together. Then the last day came, and the last hour, and then—Kitty found herself once more with her father's arms about her.
"Why, father," she cried, standing back and studying carefully his cheerful, sunburnt face, and his look of health and strength, "you are more like the old father than you have been for ever so long."
Dr. Trenire burst into a roar of hearty laughter. "Well," he cried, "after my spending three months in trying to renew my youth, I do think you might have called me a 'young father.' Never mind, Kitty, I feel young, which is more than you do, I expect, dear, with all the cares you have had on your shoulders lately. I suppose you have left Miss Pidsley finally," with a smile, "and I have to pay her a term's fees for nothing?"
Kitty looked a little ashamed of herself as she smiled ruefully.
"Yes. I don't seem able to stay at any school more than one term, do I?
I think you had better give up trying, father, and keep me home
altogether now."
"I think I had," said her father seriously. "I think I can't try again to get on without you, dear—even," quizzically, "if there isn't always boiling water when Jabez gets his head knocked."
CHAPTER XXI.
THE LAST.
Aunt Pike grew slowly and gradually stronger, and in time was able to be dressed, and could sit up in her chair. But she knew, and the doctors knew, that she would never again be the same strong, active woman that she was before. The doctors had hopes that in time she would be able to walk again, and take up some of her old ways and duties; but she herself was not so hopeful, and with the prospect before her of a long spell of invalidism, she insisted on leaving Dr. Trenire's home for one of her own.
The doctor and all protested warmly, but Aunt Pike was determined. "Kitty can look after the house now better than she could," she said, "and I shall be glad of the rest and quiet. I shall not leave Gorlay. I want to be near you all, so that if Kitty wants any advice I shall be at hand to give it."
So, seeing that her heart was set upon it, and feeling that the quieter, less busy home would be better for her, Dr. Trenire gave in, and they all set to work to find a house to suit her. But here they found a task which taxed all their time and patience. It had to be a small house, sheltered yet sunny, of a moderate rent, but in a good position; it must have, as well as a sitting-room, a room on the ground floor that Mrs. Pike could turn into a bedroom, and it must have a garden with no steps—a rarity in hilly Gorlay.
There were not very many houses in Gorlay, and very few to let; certainly few with all, or even half, of the advantages Mrs. Pike demanded; and at last in despair the doctor had to prevail on an old friend and patient of his own to move from his house and give it up to the invalid, which, marvellous to tell, he did, and, even more marvellous, the house pleased Aunt Pike immensely. The garden was made to suit her by removing all the steps and replacing them with sloping, winding paths and various other cunning devices; and the doctor saw that everything that could add to her comfort was done for her. Then came the great excitement of furnishing the house and stocking the garden.
But before all this had happened, Anna had provided them with a great and glad surprise, though at the same time a painful one; for the only wish of all concerned was that the past should lie buried, and the stupid, regrettable incident that had caused so much sorrow should be forgotten.
They were all seated at tea one day—the children and Dr. Trenire around the table, and Aunt Pike in her big chair near the window—when suddenly the door was burst open, and Anna, whose absence had set them all wondering, walked in.
"I have done it!" she cried excitedly. "I have told them all—Lady Kitson and Miss Richards and Miss Matilda—and—and now," sobbing hysterically with nervous excitement, "I want to go away from Gorlay. I can't stay here. I want to get away from every one until—until they have forgotten. I'd like to go to Kitty's school. May I, mother?"
"Told all what?" asked Mrs. Pike eagerly, ignoring all of Anna's outcry but that.
"Told them all about that—that evening, and me and Lettice. I wanted to try to forget it, and I couldn't until I had told them all."
"O Anna, I wish you hadn't," cried Kitty, greatly distressed lest the mention of the old trouble should be too agitating for her aunt. But, to her surprise, Mrs. Pike looked up with such pleasure in her eyes as had not been seen in them for a very long time.
"Have you really, Anna?" she cried gladly. "Oh, I am so thankful, child. That will do me more good than anything," and she drew Anna down to her and kissed her very tenderly. "Yes, dear," with an understanding of Anna's feelings such as she had never shown before, "you shall go away to school for a time. You shall go to Miss Pidsley's next term, if you like. I am sure it is the best plan."
So Anna went away to school, and Aunt Pike moved into her new home in time to receive her on her return for the Christmas holidays. A nurse-companion was engaged to live with Mrs. Pike and take care of her; but never a day passed but what Kitty went to sit with her, to tell her the news or ask her advice. The others went frequently too—Tony regularly, and Dan daily when he was at home. Betty went sometimes, but not so gladly, for she never quite got over the fright of that dreadful day, and a terrible lurking dread that she might accidentally shock her aunt again, and once more hear that strange, far-away voice, and see her falling, falling. But Kitty never failed; and Kitty was, perhaps, the best beloved of them all by the aunt who had tried, and been so tried by, them.
"You see, Kitty was the only one who willingly kissed me and called me 'dear,'" the poor invalid confessed one day to the doctor as they sat together in the firelight talking over many things—"the only one since Michael died; and cold, reserved folk such as I remember these things."
"She has a warm heart has my Kitty," said the doctor softly, "and a generous one;" then, fearing as usual the effect of any emotion on the invalid, "She told me that if I came here I was to look about me and see if she had left her gloves about. She thinks she lost one on the way here, but may have dropped the other in the house, as she is almost certain she had one with her. It doesn't much matter, though; they were very full of holes, oddly enough," with a smile.
Aunt Pike's mouth twitched a little at the corners as she opened her work-basket and took out two rather shabby gloves. "One was under the table; some one picked up the other in the garden. They are not holey now; I have mended them. But I expect Kitty would never find it out if you did not tell her."
"A year or two ago she would not have," said her father, as he took the gloves and put them in his pocket, "but I think she would now."
"She has changed," said Aunt Pike gently. "We all have."
"Yes, she has changed—in some respects; in others I hope she never may."
"I think you need not fear that, John," said Aunt Pike sympathetically. Silence fell on them both for a few moments, then Mrs. Pike spoke again. "John, will you be sure to tell Kitty to come here to-morrow, and Dan and all of them in fact, to welcome Anna home for the Christmas holidays? I have a surprise in store for them too, but you mustn't breathe a word of it. Pamela is coming too, to spend part of her holidays with us. I thought she would do Anna good. Then perhaps you would like to have her with you for the rest of the time. We mustn't forget that she was Kitty's friend first. But don't you breathe a word of this to Kitty."
"Very well," said the doctor; then, with a pretended sigh, he added,
"I am thankful, though, that my Christmas puddings and things are
already made, for I foresee there will be nothing more done now.
You wicked woman, to plot so against my peace and comfort."
But Aunt Pike did not look repentant, she only chuckled. "Even housekeepers must have a holiday at Christmas," she said, "and I am sure yours deserves a good one."