said Mary. "It's a post latesomehow."
"It's sure to come this evening," said Evey, hopefully.
"Papa's going to walk in to the post-office to see; you know we don'tget afternoon letters unless we send for them. And there's sure to be aletter too; indeed, that's almost what we care most for."
"But what is the present?" I asked curiously. "Whom is it from? Andis it always the same thing? And why do you care so for a stupidletter?"
Yvonne hesitated. She and Mary looked at each other.
"I am sure you may tell Connie," said innocent Mary.
"Well," said Evey, "I can tell part any way. The present, that we callmy best present," she went on, "comes from my godmother, papa's aunt.It isn't always the same, but it's always something very nice anduseful. Last year it was two muffs and four pairs of gloves, for me todo what I liked with; so of course I gave one muff and two pairs ofgloves--we take the same size, you know--to Mary. And this year we werehalf hoping it _might_ be jackets."
"What stupid presents," I said. "I don't care a bit for _clothes_presents."
"But then you're different; things are quite different for you, Connie,"said Evey.
"I know," I replied, with self-satisfaction. "But if it was jackets,Evey, they couldn't come by post."
It was before the days of parcel-post.
"No, but the letter telling of them would be coming. And it _mightn't_be jackets."
"Why do you care so for the letter?" I asked.
"Oh, because it pleases papa and mamma so. Papa hasn't seen her forever so long, though she almost brought him up--but--there were things--I don't think I can tell you any more," she broke off, and of course Icould not ask any more questions after that. But I had a vaguely uneasyand anxious feeling, especially a little later in the evening, whenCaptain Whyte returned, dispirited and tired.
"It's beginning to rain," he said. "Evey dear, your birthday is notending as brightly as it began; however--"
"There was no letter?" said Mrs Whyte.
He shook his head.
"It may come to-morrow morning still," he replied. But I saw that theyall seemed disappointed.
Anna Gale and I went home as we had come, with the addition of Peters,our old gardener, as escort. It had left off raining again, and therewas some faint moonlight struggling through the clouds. Mamma had meantto send the brougham, but papa had been suddenly summoned to a distance,and as the evening was fine after all, she thought we might walk, by theroad of course. As we got to the end of the lane, the scene of thatafternoon came back to our minds. I did not want to think of it, butAnna would speak about it.
"I _wonder_," she said--fancy Anna "wondering" about anything--"I really_wonder_ who she was."
"Oh, rubbish," I said. "Who could she be but some old lunatic?"
"Well," said Anna, "if she were, it isn't very nice to think of."
I faced round upon her.
"Now, Anna, you're not to go talking about it, for I know it would soundas if I had been horrid to her, and perhaps I was; I don't pretend to bean angel. But I don't want any fuss--do you hear, Anna?"
"Yes," she said, "of course I hear you, Connie."
"Well, then, will you promise?"
"I'll promise not to speak about it if I can help it," she said; andwith that I had to be content.
I don't quite know why I was so anxious that no one should hear of ouradventure. I was not, after all, so _very_ ashamed of my behaviour tothe old woman; not as ashamed as I should have been. But I had anuncomfortable, uneasy feeling--I just wanted to forget all about it.
I did not see Yvonne and Mary for some days after that; the next morningwas showery, though it cleared up between times. But after that, therain set in, and we had a week or two of almost constant downpour, whichinterfered very much with our usual ways. They came to spend anafternoon with me at last. Mamma arranged that the carriage should bothfetch them and take them back, for the roads were really sopping, thoughthe rain overhead was less incessant. We were very glad to be togetheragain. Evey wore my little brooch; it reminded me of her birthday.
"Oh, by-the-by," I said to her, "did your jackets, or whatever it was,come the next day?"
A cloud came over their bright faces.
"No," said Evey, "nothing came--and no letter. We were verydisappointed."
"Perhaps something will come at Christmas instead," said Mary,hopefully.
"You greedy little thing," I said, thoughtlessly. "I wonder you care,especially if it was something to wear."
"You--you don't quite understand, Connie," said Mary, her eyes fillingwith tears; "there was no letter, and father and mother mind _that_."
"Letters are often lost in the post. Why don't you write to the oldlady,"--what was it that gave me a queer thrill as I said thewords?--"and ask if there is anything the matter?" I said, meaning in aclumsy way to suggest some comfort.
"We can't," said Yvonne, in a low voice.
But they explained no more, and I was not sorry. I did not want tospoil our afternoon by disagreeable subjects.
Christmas came. The day after, there was a large gathering at LadyHonor's, as there had been the year before. Captain and Mrs Whytewould not leave their own home on Christmas-day itself, as they did notlike to separate from any of the little ones; but Mr Bickersteth wasnot satisfied without a Christmas party, so it was arranged to have iton the 26th. A good many Whytes came; all, down to the three youngest,I think. Papa and mamma and I were of the party too. Mr and MissGale, Anna and her two brothers from school, and two or three peoplestaying with Lady Honor. It was a very nice party, and everything wasdone to make it so; but somehow it was not quite so merry as it shouldhave been. Mrs Whyte, who was generally the life of everything, lookedtired, and owned to a headache for once; Captain Whyte was very silent,and the boys and girls were rather subdued.
In the course of the evening, during some of the games, I happened to bestanding near Lady Honor and Captain Whyte, and I could not avoidhearing what they said.
"Did you know, Frank," asked Lady Honor, "that Hugo is expected backnext week?"
He started.
"No, indeed," he said. "I had no idea of it."
"I only heard it this morning," she went on, "in a letter from--" I didnot catch the name. "He is not well--coming on sick leave, straightto--your aunt's."
Captain Whyte looked grave. Still there was a touch of something notaltogether regret in his voice as he answered:
"I am very sorry, very--but, oh, I should be glad to see him again; and,selfishly speaking, just now--" he hesitated and glanced round. At thatmoment I was called for in the game, and I ran off and heard no more.
"I wonder who `Hugo' is," I thought, "and if his aunt is the Whytes'jacket-aunt too."
CHAPTER TEN.
THE LOOK ON PAPA'S FACE.
A week or two after, papa came in one day just as mamma and I werefinishing luncheon, looking rather grave.
"I am very sorry for the Yew Trees people," he said; "I've been therethis morning to see Addie. I'm afraid he's in for bronchitis, poorlittle chap, and troubles never come singly. Captain Whyte has heardthat a favourite cousin of his--a Major Hugo Whyte, who has just comehome from India--is very ill. He says he is like a brother to him, andhe's very cut up."
"Is he going to see his cousin?" mamma asked.
"N-no; there seem other difficulties, family complications. He wasgoing to tell me more, but we were interrupted. Lady Honor sent forCaptain Whyte in a hurry. I hope there's nothing wrong there. I don'tknow what's coming to everybody." Papa, usually so cheerful, lookedrather depressed. "The Whytes have some money bothers, too, I fear."
"Evey and Mary haven't got any new winter jackets," I said. "They'restill wearing their tweed ones, with knitted vests underneath. The oldlady can't have sent them any Christmas present."
Papa glanced at me in surprise.
"What old lady? You seem to know a great deal about our neighbours'affairs, Miss Connie."
"No," I said. "I don't know much. Only it's an old lady who's Evey'sgodmother, and she generally sends her birthday presents, and she didn'tthis year."
Papa looked grave.
"I wonder," he said, consideringly, "if that is what's wrong. Whyte hasan aunt, I know, who almost brought him up. I have heard Lady Honorspeak of her as very eccentric. Perhaps--but I mustn't gossip about
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