Chapter VII: The Search

MOTHER was as good as her word. She didn't leave a corner of the house unsearched. There wasn't a cupboard, nor a drawer, nor a box that she didn't empty. But of course it was no good.

I was poorly enough all the evening to have a good excuse for not helping her. Not being strong, any sort of worry was apt to put me into an ailing state. Nobody wondered that I was worried at the watch being gone: though mother did tell me I needn't cry so every time it was spoken about, or a question was asked me. I couldn't help the crying, for I felt downright miserable; and, besides, it was a sort of protection. If I hadn't cried, I should have had to answer a lot more questions; and so, as was natural, the tears came.

As for helping mother in her search, I couldn't, and that's the long and short of it. I hadn't the face to go about turning out drawers, and pulling everything upside down, when all the while I knew where the watch was. At least, if I didn't exactly know where the watch was just then, I knew in what direction it had gone, and how one might hear of it.

Another thought had come to me, which somehow I hadn't got hold of before. I didn't see how in the world I was ever to get out of the muddle I was in.

Supposing Mr. Russell brought back the watch in a week or two, as he had promised—and as I tried to feel sure he would—what was I to say to father and mother?

Was I to pretend I had stumbled upon it somewhere by accident, and make up a story of where it had been hidden? But that would be a carrying on of miserable deceit, a course of evil through and through. Was I just to bring it out, and obstinately refuse to answer any questions? But that would puzzle everybody, and be a great distress to father and mother. Then what was I to do? I couldn't see my way at all.

When mother had come to the end of her hunting, she walked into the parlour—we had the use of our little parlour again, which was the only good thing to do with Mary's going—and she says, "It's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of."

"It's a case of thieving, I'm afraid," father said. He looked bothered, for he had valued the Earl's gift not a little, and no wonder.

"I shall have to put it in the hands of the police," said he; "and the sooner the better." So he got up. "I'll wire to-night for one to come in the morning," said he; for we hadn't a policeman actually living in Claxton, though there was one who went to and fro through the place as part of his beat.

That terrified me. I had a notion that the police could always ferret out anything; and the thought of the questions which a policeman would ask me, and which I should have to answer, was too dreadful. I started up out of my chair and cried—

"O father, don't!"

"Don't—what?" says he.

"Don't go to the police," I begged. "Please, please don't, father!"

Father almost laughed, for all he was so worried.

"Why, you little goose of a kittenkins," said he; and then he patted me on the cheek. "Don't you want to get the watch back? For if you don't, I do."

But I could only say, "Please, please don't."

"Why not?" said he.

And I hung my head, and muttered, "He'll ask such a lot of questions."

"He'll be bound to do that," father said. "The more he asks, the better, so as he finds the watch. Why, Kitty, what's come over you to-day?"

"I shan't be able to answer him—I know I shan't," I said. "I shall be so—so—"

"So what?" says father.

"So frightened," I said. "O father, don't—please don't send for a policeman."

"One would think the child had made away with the watch herself," father said; and all this time mother stood watching us in her silent way, "I declare I wouldn't have believed you hadn't more sense, Kitty. Frightened at a policeman! I never heard of such a thing."

Then he patted my cheek again, and gave it a kiss.

"Come, come, Kitty, you've cried enough for one day," says he. "We won't have any more nonsense. It's a trouble losing the watch, no doubt about that; but we don't blame our Kitty. Somebody's managed to steal in, and to walk off with it, and we've got to find that somebody. I shall send for a policeman, of course: why shouldn't I? The thief isn't going to get off so easy, I can tell him! It wouldn't be right for me not to act; and what's more, it wouldn't be right for the sake of other people. And as for the policeman's questions, you just take your time, and answer him slow, and don't get into a flurry. Take care you tell him the very exact truth, and not a word more nor less. That's all you've got to do, and then you'll have no call to be frightened."

But to tell "the very exact truth, and not a word more nor less," was the trouble; for there was my promise to Mr. Russell; and more than the promise, there was my wish to shield him from blame. More than the promise, I say; for if it came to a question of breaking that, promise, or telling a lot of other lies, I'm sure I should have done best in breaking that promise. One crooked step had landed me where a straight step was hardly possible, and the quickest way out of the coil was the wisest. But I couldn't bear to think of bringing blame to him.

It's hard to say, in such a coil, what one ought or ought not to do. Only, there's no doubt I had given a promise which I had no right to give; and my father and mother had a right to hear the whole. All the same, it's a terrible thing to break through one's pledged word. I've learnt from those days how slow folks ought to be to pledge their word, and how wrong hasty promises are. "Least said, soonest mended," you know.

Father went away, leaving me in tears, and mother came to the table. She didn't speak at first. She had such a fashion of weighing her words. I remember how she smoothed the tablecloth, and put straight one or two books on it that had gut awry. Then all of a sudden she said—

"Kitty, are you hiding anything from us about the watch?"

Mother's eyes had seen deeper than father's. Such an idea hadn't come to him. The words seemed to take my breath, for I didn't know what to say. I remembered again that I had to shelter Mr. Russell, and I saw that if I went on crying like this, I should not be able. People would begin to suspect.

She didn't put the question again, but waited, standing quiet, and I dried my eyes and tried to be more cheerful.

"If only father wouldn't have a policeman!" I said. "It does seem so horrid—a policeman hunting all over our rooms. And I don't believe it'll do any good."

"You nor I can't judge of that," mother said.

"If father was to speak to people, and advertise," I said—feeling that I must talk, or mother would ask again the question I hadn't answered.

"Advertise for the thief to bring back stolen goods!" Mother gave a little laugh. "Kitty, have you taken leave of your senses?" says she.

"I do hate the thought of a policeman coming," I said.

"Maybe it's not what we would have chosen," said she. "But if I'm willing, you needn't worry. Don't you think father knows best how to manage?"

We didn't go on talking, and mother let alone the question she had put; but I knew she hadn't forgotten it.

At family prayers that evening father read the chapter in Acts about Ananias and Sapphira: not by choice, for it came in regular order. I couldn't help shivering as I listened; and when we got up from prayers, father said—

"That's a fearful chapter, isn't it? I always think so, every time I read it. Shows so plain what God thinks of untruth. And it wasn't even as if Ananias had told a downright outspoken lie. It was just shuffling and deceiving."

I thought over those words of father's, lying in bed, and pictured the awful end of husband and wife, struck dead in the very act and word of falsehood. I couldn't bear to remember the untruths I had already been led into, and I made up my mind that I would not say another word that wasn't true. I would only refuse to answer, and take the consequences.

But it is no easy matter, if one steps down into evil, to keep one's self from going farther than just a certain point.

The policeman came next morning: a tall man, with a grave face, almost as sparing of his words as mother. He listened to the whole story from father, and then he went upstairs to see my room, paying particular attention to the way of getting there. He looked into the drawer where I had always kept the watch, and made mother turn everything out that was in it; and then he examined the other drawers, as if to make sure that I hadn't slipped it in elsewhere by mistake. He put a question now and then to mother by the way, and I waited in a fright, knowing my turn must come soon, as indeed it did.

"Quite sure you always kept the watch and chain in this drawer?" says he at last, looking at me.

"Yes," I said, under my breath.

"Speak out, Kitty. Don't be afraid," says father.

"And the drawer wasn't locked?" says the policeman.

"No."

"Never?"

"No," I said.

"Anybody except yourselves know where the watch was kept?"

"No."

"Yes," mother put in; "Mary Russell knew."

Mother gave a little laugh. "But she is one of ourselves."

The policeman wanted to know all about Mary— who she was, where she lived, how long she had been with us, when she had left. Mother answered these questions; and the name of Walter came in too. I wouldn't say a word.

"Then the watch was missed two days after she left?" says the policeman.

Mother smiled.

"Oh, you needn't think anything of that," says she. "I'd as soon suspect myself as Mary Russell—if not sooner. We know her well."

The policeman didn't look quite so certain, but he only asked—

"What about the young fellow, her brother?"

"A schoolmaster: clever young fellow, and most respectable every way," father declared.

"Didn't know where the watch was, of course?" says the policeman.

Mother said "No," and so did I; but I could see the policeman's mind to be hankering after Mr. Russell.

"When was he here last?" says he.

I wanted mother to answer, but neither she nor father spoke, and I had to say—

"He went away a whole month before his sister."

"Never been to the place since?"

"Not to my knowledge," said mother; but the policeman kept looking at me, and I couldn't help my colour getting up.

"Never been since?" said he.

"He meant to come and fetch his sister—but he—didn't!" I said, almost whispering. In a sort of way that was true, for sure enough he hadn't been to fetch Mary. But, on the other hand, it was not true, for I was trying to make the policeman think that he had not been at all, when he had been.

The policeman made an odd sort of a click with his tongue.

"When did you see your watch last?" says he.

"Not long—" I said.

"How long ago?"

"Just a few days."

"How many days?" says he, as determined as he could be.

"The day Mary Russell went," I said.

"That's three days ago," says father. "Why, Kitty, you didn't tell us that," says he. "I thought it was ever so much longer."

"Did you see the watch last before that young woman left, or after she was gone?" says the policeman.

"After," I said; and I heard mother give a sort of sigh of relief.

"Sure?"

"Yes," I said.

"What hour did the young woman leave?" says he. "Two-fifty-five train," mother said. "We saw her off ourselves."

"And you saw the watch—when?" says the policeman to me.

"A good deal later," I told him. "After I came in from a walk."

"What hour?" says he again.

"I don't know—exactly," I said, though I could have told pretty near. I was frightened at all this questioning.

"When you went to take off your hat?" says mother.

I said "Yes."

"Then it couldn't have been before six," says she. "I know it wasn't long after you were in before it got dark, for you didn't sit many minutes over your work, before you took a turn in the garden, and it was dark then."

"Took a turn in the garden after dark!" says the policeman, and he had his eyes on me.

"She was upset about Mary Russell going, and wanted a breath of air," mother said. "I spoke about Mary, and she couldn't stand it."

"Had a walk just before," says the policeman.

"Yes. She wasn't five minutes in the garden," says mother.

"And when you saw the watch," says the policeman to me, "was between the walk and the five minutes in the garden, eh? When you went upstairs to take off your hat, eh?"

I said "Yes."

"You didn't take the watch into the garden with you?"

Here was the point where the real pull came. If I said "Yes," how could I shield Walter? The temptation was too much for me, and no wonder, for I'd put myself in the way of it, and couldn't look to be kept from evil.

"No," I said, under my breath.

But I had waited a moment, and the colour came red and hot to my face. The policeman looked hard at me.

"You saw the watch just before you went into the garden," says he. "How did you happen to see it? Did you open the drawer?"

"Yes," I said.

"On purpose to look at the watch?"

"Yes."

"And you took it out, and handled it?"

"Yes."

"And put it back in the drawer—watch and chain too?"

I couldn't answer him straight off; but after a moment's stop, I said "Yes" again. Another lie!

"Sure you didn't put on the watch and chain to wear?"

"No."

"Nor have them anywhere about you?"

"No," I said.

See how one falsehood dragged other falsehoods in its train, and how every untruth I spoke made it harder for me to go back! It's a horrible slippery road I was on. And it was Walter Russell, the man I loved, who had led me there!

"Then you can say positively that you left the watch and chain safe in your drawer that evening, three days ago, somewhere between six and seven o'clock?" says he.

And once more I said "Yes," though the word seemed to tear me in half, and my colour was gone, and a shivering came over me.

"You didn't look again in the drawer, nor miss the watch, till yesterday?"

I burst out sobbing, for I didn't know how to bear it, and said "No."

The policeman didn't ask any more; he turned and went downstairs with father and mother. I stayed behind at first, but after a moment I thought I would go too, and I went to the top of the stairs, and there waited again, not certain what to do. The parlour door was wide open, and I could hear father saying—

"Well, what do you think of it?"

The policeman's answer was a deal lower, yet it came to me quite distinct—

"Mr. Phrynne, that girl of yours is not speaking the truth!"

"Eh! What! Kitty!" father exclaimed. "Why, our Kitty has always been as open as the day—hasn't she, mother?" says he.

But mother made no answer.

"True as steel," says father. "Poor little Kitty!"

I couldn't go down after that; and at the moment I couldn't make up my mind to go back into my room, though I knew it was mean and wrong to listen. But I didn't gain anything by it, for the parlour door was shut before any more was said.

So then I just sat down on the top stair, and leant my head against the banisters, and felt as if I didn't want ever to move or do anything again, I was so miserable.

I suppose being unhappy makes most people poorly. It always did me. When mother came upstairs a good while later, and found me there, I was so queer and sick, I could hardly stand.

She made me lie down on my bed, and brought me a cup of tea, and was so good, it went through me like an arrow to think how I was deceiving her and father. Mother wasn't used to turn stiff and cold in manner if she wasn't pleased, like some people; and she was never in a hurry to speak out; she could always bide her time. At all events, she didn't say a word to me that day which sounded like distrust. Of course she could not guess that I had overheard what the policeman had said.

I wasn't able to go down to dinner, and I lay on my bed all the afternoon, most of the time crying softly. Father was very busy—only just in to dinner, and out again.

A little before tea-time, mother came and said I had better go downstairs. I would rather have stayed where I was, for I felt afraid of everything and everybody; but it was no good to struggle against what mother thought best. So I got up, and found my way into the parlour, and managed it better than I had expected.

Tea was ready, and father sitting at the table. He didn't say much, except just to ask how I was; and there was a look in his face—which I couldn't remember seeing there before—a sort of pained disappointed look. Once or twice he sighed, and I saw mother glance across at him. He would talk a deal at tea-time commonly, and it was our brightest meal, mother seeming to like to listen, though she mightn't say much. But we had no talk that day, and if anybody said a word to me, I was ready to burst out crying.

After tea was done, mother took away the things to wash in the kitchen. She wouldn't let me help, but said I was to keep quiet, and presently she shut the door, leaving me alone with father.

He had got a book, and was reading while mother cleared the table. When she had done, and we two were alone together, he put down the book, and turned to look at me across the corner of the table.

"Better, Kitty?" said he.

"I don't know, father," I said.

"There don't seem to be enough in the loss of a watch to make you sick and unhappy," says he. "It's a misfortune, and I'm sorry for it. That's all. Not worth breaking your heart about."

"No, father," I said in a whisper. If only that had been all!

"Kitty," says father suddenly, "I think you had best see Mr. Armstrong."

"See Mr. Armstrong, father!"

"Yes," said he. "I think maybe you'd tell Mr. Armstrong what you won't tell mother nor me."

I didn't suppose father meant more than just what I had heard the policeman say, and I answered—

"O no!—please!"

"There's something you've got to tell somebody, eh?"

"No, father," I said, all in a shake.

"Nothing at all?" says he. "Are you sure, Kitty—quite sure?"

Father reached across the table to pat my hand, and he spoke in his kindest tone, sorrowful, but not angry.

"No, father," I said.

"Nothing you're hiding from us, Kitty?"

I suppose it was easier to cry than to speak, and so T burst out sobbing again. But father didn't pay so much heed to the tears as he commonly did, for he was intent on what he had to say.

"Kitty, are you hiding something from mother and me?" says he. "Don't cry, but look me in the face, and tell me! Kitty—" and his voice wasn't steady— "Kitty, if you'll just look me in the face, and speak out, and tell me you're hiding nothing, I'll believe you. I'd believe your word if things was ever so against you. Only look me straight in the face, and speak out firm and strong."

But I couldn't do that. For all the lies I had told, I couldn't look him in the face and tell another. I just sat and sobbed.

"Then there is something," says he to himself.

"I wish the watch had never been given me at all," says I.

"So do I too, if it's changed our Kitty like this," says father.

And then he made one more try. He pulled his chair nearer, and looked at me anxious-like, as I could see.

"I'm very much afraid there's something wrong," says he again. "I'm very much afraid you've not been altogether open and above-board. It don't matter why I think so, for I do. But it's not too late yet. If you'll speak out now, and tell the plain truth, mother and I will forgive what's wrong. We'll forgive, and we won't talk of it again. Won't you, Kitty? For your mother's sake and mine—and most of all for the sake of doing what's right, and pleasing to God. . . . You won't be happy going on so. . . . Kitty, haven't you a word to say to me? . . . Not one word!"

I sat still, staring down on the table-cloth, with a big lump in my throat, but making no sign.

"Won't you, Kitty?" says he once more.

But I made no answer still, for I didn't know what to say, and my tongue seemed stiff, as if it wouldn't stir. So then he got up and walked out of the room, and I heard him say to mother in such a heavy sad tone—

"No use! She won't speak!"

Ah, if I had but spoken! If I had but told him I was puzzled, and didn't know how to act! If I had but replied to his loving words and looks!

The moment he was gone, I wished with all my heart I had done differently: yet I didn't run after him. I was so afraid of being betrayed into letting slip about Walter Russell.

I didn't see father again that evening, for mother made me go to bed early, and in the morning she wouldn't let me come down to breakfast. When I did come down, father was gone to his work. He would be busier than usual, we knew, for there were a lot of excursion trains running that day having to do with some races a few stations off.

Mother seemed just the same as always in her manner, only she was so silent and so grave—silent even for her. She hardly opened her lips at all, and I could see a sort of grieved look: not vexed—only grieved. And I knew it was about me. I longed to tell her I was sorry; yet I said nothing.

I hadn't been downstairs an hour, when something took us both by surprise. Mother was washing up the breakfast china, and I was drying the cups, when all of a sudden the kitchen door leading into the garden was pushed gently open, and Mary Russell walked in.

Mother just said "Mary!" and I let slip the cup I held, so that it fell and was broken.

"No need for that either!" mother said.

Mary stood still, looking at us with such sorrowful eyes, and her face was more worn and pale than when she went away. One could see she had had trouble or worry of some sort, since leaving us.

Mother picked up the three pieces of the cup, and put them on the table. Then she went forward, and gave Mary a kiss.

"My dear, you're always welcome," she said. "But why didn't you tell us you were coming?"

"I didn't know—till—" Mary said.

"Till when?" mother asked.

"Till late last night."

"And you look as if you hadn't slept all night, neither," says mother. "Sit down, and Kitty shall make you a cup of tea. You must have had breakfast early."

"I didn't have any breakfast," Mary said, with a sort of smile. "Nor any sleep, either."

"None at all!" says mother.

"I didn't go to bed. I had a lot to think about."

"If I was you, I'd have thought about it lying down," says mother. "That wasn't like your wisdom, Mary."

"Maybe not," Mary said, with a strange look. "But I've got to tell you—"

"You've got to tell me nothing till you've had some breakfast," says mother, making Mary take a seat. "There's boiling water all ready, and Kitty shall see to the tea sharp. Cut some bread and butter too, Kitty. No, I won't have you talk, Mary, till you've taken something. It isn't long to wait."

It mightn't be long to mother, but it was long to me. I wondered so, what could Mary be going to say? Was it about her brother? Had something happened to him? I didn't know how to bear the putting off, and I hurried all I could with the tea and bread and butter, so as I might hear the sooner.

Mary sat still, looking from mother to me. There was a pitying look in her eyes that I couldn't make out.

"Did you see my husband in the station, Mary?" mother asked, when I had brought the tea, and put it in front of Mary, and she had begun to sip.

Mary gave a sorrowful glance up in mother's face.

"Yes," she said; "I saw him at the further end of the platform. I didn't stop to speak to him, and he didn't see me. I thought I'd come here first."

Mother made no answer, and showed no haste to know why, and I felt half wild with impatience: yet I had just to go on drying the cups and saucers, for mother went back to her washing, and kept handing them to me. I couldn't think why mother didn't at least just ask if anything was wrong with Walter. But I didn't dare ask it myself.

"My husband has a lot to do to-day—all these excursion trains," mother said. "It's on account of the races."

"I came by an excursion train," says Mary.

"They don't all stop here, but some do," says mother. "He's got a deal to see to, and won't be in till dinner-time."

"No," Mary said, in a dreamy-like tone.

She was getting near the end of the last slice, and I watched her, as greedy as could be for her to have done, that I might hear what she had to say.

"Another slice, Mary?" says mother.

"O no, thank you. Not any more," says Mary.

"You're better for that, aren't you?" mother said.

"Yes—much, thank you."

"And you'll have a second cup of tea, my dear?"

"No; not any more. Nothing more at all," says Mary.

Mother had finished the washing up, and I was at the end of the drying. Mother carried away the wooden bowl, and emptied it, as quiet as if nothing at all out of the common was happening. She made me put away the china, and she rubbed the table dry; and all the time Mary sat watching, without a word, and I was in such a fret, I didn't know how to bear myself.

"Now," mother says at last, drawing down her sleeves to her wrist; "now you've had something: so you're fit to speak, and I'm free to listen."

Mary looked up into mother's face, and then at me—oh, so sadly! I couldn't think whatever in the world she meant.

"If you'd rather Kitty should go—" says mother.

"No; Kitty may stay," says Mary.

And then we could just hear the ticking of the clock, the room was so still.

Mother stood with her eyes on Mary's face.

"My dear, you've had a lot of worry since you went," she said.

"Yes," Mary answered.

"And you're going to tell us all about it now, my dear."

But Mary didn't speak. I could see her lips working, in a way they had—not as if she wanted to cry, but as if she was troubled, and didn't know how to put into words what she had to say.

"It's something to do with your brother," mother says—not as if she was asking a question, but as if she was sure.

"Yes; it's something to do with Walter," says Mary; and how my heart did beat!

Then all of a sudden Mary turned to me.

"Kitty's not looking well," she said.

"No," says mother.

"Nor happy."

"No—nor happy," mother answered.

"And you've all been worried too, Mrs. Phrynne."

"Yes; we've been worried," mother says quietly.

"About the lost watch!" says Mary.

That did take us aback, both of us. I know I jumped as if I was shot, and mother says quite sharp—

"Why, Mary! how ever did you hear about that?"

"A friend of yours came yesterday, asking questions," says she.

"A friend! Not the policeman?"

"He was in plain clothes, but he was a policeman."

Mother had actually got tears in her eyes.

"I didn't mean you to have that bother, my dear," said she. "I didn't think the man would, after all I said."

"The man only did his duty," says Mary. "He was quite right to come. Walter was out; but I had a long talk with him. That was the first I heard of the watch being lost."

"And you're come to tell us you're sorry," says mother.

"Not only to say I am sorry," Mary answered.

A sudden stab seemed to go all through me from head to foot. I never felt anything like it before. I didn't half know where I was, nor what I was doing. For Mary drew out of her pocket a little rolled-up parcel, and laid it on the table, undoing the string. And when she opened the brown paper, there lay my gold watch and chain.