Part 22 (1/2)
Kitty heard Dan go downstairs the next morning just as she was finis.h.i.+ng dressing, and her heart thumped painfully, for she knew he was going to confess. When confessions had to be made Dan always made them as quickly as possible so as to get them off his mind. Kitty hurriedly finished her dressing, and followed him with some vague idea in her mind of helping him.
But when they got down there was no one else about, and before they had seen any one to whom to confess, Mrs. Pike burst into the dining-room where they stood, miserably enough, waiting.
”Kitty, Dan, do either of you know where your father is? I want him to come to Anna. She is so unwell, and in some extraordinary way has burnt her hands dreadfully. Oh dear! oh dear! what troubles do come upon me.
I suppose it was foolish of me to leave her last night to put herself to bed when she was so tired. I might have known she would tumble over the lamp, or do something equally careless. It was kind of you, Kitty, to attend to her burns for her, poor child, but you should have come and called me.” There were tears in Aunt Pike's eyes as she turned to thank her niece. ”You--she--Anna need not have been afraid. I did not know I was so harsh with her that she was afraid to--” and poor Aunt Pike broke off, quite overcome. The shock of finding Anna feverish and ill, and with her hands bandaged, had upset her greatly.
Dan, sincerely touched and conscience-stricken, stepped forward.
”Aunt Pike,” he began, ”I--”
But Kitty with a look and a sign checked him. ”Wait,” she whispered.
”I think you had better wait, or you may make things worse for Anna.”
Dan looked distressed. ”I don't think I shall,” he answered testily, as Aunt Pike went out of the room. ”I hate mystery. Why can't we speak out and have it over? I am going to, Kitty.”
”I want you to, as much as you do,” she answered in a troubled voice, ”but we have to think of Anna. She did so much for us last night, and-- well, I believe if we were to tell Aunt Pike all about it now, it would hurt her more than ever, because she would think Anna had been deceiving her; and Anna did not mean to, she only meant to be kind to us.”
So Dan, though most unwillingly, had to agree. It annoyed him, and hurt his dignity, and offended his sense of honour to have to let Anna bear the weight of his misdoing; but he still hoped that when he could see Anna she might consent to his making a full confession. Here, though, he was again doomed to disappointment, for Anna only turned to him pleadingly. ”Don't say anything about it,” she cried. ”O Dan, don't!
If mother was to know now she would be more angry than ever, and she would never trust me again, or forgive either of us.”
So Dan, out of his grat.i.tude to her, had to give in; and there the matter rested for the time at least. But it had brought about two important changes--it cured Dan, and all of them, for some time, of their love of reading in bed; and it made them more tolerant in their feelings towards Anna.
Christmas, since that last one their mother had spent with them, had never been a festive or a happy season in Dr. Trenire's house. To the doctor it was too full of sad memories for him to be able to make it gay or cheerful for his children, and the children did not know how to set about making it so for themselves, while Aunt Pike had no ideas on the subject beyond sending and receiving a few cards, giving Anna a half-sovereign to put in the savings bank, and ordering a rather more elaborate dinner on Christmas Day.
Kitty, Dan, and Betty this year felt a real yearning for a Christmas such as they had read of, and discussed all manner of impossible plans, but there it all ended. Dr. Trenire gave them a book each, and they sat around the schoolroom fire reading them and munching the sweets they had clubbed together to buy, and that was all the festivity they had that year.
It was a damp, mild season, unseasonable and depressing, pleasant neither for going out nor for staying indoors; and Dan, who had less than five weeks' holidays, and had already had one of them spoilt by the weather, grumbled loudly, fully convinced that he had every reason to do so.
But with January came a change to high, cold winds, which dried up the mud, and, having done that much service, departed, to be followed by days of glorious suns.h.i.+ne. Just about the middle of the month Mrs.
Pike had to go away for a week or two to visit her sister in Yorks.h.i.+re, and with this circ.u.mstance, and the lovely weather combined, the children's spirits rose. Dan had but a fortnight's holiday left, it is true, but they meant to enjoy every possible minute of that fortnight, and to begin with they decided on an expedition to Helbarrow Tors, one of their most beloved of picnic places. Anna had never seen that wonderful spot, and Anna, who did not accompany her mother on her Yorks.h.i.+re visit, was to be introduced to all its beauties on the very day after her mother's departure.
As though knowing what was expected of it, the day broke most promisingly. Of course it was not really light until about eight o'clock--in fact, they got up and had their breakfast by gaslight, for they really could not stay in bed late with such prospects as they had before them; but already the weather signs were good, and Jabez was most encouraging.
”I'll back a mist like that there,” he said, ”agin anything for turning out a fine day. You mark my words now, Miss Kitty; and I'll go right along and get that there donkey and cart for fear anybody else should be put in the mind to 'ave a little egscursion too, and get un furst.”
f.a.n.n.y was as amiable as Jabez. When Kitty went out to the kitchen to see about their food for the day she found her with a row of baskets on the table before her, and Dan sitting on the corner of it superintending her doings.
”There, Miss Kitty,” she exclaimed, ”that's the salt I've just put in, so don't anybody say I forgot it, and don't anybody go unpacking it any'ow or it'll be upset; and we don't want no bad luck, do we?”
Kitty looked at the baskets joyfully.
”I've put in what I calls a good allowance for six. Do 'ee think that'll be enough?” asked f.a.n.n.y anxiously, ”or shall I put in a bit more cake, and a pasty or two extra? P'r'aps I'd better.”
”Perhaps you had,” said Kitty thoughtfully. ”You see, we have the whole day, and one does get hungry out of doors, and there is never a shop anywhere near--and if there is, we never have any money to spend in it.”
Even while she was speaking f.a.n.n.y was stowing the extra pasties and cake into the basket. ”Now, Master Dan, remember that's the basket you'm to carry,” pointing to a large square one with the cover securely fastened down. ”There's nothing to eat in it, but it's the 'eaviest, 'cause it's got the milk in it, and a bottle of methylated spirits and the little stove in case you can't get no sticks nor no fire.”
”O f.a.n.n.y, you _are_ cruel,” sighed Dan. ”I really don't know,” with a very good imitation of a catch in his voice, ”how you can say to me the nasty things you do.”
”Ah!” said f.a.n.n.y, with a knowing shake of her head. ”I may be cruel, and I have my failings, but I can read you through and through, Master Dan, same as if you was a printed book. You take my word for that.”