Least Said, Soonest Mended
Copyright© 2025 by Agnes Giberne
Chapter 12: On a Platform
I HAD been asked to Mrs. Withers’ for two or three weeks, but she kept me there for six weeks and more.
Once in every few days I had a letter from Mary. She spoke of mother as better for the change to Bristol, but still as not herself. I wondered if she ever would be her true self again; but Mrs. Withers bade me trust and hope; and I did try, though it wasn’t easy.
Mary didn’t say much about plans in her letters. I could not make out whether I was to join her and mother in Bristol, or whether we were to meet in Claxton again. Once I asked, and there came no answer to the question. So I let it alone, and just waited, not knowing.
Mrs. Withers had heard from Mr. Armstrong, I knew; and he was sure to have been told everything about mother.
It wasn’t so hard to wait, with the new help and life that had come to me.
And yet nobody need suppose that I hadn’t plenty of battling, or that doing right was all at once quite easy to me. No such thing. I had to fight hard, and pray hard. But there was the difference that I did pray, and that I was learning how to fight.
Old temptations had power over me yet; of course they had. Was it to be expected they’d die out in a moment?
I was getting to a more true and right notion of what Walter Russell was. He had led me into evil. He had deceived and taught deceit. I saw all this, and I did resolve that, God helping me, there should be nothing further between us, even if he wished it, at least until he should be another sort of man—and nothing at any time hidden from my mother.
But still I couldn’t at once cast aside all thoughts of him. I do believe there’s an unhealthy power which some people have over some others, and which makes the breaking loose from them a hard matter. But I believe that anybody who wills may break loose from such a bondage, through prayer and resolute doing.
Well, at last I heard I was to go to Bristol. Mary wrote that the doctors were afraid of Claxton for mother yet, and of course Mrs. Withers couldn’t be expected to keep me on for any length of time. Besides, it was right I should go to mother, now I was all right in health, and strong again. Mary didn’t say this; but I felt it.
The puzzle to me was how Mary had managed to be so long away from her brother. She never so much as said his name in her letters, and I knew she had taken to dressmaking again among her old friends.
The six weeks at Deane Rectory had been a wonderful help to me; and so had Mr. Withers’ teaching, though I haven’t said anything about that. His sermons were beautiful, and now and then he’d say a thing in passing that stayed by one for days.
But the one I minded most of all leaving was little Miss Kathleen. She cried, and so did I, when we said good-bye; and she promised to write long letters to me, and made me promise I’d write to her.
The through-train for Bristol left Littleburgh at twelve o’clock, and I got there a good while before, being driven in the little light cart which was often in and out for all sorts of purposes. The man had a lot of things to do, so we started early; and I had to wait a good time at the station—something near three-quarters of an hour, I believe.
I had a little book to read which Miss Kathleen had given me; and I sat down on a quiet bench, in a corner, with it open on my knee.
All of a sudden a queer sort of feeling came over me; for there on the platform, not far off, was Walter Russell.
He had his jaunty air, and kept moving about with a look of being very important. I don’t know why, but he didn’t seem to me so much of a gentleman as he’d seemed once. He put on such airs; and when he stopped to speak to somebody, he laughed so loud.
And yet my heart went pit-a-pat, and I was all in a flutter. I hoped he wouldn’t see me; but still I didn’t know how to bear being passed over by him.
If he did know I was there, he mightn’t choose to speak. And that would be the best thing for me. I knew it, yet a longing came into my mind for just a word—only a word! I never could feel sure he had really known me that day I drove by him in the fly.
He went to the other end of the platform, and walked back, keeping up his jaunty air. All of a sudden, he stopped opposite, and our eyes met.
There was nobody near, except one old market-woman, half asleep, at the other end of the bench.
“Hallo! Why, it’s Kitty Phrynne!” says he; and his mouth dropped open in a sort of amaze. He didn’t look delighted. I could see that plain enough.
I did not move, or get up. All at once, clear like a bell, I seemed to hear mother’s voice saying her favourite saying— “Least said, soonest mended!” “Least said, soonest mended!” And I sat still, determined I’d not be drawn into any folly. I would show mother I had some self-respect. I had nothing more to do with Walter, nor he with me; and the less we said to each other the better. If I got into a talk, I couldn’t depend on myself.
“I declare it’s—Kitty,” says he again. And I kept still. I wouldn’t stir.
“Come! come! you don’t bear malice, I hope,” says he, and he came up to shake hands.
“Bear malice! What for?” said I slowly. I thought I’d keep strict to the “least said” plan.
“What for! Oh, come! that’s good,” he broke out, with a laugh.
He meant about the watch, of course—but I did wonder he could laugh.
“I don’t see anything to make fun of,” I said.
“Well, no—nor do I,” says he. “Most serious event in a man’s life, isn’t it?”
And he sat down by my side. “Kitty, you’re prettier than ever,” says he softly.
But that was going too far. I couldn’t stand it. Something in his manner and speech angered me; and I thought how he had led me into saddening my father’s last days—how perhaps even, but for him, father might have been living still, and mother well, and I a happy girl in the dear old home! No; that was going too far!
“Good-bye,” I said. “My train will start soon.” And I got up and walked away.
But he was at my side.
“Kitty—Kitty—I didn’t mean to vex you,” says he, in a sort of wheedling manner. “Just say you’re not vexed. Say we can be friends still.”
“Friends!” I said, and I turned to look at him. I hadn’t a wish for any more soft words. A change seemed to have come over me. Perhaps it had been coming long, though I didn’t find it out till then. “Friends!” I said.
“Well, yes,” said he. “We’ve been friends, haven’t we?”
And I said—I couldn’t help it, for the words seemed to be squeezed out of me, I thinking of my poor father—
“No! You’ve been the worst enemy I ever had.”
I didn’t add another word. “Least said—” was sounding in a whisper somewhere. I had to say enough, but not too much. There’s never any good in piling on a lot of words, if one dozen are all that’s wanted.
“Kitty!” says he, as if he was confounded.
I didn’t speak.
“You don’t mean that,” says he, wheedling again.
But I held my tongue.
“Kitty, I do assure you I couldn’t help it,” says he. “I didn’t mean to take you in.”
“When you said it was lent—and then to have sold it!” says I slowly.
“Lent! Sold it!” says he, looking uncomfortable, and then he gave a sort of laugh. “Oh, I see—you mean that wretched watch,” says he.
And I just said “Yes.”
“But I thought you meant something else,” says he. “Mary has told you—”
“Mary has told me nothing at all,” I said.
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