Least Said, Soonest Mended
Copyright© 2025 by Agnes Giberne
Chapter 6: The Earl’s Gift
“Kitty!” says he. “Why, Kitty, don’t you know me?”
I think I said “Oh!” It didn’t seem as if any other words would come at first. Such a rush of joy filled my heart, that I was almost afraid to look up in his face. I didn’t want him to see all I felt. But I believe he did.
“Poor little Kitty!” said he. “So you are glad to see me, eh?”
“Oh—glad!” I said, and stopped again.
“And I’m glad to see you. So we’re even there,” said he.
I wonder now that the words could satisfy me: yet they did.
“How ever did you come here?” I asked him.
“How? Why, by train part of the way, and the rest I walked,” said he. “No, I didn’t come to Claxton Station. I wanted a word with you, and nobody else. I should have been too well known at Claxton Station.” Then he stood and looked at me. “Kitty, you are prettier than ever,” says he. “You dear little thing! I’ve never seen a lovelier girl. No, never. When I saw you just now, with your back against the tree in the sunshine, you looked just like a little angel,” says he.
I suppose it was natural I should be pleased with this rubbish, being, as I was, only a silly girl, and nothing at all of the angel in me. I might have told him it wasn’t, to my knowledge, the way of angels to stand leaning against tree-trunks, doing nothing. But I only dropped my eyes, and felt happy.
“Just like a little angel,” says he again.
“I like you to think me pretty,” I said, in a whisper. And then, with a start, I went on: “But you are too late. Mary is gone.”
“Yes, I know,” said he. “If I’d come to see Mary, I should have come to Claxton Station, and not have walked six miles for nothing.”
I’d forgotten that for the moment.
“Kitty, I mustn’t stay long,” said he. “I’ve something very particular to say, and I’ve got to make haste and be off.”
Such an unhappy look came over his face as he spoke. I was facing the sun, and he had his back to it; but even so I couldn’t help seeing his look nor how pulled and haggard he was. It flashed on me that something had happened, and I was frightened, thinking at once of Mary.
“I’ve not seen Mary yet,” said he, when I asked. “I have been away for hours. I couldn’t see her till I had seen you first. The fact is, Kitty, I’m in dreadful trouble, and if you can’t help me nobody can.”
“Oh, what can I do? I would do anything,” I cried. “Then doesn’t Mary know you are here?”
“Nobody knows,” said he. “I left word I meant to be home as early as I could. But I don’t know, I’m sure, whether—”
“Then she is all alone there,” I said, thinking how I had pictured the two making merry together.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said he. “It can’t be helped. I meant to catch you earlier somehow, and I couldn’t. I was watching from the hill, and I saw you go out, and come this way, so went round and got to the common too. But it was ever so long before I could find you.”
“And if you hadn’t found me at all?” I said, wondering.
“Then—” and he stopped. “But I have—so that doesn’t matter,” says he. “Kitty, I want your help.”
“What help? I’d do anything to help you,” I said.
“Anything! Would you?” says he.
“Anything except what’s wrong,” I said. “And you wouldn’t ask that.”
“No, no, of course not,” said he, in a hasty way, not looking at me. “Of course not.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Why,” he said, “the fact is, I’ve got myself into an awful muddle, and I don’t know how in the world to get out of it.”
“Can’t Mary help you?” I said.
“I wouldn’t tell Mary for the world,” says he. “I’d sooner never see her again.”
It seemed very strange to me. I didn’t like to think how strange it was. For surely the natural way would have been to tell his trouble to Mary, who had been sister, mother, friend, everything to him. And yet the very thought of his turning to me was a joy that made my heart flutter and the whole place seem bright. I didn’t so much trouble myself with thinking what the “muddle” was that he had got into. He wanted me to help him! That was the joy.
“Don’t say that,” I begged. “Mary is so sweet and good.”
“Mary is goodness itself,” he said. “But she has a hard side. You haven’t seen Mary yet in one of her stern moods, sitting in judgment on a poor chap.”
I wouldn’t have believed that Mary ever sat in judgment on anybody, if they had been any lips except Walter Russell’s that said it. But I could not contradict him.
“What is it I can do for you?” I asked, and I looked up in his face. “Tell me!” I said.
“Kitty, you are a little angel,” he exclaimed again, and most likely I blushed.
“Well, but tell me,” I said. “It’ll be getting late soon.”
“So it will, and I haven’t a moment to spare,” says he. “Kitty—” and there he stuck.
“Yes. What is it?” said I.
“Kitty, I want—” said he.
I couldn’t help thinking of Rupert asking me to marry him, and a wonder came whether, perhaps— But no, I could see it wasn’t that with Mr. Russell. Being in a “muddle” couldn’t mean that he was going to try to get a wife.
“Yes, you want what?” said I, to encourage him.
“I want—money,” he blurted out at last.
I won’t say it wasn’t a blow. Somehow I had never thought of his coming to me for money. It seemed so odd. I couldn’t help a sort of feeling that he lowered himself by it.
“Kitty, don’t you misunderstand me,” says he earnestly, seeing, I suppose, that my face fell. “I wouldn’t have you think ill of me, Kitty, for anything. It’s just a thing that I—that I can’t help, you know. And I don’t know where to turn; so I felt I must come to you. The truth is, I’ve been very much pressed; you know, Mary’s illness has been such a pull, and I—well, in fact, I had to borrow a small sum. Only a small sum for a short time, just to tide me over a time of difficulty. And it has to be repaid now, and I don’t know how to repay it. Don’t you misunderstand me, Kitty,” says he, and he looked at me so soft and kind that my silly little heart beat fast, and I felt I would do anything for him.
“Only I have no money!” I said.
“No; but I thought—” said he, and stopped.
“If only I could! I haven’t five shillings of my own,” I said. “Shall I ask father?”
“No, no! not for the world,” says he. “Not a word to him nor anybody. Promise me you’ll keep it quiet, Kitty! Promise.”
“I won’t say a word without you give me leave,” I said, not at the moment thinking how I was making a second wrong promise; and yet I ought to have thought. He had a strange hold upon me, and I was willing to be in his power. I didn’t want to break loose.
“That’s my own little Kitty!” said he, and my heart bounded again with joy at the words.
“But I don’t see what I am to do for you,” I said. “Won’t the person you have borrowed from wait a bit, till you can save up enough to pay him back?”
“Why, no; you don’t exactly understand,” says he. “It’s not exactly that, you see—not exactly borrowing from a person.”
“Not a person!” said I, wondering, and he gave a laugh.
“Why, no. Properly speaking, it’s only using what I’ve got.”
“I don’t think I know what you mean,” I said.
“No, I was sure you didn’t,” —and he laughed again. “Only just that I’m in need of the money. That’s enough too!”
I didn’t speak, I felt so puzzled; and, after a minute, he burst out—
“Well, I’d best make a clean breast of it! I can trust you, Kitty. Not a word ‘ll go a step farther, I know that! I can trust you, as I wouldn’t any other living creature.”
And I was foolish enough to be pleased at his saying so.
“You see, it really isn’t exactly borrowing,” he went on. “The fact is, a lot of money comes through my hands—children’s school-pence, and so on—and I’ve got to account for it all. It’s paid to me, and I’ve got a right to do as I like till the day I have to pay it over, which isn’t just yet. But Mary is awfully fussy about such things, poor dear! and she always will have every penny put straight into a cash-box and kept apart. Well, she made me promise I’d go on the same while she was at your house; and I did mean—but somehow I got so close run, I couldn’t, and I had to spend it all. The thing doesn’t matter in itself; of course, I shall pay up all right when the proper time comes, but there’ll be such a row when Mary finds her beloved cash-box empty! That’s where it is, you see! I want to put in the money all right before I give it back to her. There’s another purse, with money put by for the rent, and I had to borrow some of that too, for I was short, and I couldn’t write and bother her. It’s not borrowing really, you see, for what’s hers is mine. Only I know there’ll be a dreadful rumpus when she finds out. You haven’t a notion how hard Mary can be!” He gave a sigh as he spoke. “She’s a good creature, but she can be hard and no mistake; and somehow she never has any mercy on me. So now you understand why I’ve come to you, eh? I knew you wouldn’t be hard, Kitty,” says he.
If I did “understand” it was with blinded eyes. I would not have any shadow cast upon my idol. I would not let myself take in what all this truly meant.
“Kitty, you see, don’t you?” says he again. “I’ve nobody to go to except you. It’s just a few pounds I want, just to tide me over this pinch. Only a loan, not a gift. I’ll repay it faithfully. I declare I will.”
“But—” I said.
“No, you haven’t the money, of course,” said he. “But I’ve been thinking, there’s something else you have, which wouldn’t be missed for a few days—something one might raise a few pounds on, only for the moment, you know. It seems such a shame to think of such a thing, and if I wasn’t in desperation what to do I would not! Still, if you didn’t mind—if it were possible, just to save me from ruin and disgrace, and poor Mary from a broken heart, not to say another illness—yet I’m sure I don’t know how to ask it of you. I really don’t.”
I was so bewildered, I stood and looked, wondering whatever he could mean.
“Don’t you understand yet?” said he, his face falling.
“No,” I said. “Something that I have!”
“Your watch!” says he, half in a whisper.
“My watch!” I said; and what he meant began to dawn on me. It made me feel queer, I can tall you.
“If you could, just for a few days or so,” said he, and he spoke pleading-like. “Is that so very much to do for a friend, Kitty? It’s only the loan I ask. You see, I could raise a few pounds on that watch, for the moment, just to tide me through; and then in a few days or so I would buy it back all right from the—the jeweller—and get it back to you. There’ll be money coming in soon, one way and another, only I can’t wait for that. If I haven’t a few pounds now, either to-night or to-morrow morning, I don’t know whatever I’m to do. I can’t stand telling Mary, and that’s flat. If I can’t get the money, I can’t go home, and then you’ll never see nor hear of me again, Kitty!”
I felt a cold chill all through me at the thought.
“Oh, don’t say that, please don’t!” I begged. “It sounds too dreadful. I do wish you hadn’t used up the money.”
“Why, Kitty, as if I hadn’t the right!” says he, quite short.
But had he the right? For strictly the money was not his. If he knew himself to have the right, and to be doing right, why should he mind speaking out to Mary? I tried not to see this, for I didn’t want to blame him.
“I would lend you the watch for a few days,” I said; “only I don’t know what father and mother would say.”
“They mustn’t know, of course,” said he. “You’ve promised not to tell, not to let slip a word.”
“Yes,” I said. That promise was lying heavy on my conscience. “But if they asked me to fetch the watch and to show it to anybody?”
“Oh, they won’t. I dare say it doesn’t happen once in six weeks.”
“I don’t think it’s so seldom as once in six weeks, and it might be any day,” I said.
“But you don’t wear it commonly?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, well, it’ll all come right,” says he. “They won’t speak of it, or if they do, you must just put them off somehow. You can say you can’t find it, and that’ll be true enough. Only mind you don’t let out where it is.”
The marvel is that my eyes weren’t opened. For wasn’t it plain as daylight that he cared not a rap about my feelings, but only for his own? So long as he could get things straight for himself, I might have any amount of worry and difficulty. Besides, there was the untruthfulness of what he wanted me to do. He might be sure that I should find myself obliged either to betray him or to deceive.
He knew I wouldn’t betray him. That meant that he expected me to deceive.
But he had got the mastery of me, with his soft looks, and his threat that I might never see him again. I had given in to temptation earlier for his sake, so it was doubly hard to conquer now. I hardly thought of conquering. My one wish was to help him. That came first, and the question of doing right or wrong came second.
“Kitty, will you save me?” he asked. “Will you save me from—” and he stopped. “From Mary!” says he.
And I was overcome. I burst into tears and said “Yes.”
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