Chapter Nine.The French Maid.No further reference was made to the unpleasant scene in the library. Lady Sarah seemed disposed neither to offer nor to demand any sort of apology. Unnoticed by the girl, however, she constantly scrutinised her through her gold eye-glasses with a curiosity which was almost kindly. It seemed an impossibility for the old lady to refrain from interfering in the affairs of others, but for the next few days Mildred was allowed to go her own way undisturbed, while she devoted her attention to the daughters of the house.She assured Mrs Faucit that Lois’s right shoulder was higher than the left, and insisted that she should be made to lie down for two hours every afternoon; she gave it as her opinion that, as the girls were now fifteen, they should not be allowed to go about unattended by a chaperone; and last, and worst of all, she showed the Dean a prospectus of a German school, to which she advised they should be sent at once.The twins were in despair, and many were the indignation meetings which were held in the school-room or the bedrooms overhead, while poor Mrs Faucit exhausted herself in the effort to smooth down both parties and to keep her husband in ignorance of what was passing before his very eyes. Meantime the date of the picnic drew nearer and nearer, and in connection with her own preparations Mildred met with an unexpected display of kindness on the part of no less a person than Cécile herself.The blue dress returned from the laundress looking crisper and fresher than ever in its newly-ironed folds, and when Mildred went up to her room the same afternoon she beheld Cécile seated by the dressing-table busily engaged in sewing the lace-frills round neck and sleeves.“Why, Cécile—you!” she exclaimed, and the Frenchwoman raised her shoulders with a shrug of protest.“Ah, Mademoiselle, what would you have? They are so careless, these servants. Mary would iron the lace as it was, sewn in the dress, but I say, ‘No, it is impossible so to do it well. You take it off,’ I say, ‘and I shall sew it on. Mademoiselle Mildred shall not go to the picnic with frills untidy while I am in the house.’”“But that is very kind of you, Cécile. I’m sure I am awfully obliged,” said Mildred warmly. She leant up against the corner of the dressing-table and watched the play of the nimble fingers with admiring eyes. “How quickly you do it, and how well! It would take me about a month to pleat the lace into those teeny little folds. I just run it up and draw the string, but of course it is far nicer this way. The old dress looks quite new again. It seems to enjoy being washed.”Cécile held the skirt at arm’s-length, looking at it with critical eyes.“It is a pretty colour—soft and full—just the right shade to suit Mademoiselle’s complexion. When it has the sash and the lace collar it will have an air quitechic, but it could still be improved. If Mademoiselle will, I shall stiffen the sleeves and make them more—what you say?—fashionable! It would be much better so.”“I don’t know, I’m sure. It would be very nice, but have you time, Cécile?” asked Mildred doubtfully. “You have work to do for Lady Sarah, and I should not like to interfere with that. It is very kind of you to offer, but—”“Oh, indeed, I have hours to myself—hours! I am killed with ennui in this quiet house. It would be a charity to give me occupation. It is still quite early; if Mademoiselle would put the dress on now, for one little minute, I could then see what is required, and put in a stitch here and there.”Mildred unfastened her dress with mechanical fingers. She was bewildered by this sudden display of amiability on the part of Lady Sarah’s maid, and filled with remorse for her former misjudgments. She had taken a dislike to Cécile from the moment when they had first met in the corridor and the Frenchwoman’s sharp eye had scanned her from head to foot, as if taking in every detail of her attire and appraising its value. Once or twice, moreover, upon entering Bertha’s room unexpectedly, she had discovered Cécile turning over the ornaments upon the dressing-table, and had not felt altogether inclined to believe the explanation that she was looking to see if there was anything she could do for mademoiselle; yet if Cécile were now so anxious to serve herself, why should she not have been equally well-disposed to Bertha?Mildred argued out this question with herself as she stood before the glass while Cécile’s clever fingers busied themselves about her dress, putting in a pin here, a pin there, achieving thereby an improvement which seemed almost miraculous in the girl’s unsophisticated eyes.While she worked Cécile kept up a string of flattering remarks.“I must fasten the hair up for a moment to see the back. Ah, the beautiful hair! what a coiffure it will make some day! See how it goes itself into a coronet like a queen’s! It is easy to fit a dress when one has the perfect model. You have the back like an arrow, Mademoiselle. Most young ladies get into the bad habits at school, and bend their shoulders like old women, but you are not so. There are many princesses who would give thousands of pounds to have a figure like yours.”“They must be very silly princesses, then,” said Mildred brusquely. How was it that she could not get over her dislike to Cécile—that the touch of her thin fingers, the sight of her face in the glass brought with them a shiver of repulsion? Cécile had nothing to gain by spending time on the renewal of a school-girl’s frock, and could therefore only be actuated by kindness. If it had been anyone else who had done her such a service Mildred would have been overflowing with thanks, but for some mysterious reason her heart seemed closed against Lady Sarah’s maid. All the same she was annoyed at herself for such ingratitude, and made a gallant effort to carry on a friendly conversation.“Have you been maid to many other ladies, Cécile, before coming to Lady Sarah? You have been with her only a short time, I think.” Cécile sighed lugubriously.“Three months, Mademoiselle. Oh, such long, slow months! Never before have I known the time so long. Before then I was with two beautiful young ladies in London. They went out every night—to two or three balls very often,—and always they were the most admired among the guests. Miss Adeline married an officer and went to India. She was like you, Mademoiselle—the same hair, the same eyes—you might be her sister. She would that I should go to India too. ‘Oh, Cécile!’ she say, ‘what shall I do without you? No one shall ever suit me as you have done.’ But I dare not risk the journey, the heat, the fatigue. Then Miss Edith shared the same maid with her mama, and I came to my lady here. Ah, what a difference! The house of Madame, it is like a grave—no life, no sun. With my young ladies it was all excitement from morning till night—luncheon parties, afternoon parties, evening parties, one thing after another, and no time to feeltriste, but now all is changed. We drive in a closed carriage for amusement, and go to bed at ten o’clock, just when my ladies were dressing for their balls, and the evening should begin.”“Well, but, Cécile, I should think you would like it better,” said Mildred guilelessly, “because if they did not come home until two or three in the morning it must have been terribly tiring sitting up for so long, and very bad for your health. Now you can go to bed at eleven and have nothing to disturb you until the next morning.”Cécile lifted her head from her work and darted a keen glance at the girl’s face. Her eyes were small and light, and it seemed to Mildred as if at this moment there was something unpleasantly cunning in their expression, but perhaps it was only the result of the strong light which fell upon her through the open window.“Oh, Mademoiselle, it is one thing to rest, and another to allow some one else to do the same. My lady goes to bed but not to sleep. She lies awake for hours, and she is cross sometimes, but so cross! She speaks so shrill, so loud, one would suppose a calamity should happen. It is bad for the nerves to hear such sounds in the night-time. I have been afraid for Mademoiselle lest she should be disturbed. Her windows are so near, and when the house is quiet—”“Oh, you need not be afraid for me! I sleep like a top when I once begin. Sometimes we have had dreadful thunder-storms in the night at school, and half the girls have been sitting up shivering in their dressing-gowns, but I have known nothing about them until the morning. Besides, it is such a long way round to get to Lady Sarah’s room, that I never realised before that her windows were so near.”Mildred craned her head as she spoke to look out of the window. As she had said, the entrance to Lady Sarah’s room was some distance along the corridor, and round a corner, but, as it was situated in a wing of the house which stood out at right angles from the main wall, the window was but a few yards from Mildred’s own.“I never realised that I was so near!” repeated the girl dreamily, and as she busied herself with the folds of the skirt Cécile frowned and bit her lip, as though annoyed with herself for an incautious remark.“I am glad you have not been disturbed. I feared it might be so, but if Mademoiselle should any time hear a noise in the night she will understand—she will go to sleep again quite satisfied. I am always there in my lady’s dressing-room, ready to go when she calls.”“Oh, yes, I’ll remember!” said Mildred easily; “but I am not in the least likely to hear. I can’t understand how people can go on talking after they are in bed. When I go home for the holidays I sleep with my mother, and I have so much to say that I try hard to keep awake, but I can’t. We talk for a little time, then she says something, and I repeat it over and over to myself, trying to understand what it means. It is probably the simplest thing in the world, but it seems like Greek, and while I am still trying to puzzle it out, I fall asleep and remember nothing more till the next day.”“Oh, yes! but you are young and my lady is old. Sleep does not come to her as to you, and she is so that she cannot bear anyone to have what she has not. If she is miserable, it is her pleasure that I also should suffer.”Mildred knitted her brows and stared at the maid in disapproving fashion.“I don’t think you ought to talk like that, Cécile,” she said boldly. “You are always paying Lady Sarah compliments to her face, so you ought not to abuse her behind her back. Besides, I don’t think she is cross to you. She seems kinder to you than to other people. We all notice it.”“Ah, yes!” replied Cécile scornfully; “my lady can be amiable enough when it suits; but to live with all day long, to have her as mistress—ah, Mademoiselle thinks she can understand what that means! But wait a little time, wait until Mrs Faucit shall go away and my lady is left in charge, then you shall see! You will feel for me then for what I undergo!”Mildred’s eyes widened in astonishment.“But she is not going away! What do you mean by saying such a thing? How could she go away when she has visitors in the house, and her children are home for the holidays?”The Frenchwoman flushed and looked strangely embarrassed.“Oh, I mean nothing—nothing! I had the impression that it was said. The servants talk among themselves, Mademoiselle. But you know best—you are of the family. It has been a mistake. See, then, Mademoiselle, I have made what I can. Do you find the dress is better?”“It looks ever so much nicer, Cécile. I can’t imagine what you have done to make such an improvement. I am awfully obliged to you for all your trouble.”“It is nothing, Mademoiselle, not worth speaking about. When the lace is on and the ribbon—big, full bows instead of the little, old ones—you shall see what a difference I make. They will say no one can tie a bow like a Frenchwoman; and even in Paris, where I learn my business, no one in the room could make one like me. I had them always to arrange, on the handsomest dresses. Mademoiselle shall see the lovely bows I shall make—”Cécile lifted a roll of shimmering, satin ribbon from the table as she spoke, and shaking out a length of two or three yards, began to gather it up in her fingers. It was a beautiful ribbon, soft and thick, and of the richest texture, but Mildred flushed as she looked at it, and her voice sounded sharp and disapproving.“What ribbon is that? It’s not mine! You are not going to put that on my dress, Cécile!”“But yes, Mademoiselle, I was told to do so. My lady rang the bell and asked what I did. When I said I helped with the dress of Mademoiselle Mildred, she took the ribbon from her drawer and asked if it should be useful. ‘Use what you will,’ she say to me. It is a beautiful ribbon, Mademoiselle, and goes well with the lace. You look not satisfied, but believe me, when you see it arranged, you will agree—”“I wasn’t thinking about that. I dare say it would look very nice, but I can’t take it, Cécile,” said the girl firmly. “I am glad you have not cut it up, for it will not be spoiled. I am much obliged to Lady Sarah, and you may tell her so, but I prefer to use my own things. If the old ribbon is too shabby, I can do without altogether; but it’s no use putting that on, for I won’t wear it.”Cécile stared in amazement, but there was no mistaking the girl’s sincerity. Her eyes were bright with anger, she held her head at a defiant angle, and her lips were pressed into a thin scarlet line. Mildred was disgusted to hear that Lady Sarah had any share whatever in Cécile’s services. She wished with all her heart that she had not accepted the Frenchwoman’s offer. Now if the dress looked at all respectable on the day of the picnic, Lady Sarah would take the credit to herself, because she had allowed her maid to make alterations; and how dare she send contributions of her own, and give instructions as to what was to be done with them, without asking permission!Cécile was quite awed by the young lady’s air of indignation, and carried away the white ribbon without a word of protest. She evidently informed her mistress of what had occurred, for after dinner the same evening Lady Sarah detained Mildred on her way to the garden, to question her on the subject.“So, Miss Mildred, my maid tells me that you refused to use the ribbon which I gave her for your dress. Is that true, may I ask?”“Yes, quite true. I told Cécile to tell you that I was very much obliged for the offer, but that I preferred to wear my own things.”“You are very independent. Was the ribbon not to your fancy? Have you one of your own which you prefer?”“Oh, no, it was beautiful; it could not have been nicer!”“Your own is not so good?”“Not nearly so good, Lady Sarah!”Cécile might well have said that Mildred had the good, straight back, if she had seen her at this moment. Her cheeks were flushed, but her mouth had the stubborn look which her friends knew so well.“You refuse, then, simply because you object to receiving anything from me?”“I am much obliged to you, Lady Sarah, but I prefer to wear my own things.”“Oh, well, well!” sighed the other wearily; “I won’t argue with you, my dear. Do as you please. I meant to do you a kindness, but, if you choose to take it in this way, there is no use saying anything about it. Don’t let me keep you. Run away to your friends.”She turned towards the window as she spoke, and the sun shone full on her face. It looked tired and grey, and very, very old; and the thin hands crossed on her lap, how shrivelled they were!—they trembled all the time as though they could not keep still. Mildred walked out into the garden, a pang of compunction at her heart. Dreadful to be so old!—not to be able to see without spectacles; to hear,—unless people spoke at the pitch of their voices; to walk,—unless supported by a stick; to feel cold even on the hottest day; to feel tired the first thing in the morning;—how dreadful! Lady Sarah had looked sad too—not merely cross, as usual, but really and truly sad and lonely.Suppose she had seriously meant to be kind—to show that she regretted her interference in the past? Mildred’s face clouded over as this thought passed through her mind, but before she crossed the lawn to join her friends her lips stiffened into the old, obstinate line.“I don’t care. She had no right to send in her scraps of finery, without even asking my permission. And after saying that Mother didn’t provide for me properly, too! No, I am not a bit sorry; I would do the same thing over again!”
No further reference was made to the unpleasant scene in the library. Lady Sarah seemed disposed neither to offer nor to demand any sort of apology. Unnoticed by the girl, however, she constantly scrutinised her through her gold eye-glasses with a curiosity which was almost kindly. It seemed an impossibility for the old lady to refrain from interfering in the affairs of others, but for the next few days Mildred was allowed to go her own way undisturbed, while she devoted her attention to the daughters of the house.
She assured Mrs Faucit that Lois’s right shoulder was higher than the left, and insisted that she should be made to lie down for two hours every afternoon; she gave it as her opinion that, as the girls were now fifteen, they should not be allowed to go about unattended by a chaperone; and last, and worst of all, she showed the Dean a prospectus of a German school, to which she advised they should be sent at once.
The twins were in despair, and many were the indignation meetings which were held in the school-room or the bedrooms overhead, while poor Mrs Faucit exhausted herself in the effort to smooth down both parties and to keep her husband in ignorance of what was passing before his very eyes. Meantime the date of the picnic drew nearer and nearer, and in connection with her own preparations Mildred met with an unexpected display of kindness on the part of no less a person than Cécile herself.
The blue dress returned from the laundress looking crisper and fresher than ever in its newly-ironed folds, and when Mildred went up to her room the same afternoon she beheld Cécile seated by the dressing-table busily engaged in sewing the lace-frills round neck and sleeves.
“Why, Cécile—you!” she exclaimed, and the Frenchwoman raised her shoulders with a shrug of protest.
“Ah, Mademoiselle, what would you have? They are so careless, these servants. Mary would iron the lace as it was, sewn in the dress, but I say, ‘No, it is impossible so to do it well. You take it off,’ I say, ‘and I shall sew it on. Mademoiselle Mildred shall not go to the picnic with frills untidy while I am in the house.’”
“But that is very kind of you, Cécile. I’m sure I am awfully obliged,” said Mildred warmly. She leant up against the corner of the dressing-table and watched the play of the nimble fingers with admiring eyes. “How quickly you do it, and how well! It would take me about a month to pleat the lace into those teeny little folds. I just run it up and draw the string, but of course it is far nicer this way. The old dress looks quite new again. It seems to enjoy being washed.”
Cécile held the skirt at arm’s-length, looking at it with critical eyes.
“It is a pretty colour—soft and full—just the right shade to suit Mademoiselle’s complexion. When it has the sash and the lace collar it will have an air quitechic, but it could still be improved. If Mademoiselle will, I shall stiffen the sleeves and make them more—what you say?—fashionable! It would be much better so.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. It would be very nice, but have you time, Cécile?” asked Mildred doubtfully. “You have work to do for Lady Sarah, and I should not like to interfere with that. It is very kind of you to offer, but—”
“Oh, indeed, I have hours to myself—hours! I am killed with ennui in this quiet house. It would be a charity to give me occupation. It is still quite early; if Mademoiselle would put the dress on now, for one little minute, I could then see what is required, and put in a stitch here and there.”
Mildred unfastened her dress with mechanical fingers. She was bewildered by this sudden display of amiability on the part of Lady Sarah’s maid, and filled with remorse for her former misjudgments. She had taken a dislike to Cécile from the moment when they had first met in the corridor and the Frenchwoman’s sharp eye had scanned her from head to foot, as if taking in every detail of her attire and appraising its value. Once or twice, moreover, upon entering Bertha’s room unexpectedly, she had discovered Cécile turning over the ornaments upon the dressing-table, and had not felt altogether inclined to believe the explanation that she was looking to see if there was anything she could do for mademoiselle; yet if Cécile were now so anxious to serve herself, why should she not have been equally well-disposed to Bertha?
Mildred argued out this question with herself as she stood before the glass while Cécile’s clever fingers busied themselves about her dress, putting in a pin here, a pin there, achieving thereby an improvement which seemed almost miraculous in the girl’s unsophisticated eyes.
While she worked Cécile kept up a string of flattering remarks.
“I must fasten the hair up for a moment to see the back. Ah, the beautiful hair! what a coiffure it will make some day! See how it goes itself into a coronet like a queen’s! It is easy to fit a dress when one has the perfect model. You have the back like an arrow, Mademoiselle. Most young ladies get into the bad habits at school, and bend their shoulders like old women, but you are not so. There are many princesses who would give thousands of pounds to have a figure like yours.”
“They must be very silly princesses, then,” said Mildred brusquely. How was it that she could not get over her dislike to Cécile—that the touch of her thin fingers, the sight of her face in the glass brought with them a shiver of repulsion? Cécile had nothing to gain by spending time on the renewal of a school-girl’s frock, and could therefore only be actuated by kindness. If it had been anyone else who had done her such a service Mildred would have been overflowing with thanks, but for some mysterious reason her heart seemed closed against Lady Sarah’s maid. All the same she was annoyed at herself for such ingratitude, and made a gallant effort to carry on a friendly conversation.
“Have you been maid to many other ladies, Cécile, before coming to Lady Sarah? You have been with her only a short time, I think.” Cécile sighed lugubriously.
“Three months, Mademoiselle. Oh, such long, slow months! Never before have I known the time so long. Before then I was with two beautiful young ladies in London. They went out every night—to two or three balls very often,—and always they were the most admired among the guests. Miss Adeline married an officer and went to India. She was like you, Mademoiselle—the same hair, the same eyes—you might be her sister. She would that I should go to India too. ‘Oh, Cécile!’ she say, ‘what shall I do without you? No one shall ever suit me as you have done.’ But I dare not risk the journey, the heat, the fatigue. Then Miss Edith shared the same maid with her mama, and I came to my lady here. Ah, what a difference! The house of Madame, it is like a grave—no life, no sun. With my young ladies it was all excitement from morning till night—luncheon parties, afternoon parties, evening parties, one thing after another, and no time to feeltriste, but now all is changed. We drive in a closed carriage for amusement, and go to bed at ten o’clock, just when my ladies were dressing for their balls, and the evening should begin.”
“Well, but, Cécile, I should think you would like it better,” said Mildred guilelessly, “because if they did not come home until two or three in the morning it must have been terribly tiring sitting up for so long, and very bad for your health. Now you can go to bed at eleven and have nothing to disturb you until the next morning.”
Cécile lifted her head from her work and darted a keen glance at the girl’s face. Her eyes were small and light, and it seemed to Mildred as if at this moment there was something unpleasantly cunning in their expression, but perhaps it was only the result of the strong light which fell upon her through the open window.
“Oh, Mademoiselle, it is one thing to rest, and another to allow some one else to do the same. My lady goes to bed but not to sleep. She lies awake for hours, and she is cross sometimes, but so cross! She speaks so shrill, so loud, one would suppose a calamity should happen. It is bad for the nerves to hear such sounds in the night-time. I have been afraid for Mademoiselle lest she should be disturbed. Her windows are so near, and when the house is quiet—”
“Oh, you need not be afraid for me! I sleep like a top when I once begin. Sometimes we have had dreadful thunder-storms in the night at school, and half the girls have been sitting up shivering in their dressing-gowns, but I have known nothing about them until the morning. Besides, it is such a long way round to get to Lady Sarah’s room, that I never realised before that her windows were so near.”
Mildred craned her head as she spoke to look out of the window. As she had said, the entrance to Lady Sarah’s room was some distance along the corridor, and round a corner, but, as it was situated in a wing of the house which stood out at right angles from the main wall, the window was but a few yards from Mildred’s own.
“I never realised that I was so near!” repeated the girl dreamily, and as she busied herself with the folds of the skirt Cécile frowned and bit her lip, as though annoyed with herself for an incautious remark.
“I am glad you have not been disturbed. I feared it might be so, but if Mademoiselle should any time hear a noise in the night she will understand—she will go to sleep again quite satisfied. I am always there in my lady’s dressing-room, ready to go when she calls.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll remember!” said Mildred easily; “but I am not in the least likely to hear. I can’t understand how people can go on talking after they are in bed. When I go home for the holidays I sleep with my mother, and I have so much to say that I try hard to keep awake, but I can’t. We talk for a little time, then she says something, and I repeat it over and over to myself, trying to understand what it means. It is probably the simplest thing in the world, but it seems like Greek, and while I am still trying to puzzle it out, I fall asleep and remember nothing more till the next day.”
“Oh, yes! but you are young and my lady is old. Sleep does not come to her as to you, and she is so that she cannot bear anyone to have what she has not. If she is miserable, it is her pleasure that I also should suffer.”
Mildred knitted her brows and stared at the maid in disapproving fashion.
“I don’t think you ought to talk like that, Cécile,” she said boldly. “You are always paying Lady Sarah compliments to her face, so you ought not to abuse her behind her back. Besides, I don’t think she is cross to you. She seems kinder to you than to other people. We all notice it.”
“Ah, yes!” replied Cécile scornfully; “my lady can be amiable enough when it suits; but to live with all day long, to have her as mistress—ah, Mademoiselle thinks she can understand what that means! But wait a little time, wait until Mrs Faucit shall go away and my lady is left in charge, then you shall see! You will feel for me then for what I undergo!”
Mildred’s eyes widened in astonishment.
“But she is not going away! What do you mean by saying such a thing? How could she go away when she has visitors in the house, and her children are home for the holidays?”
The Frenchwoman flushed and looked strangely embarrassed.
“Oh, I mean nothing—nothing! I had the impression that it was said. The servants talk among themselves, Mademoiselle. But you know best—you are of the family. It has been a mistake. See, then, Mademoiselle, I have made what I can. Do you find the dress is better?”
“It looks ever so much nicer, Cécile. I can’t imagine what you have done to make such an improvement. I am awfully obliged to you for all your trouble.”
“It is nothing, Mademoiselle, not worth speaking about. When the lace is on and the ribbon—big, full bows instead of the little, old ones—you shall see what a difference I make. They will say no one can tie a bow like a Frenchwoman; and even in Paris, where I learn my business, no one in the room could make one like me. I had them always to arrange, on the handsomest dresses. Mademoiselle shall see the lovely bows I shall make—”
Cécile lifted a roll of shimmering, satin ribbon from the table as she spoke, and shaking out a length of two or three yards, began to gather it up in her fingers. It was a beautiful ribbon, soft and thick, and of the richest texture, but Mildred flushed as she looked at it, and her voice sounded sharp and disapproving.
“What ribbon is that? It’s not mine! You are not going to put that on my dress, Cécile!”
“But yes, Mademoiselle, I was told to do so. My lady rang the bell and asked what I did. When I said I helped with the dress of Mademoiselle Mildred, she took the ribbon from her drawer and asked if it should be useful. ‘Use what you will,’ she say to me. It is a beautiful ribbon, Mademoiselle, and goes well with the lace. You look not satisfied, but believe me, when you see it arranged, you will agree—”
“I wasn’t thinking about that. I dare say it would look very nice, but I can’t take it, Cécile,” said the girl firmly. “I am glad you have not cut it up, for it will not be spoiled. I am much obliged to Lady Sarah, and you may tell her so, but I prefer to use my own things. If the old ribbon is too shabby, I can do without altogether; but it’s no use putting that on, for I won’t wear it.”
Cécile stared in amazement, but there was no mistaking the girl’s sincerity. Her eyes were bright with anger, she held her head at a defiant angle, and her lips were pressed into a thin scarlet line. Mildred was disgusted to hear that Lady Sarah had any share whatever in Cécile’s services. She wished with all her heart that she had not accepted the Frenchwoman’s offer. Now if the dress looked at all respectable on the day of the picnic, Lady Sarah would take the credit to herself, because she had allowed her maid to make alterations; and how dare she send contributions of her own, and give instructions as to what was to be done with them, without asking permission!
Cécile was quite awed by the young lady’s air of indignation, and carried away the white ribbon without a word of protest. She evidently informed her mistress of what had occurred, for after dinner the same evening Lady Sarah detained Mildred on her way to the garden, to question her on the subject.
“So, Miss Mildred, my maid tells me that you refused to use the ribbon which I gave her for your dress. Is that true, may I ask?”
“Yes, quite true. I told Cécile to tell you that I was very much obliged for the offer, but that I preferred to wear my own things.”
“You are very independent. Was the ribbon not to your fancy? Have you one of your own which you prefer?”
“Oh, no, it was beautiful; it could not have been nicer!”
“Your own is not so good?”
“Not nearly so good, Lady Sarah!”
Cécile might well have said that Mildred had the good, straight back, if she had seen her at this moment. Her cheeks were flushed, but her mouth had the stubborn look which her friends knew so well.
“You refuse, then, simply because you object to receiving anything from me?”
“I am much obliged to you, Lady Sarah, but I prefer to wear my own things.”
“Oh, well, well!” sighed the other wearily; “I won’t argue with you, my dear. Do as you please. I meant to do you a kindness, but, if you choose to take it in this way, there is no use saying anything about it. Don’t let me keep you. Run away to your friends.”
She turned towards the window as she spoke, and the sun shone full on her face. It looked tired and grey, and very, very old; and the thin hands crossed on her lap, how shrivelled they were!—they trembled all the time as though they could not keep still. Mildred walked out into the garden, a pang of compunction at her heart. Dreadful to be so old!—not to be able to see without spectacles; to hear,—unless people spoke at the pitch of their voices; to walk,—unless supported by a stick; to feel cold even on the hottest day; to feel tired the first thing in the morning;—how dreadful! Lady Sarah had looked sad too—not merely cross, as usual, but really and truly sad and lonely.
Suppose she had seriously meant to be kind—to show that she regretted her interference in the past? Mildred’s face clouded over as this thought passed through her mind, but before she crossed the lawn to join her friends her lips stiffened into the old, obstinate line.
“I don’t care. She had no right to send in her scraps of finery, without even asking my permission. And after saying that Mother didn’t provide for me properly, too! No, I am not a bit sorry; I would do the same thing over again!”
Chapter Ten.An Unexpected Departure.The day before the eventful picnic the family were seated round the breakfast-table, when the Dean looked up from a letter which he had just been reading, and said mildly, and as if he were making the most natural request in the world:“Evelyn, will you get ready to go up to town by the five o’clock train this afternoon? The Archbishop has appointed our interview for three o’clock to-morrow. You had better pack for two or three nights.”Mrs Faucit gave an irrepressible start of consternation. Was ever anything so unfortunate! The interview with the Archbishop had been talked of for months past; half a dozen letters had been exchanged on the subject within the last fortnight; the question which was to be discussed was of pressing importance. She realised at once that the appointment must be kept, but her heart sank as she looked at the three young faces beside her—aghast, and speechless with horror.“Oh! is it really to-morrow?” she cried. “Are you quite sure, dear? Look again! you so often make mistakes in the date. Does he say Wednesday the sixteenth, or Wednesday the twenty-third?”The Dean peered at his letter once more.“He says:I shall be able to meet you on Wednesday next, sixteenth instant. It is certainly to-morrow. Why, Evelyn; is there any reason why—er—?”“It is the day of Mrs Newland’s picnic. I have accepted her invitation—”“Oh, is that all!” Her husband drew a sigh of relief. “You must write, of course, and explain your absence. She will understand, and it will be a relief to you, dear. I—er—I have some recollection of being at a picnic myself years ago. Uncomfortable occasion! Er—earwigs—meals on the grass—baskets to carry. You would have been very tired. Much more comfortable at the Métropole!”Mrs Faucit could not restrain a smile in spite of her concern.“Just so, Austin; but that is not the light in which the young people look at it. I was to chaperone the girls. I am thinking of them, not of myself. It will be a great disappointment.”The Dean put up his eye-glasses, and stared at the three girls in turn. His own daughters were white with suppressed emotion, but Mildred’s face was tragic in its agony of suspense. She did not say a word, but she turned her great, grey eyes upon him, piteous as those of a child who sees a surgeon standing over her, knife in hand; and as he met that glance the Dean rumpled his hair in perturbation of spirit.“Dear me! dear me! this is very distressing. Disappointed, are they? I don’t want the children to be disappointed, Evelyn! Let them enjoy themselves. If they appreciate that sort of thing, let them go by all means. Why should they stay away because you are obliged to do so? Mrs Newland will look after them.”“My dear Dean!” Lady Sarah shook out her serviette, and raised her voice to an even shriller note than usual. “My dear Dean, you don’t realise what you are saying. The girls are not children any longer; they were fifteen their last birthday. In another two years, or three at the outside, they will be in society. You cannot possibly allow them to go to a large affair of this sort without a chaperone. Mrs Newland will be occupied with her guests, and will have no time to look after them. If Evelyn is obliged to go away, let the girls stay at home. They can surely bear a little disappointment. They will have bigger ones than this to bear as they go through life!”“True, Sarah,—quite true; but that is the more reason why I wish to postpone them as long as possible. I don’t want the girls to miss their pleasure, Evelyn! Can nothing be done? Can’t you think of some plan, dear? you are so clever. Is there no other alternative?” And the kindly Dean looked at his wife with a face full of anxiety.Mrs Faucit smiled back at him in the peculiarly sweet, reassuring manner which she reserved for himself and for Erroll, the youngest member of the family—a mischievous little rascal, who employed himself in getting into trouble all day long, and in rushing to throw himself upon his mother’s tender mercies after each fresh exploit.“I think we might surely hit on some plan between us!” she said brightly. “Such a number of clever people! For instance, it ought not to be altogether impossible to provide another chaperone for the girls. There are more people than my important self in the town, and Mrs Newland will be quite willing to accept a representative under the circumstances.”“If you mean me, Evelyn, I am not at all sure that I feel equal to the exertion. If they were going to drive from door to door, and have lunch in an hotel in reasonable fashion, it would be different; but with so many changes, and the whole day to be spent in the open air—”“Oh, my dear Sarah, I never thought of such a thing for a moment! It would be too much to ask. You would be terribly fatigued.” Mrs Faucit had caught the echo of three separate gasps of consternation, and she spoke with unusual emphasis. “Oh, no, indeed! I think it will answer all purposes if Miss Turner takes the girls in charge. Mrs Newland knows her, and it would be a pity to look any further when we have someone so suitable in the house. That will be a very good arrangement, won’t it, girls?”Then for the first time the girls’ lips were opened, and they spoke. Up till now the tension of suspense had been so great that they seemed scarcely able to breathe.“Oh, yes, Mother, it will be delightful!”“Oh, yes, Mrs Faucit, splendid! Miss Turner will be nicer than anyone if you can’t go yourself. But are you really obliged to go away? Why can’t you stay at home when it is only for two days?”“My dear Mil! and allow Father to go by himself!” Bertha waxed quite mischievous in the relief of the moment. “You don’t know what an absent-minded creature he is! If Mother were not there to look after him, he would go to meet the Archbishop without a hat on his head, or stand gloating over an old bookstall in the street, until he forgot all about his appointment. Mother has to be very careful not to let him out of her sight. She writes down all that he wants to say on a piece of paper, and leads him up to the very door of the room. Then she says: ‘Now, Austin, do you know whom you are going to see?’ Father stares blankly, and says: ‘Er—er—I really er—.’ And then she says very slowly and distinctly: ‘You—are—going—to—see—the—Archbishop! You—want—to—see—him—very—badly—indeed. Here is a list of the things you want to say!’ Then she thrusts the paper into his hands, pushes him inside the door, and shuts it firmly behind him. It’s quite true! I know, because I have been with them.”“Eh? eh? eh? What this! what’s all this?” The Dean pushed his chair from the table, and stared at his daughter with a comical expression of amused embarrassment upon his face. “Upon my word, Sarah, I believe you are right! The children are growing up—they are growing up! I—I never heard such an accusation in my life! Absent-minded! Am I indeed, Miss Bertha? I see a great deal more than you imagine, young lady!”His lips were twitching, his grave eyes twinkling with amusement. He was a Dean and a scholar whose fame was world-wide; who wrote books the very names of which Mildred was unable to understand, but he had shown himself so considerate of the young people’s enjoyment, he looked, at the moment, so kindly and mischievous that a sudden wave of affection swelled within the girl’s heart. Up she leapt, and bounding across the room to his side, threw her long arms round his neck, and kissed him rapturously upon the lips. It was an extraordinary liberty to take, but what followed was more extraordinary still, for the Dean returned the salute with the utmost alacrity, and keeping one arm round Mildred’s waist, twirled off with her towards the door in something that was perilously,—perilously like a polka!When he reached the doorway, and saw the old butler coming along the passage, he shook himself free in a moment, and shuffled off to the study, looking as sober as if he had never indulged in a game of romps in his life; but when Mildred turned back into the room the twins were clapping their hands in delight, Lady Sarah struggling in vain to restrain a smile, while Mrs Faucit was laughing softly to herself, with a glimmer of tears in her eyes.There are two sorts of tears, however, and these of the Dean’s wife were certainly not those of sorrow. Perhaps she was thinking of the days when she was a girl herself, and of a certain lanky schoolboy who spent the vacations with her brothers, and who behaved in such harum-scarum fashion that an onlooker would have been ready to prophesy anything of him, rather than that he should have developed into a sober dignitary of the church!But a day of busy preparation lay before Mrs Faucit. She had no time to waste in day-dreams, so excusing herself to Lady Sarah, she carried the girls upstairs to her room, where she proceeded to read them a gentle lecture on their behaviour for the next few days.“Now do, dears, try to help me while I am away! I shall be miserable if I feel that things are not going on well at home, and it all depends upon you. Make up your minds that you will not allow little things to annoy you, and set yourselves to be cheerful and forbearing. The rest will follow as a matter of course. Bertha, I leave the children to you—see that they are happy. If any accident or sudden illness should happen, telegraph at once for me. Lois, you must take my place in the house. Look after the flowers, and see that a fire is lit in the small drawing-room if the weather is at all chilly. Mildred, I have a task for you too. I wonder if you can guess what it is? I am going to leave Lady Sarah in your care! Yes, really, dear—I mean it! I ask you as a favour to look upon her as your special charge while I am away—to see that she is comfortable and has all she wants. She is very old, Mildred, and in spite of her sharp manner, she appreciates kindness. Now remember, dear, I trust you!”“Oh, dear!” groaned Mildred; “I wish you wouldn’t! I don’t like it a bit. I’d much sooner arrange the flowers—mayn’t I arrange the flowers, Mrs Faucit, please, and let Lois look after Lady Sarah? You said yourself I had quite a gift for arranging flowers!” Then, as Mrs Faucit only smiled and shook her head, she went off into fresh lamentations. “It’s perfectly miserable that you have to go away at all. Things do happen so nastily in this world! Just as I was going home Robbie fell ill, and now the very day before the picnic this letter arrives! It’s horrid. Cécile said you were going away, but I never believed you would!”Mrs Faucit looked up sharply.“Cécile said!” she repeated. “Cécile! What did she know about it, pray? The date of the interview was so uncertain that I have never spoken of it in the house. I hoped that, as it had been so often deferred, it might not come off until the end of the holidays. What did Cécile say?”“Oh, not much!” replied Mildred easily. “Something about finding out what Lady Sarah was like when you went away and she was left in charge. I said you were not going away, and she muttered something about hearing the servants talk. I really forget what it was.”Mrs Faucit wrinkled her brows, and looked perturbed. How could Cécile know of plans which had only been discussed between husband and wife? Could it be that the Dean, in his carelessness, had left a letter on the subject lying about, and that Cécile had been unprincipled enough to read the contents? It was the only explanation of which she could think, and it was sufficiently unpleasant to send her downstairs to interview Lady Sarah with a fresh weight on her mind.“Will you be kind enough to take care of the keys for me, Sarah?” she asked. “There are a good many valuables in the chest in the strong-room, and I should feel more comfortable if you were in charge. James will apply to you for anything he needs, and pray do not hesitate to give him your instructions in return. By the way, Mildred has just been telling me that Cécile spoke to her some days ago of our leaving home! I can’t imagine how she can have known about it. I am afraid I have never got over my first dislike to that woman, Sarah. I don’t like her prying ways, and I don’t like her manner to you. You are not given to spoiling your servants, but it seems to me that you are allowing Cécile to get the upper hand; and if that goes on, it will be a great mistake. She does not impress me as a woman whom it is safe to indulge!”Lady Sarah gave an impatient toss to her head.“Oh, my dear Evelyn!” she cried; “it is easy for you to talk. You have your husband and children, and are not dependent upon a servant. I am! Cécile has it in her power to make my comfort or misery, and she is a capable woman, who understands my requirements. I have suffered so much from inefficient maids that I cannot afford to quarrel with one who really suits me!”She evidently did not appreciate her friend’s interference, and Mrs Faucit realised that there was no more to be said on the subject.
The day before the eventful picnic the family were seated round the breakfast-table, when the Dean looked up from a letter which he had just been reading, and said mildly, and as if he were making the most natural request in the world:
“Evelyn, will you get ready to go up to town by the five o’clock train this afternoon? The Archbishop has appointed our interview for three o’clock to-morrow. You had better pack for two or three nights.”
Mrs Faucit gave an irrepressible start of consternation. Was ever anything so unfortunate! The interview with the Archbishop had been talked of for months past; half a dozen letters had been exchanged on the subject within the last fortnight; the question which was to be discussed was of pressing importance. She realised at once that the appointment must be kept, but her heart sank as she looked at the three young faces beside her—aghast, and speechless with horror.
“Oh! is it really to-morrow?” she cried. “Are you quite sure, dear? Look again! you so often make mistakes in the date. Does he say Wednesday the sixteenth, or Wednesday the twenty-third?”
The Dean peered at his letter once more.
“He says:I shall be able to meet you on Wednesday next, sixteenth instant. It is certainly to-morrow. Why, Evelyn; is there any reason why—er—?”
“It is the day of Mrs Newland’s picnic. I have accepted her invitation—”
“Oh, is that all!” Her husband drew a sigh of relief. “You must write, of course, and explain your absence. She will understand, and it will be a relief to you, dear. I—er—I have some recollection of being at a picnic myself years ago. Uncomfortable occasion! Er—earwigs—meals on the grass—baskets to carry. You would have been very tired. Much more comfortable at the Métropole!”
Mrs Faucit could not restrain a smile in spite of her concern.
“Just so, Austin; but that is not the light in which the young people look at it. I was to chaperone the girls. I am thinking of them, not of myself. It will be a great disappointment.”
The Dean put up his eye-glasses, and stared at the three girls in turn. His own daughters were white with suppressed emotion, but Mildred’s face was tragic in its agony of suspense. She did not say a word, but she turned her great, grey eyes upon him, piteous as those of a child who sees a surgeon standing over her, knife in hand; and as he met that glance the Dean rumpled his hair in perturbation of spirit.
“Dear me! dear me! this is very distressing. Disappointed, are they? I don’t want the children to be disappointed, Evelyn! Let them enjoy themselves. If they appreciate that sort of thing, let them go by all means. Why should they stay away because you are obliged to do so? Mrs Newland will look after them.”
“My dear Dean!” Lady Sarah shook out her serviette, and raised her voice to an even shriller note than usual. “My dear Dean, you don’t realise what you are saying. The girls are not children any longer; they were fifteen their last birthday. In another two years, or three at the outside, they will be in society. You cannot possibly allow them to go to a large affair of this sort without a chaperone. Mrs Newland will be occupied with her guests, and will have no time to look after them. If Evelyn is obliged to go away, let the girls stay at home. They can surely bear a little disappointment. They will have bigger ones than this to bear as they go through life!”
“True, Sarah,—quite true; but that is the more reason why I wish to postpone them as long as possible. I don’t want the girls to miss their pleasure, Evelyn! Can nothing be done? Can’t you think of some plan, dear? you are so clever. Is there no other alternative?” And the kindly Dean looked at his wife with a face full of anxiety.
Mrs Faucit smiled back at him in the peculiarly sweet, reassuring manner which she reserved for himself and for Erroll, the youngest member of the family—a mischievous little rascal, who employed himself in getting into trouble all day long, and in rushing to throw himself upon his mother’s tender mercies after each fresh exploit.
“I think we might surely hit on some plan between us!” she said brightly. “Such a number of clever people! For instance, it ought not to be altogether impossible to provide another chaperone for the girls. There are more people than my important self in the town, and Mrs Newland will be quite willing to accept a representative under the circumstances.”
“If you mean me, Evelyn, I am not at all sure that I feel equal to the exertion. If they were going to drive from door to door, and have lunch in an hotel in reasonable fashion, it would be different; but with so many changes, and the whole day to be spent in the open air—”
“Oh, my dear Sarah, I never thought of such a thing for a moment! It would be too much to ask. You would be terribly fatigued.” Mrs Faucit had caught the echo of three separate gasps of consternation, and she spoke with unusual emphasis. “Oh, no, indeed! I think it will answer all purposes if Miss Turner takes the girls in charge. Mrs Newland knows her, and it would be a pity to look any further when we have someone so suitable in the house. That will be a very good arrangement, won’t it, girls?”
Then for the first time the girls’ lips were opened, and they spoke. Up till now the tension of suspense had been so great that they seemed scarcely able to breathe.
“Oh, yes, Mother, it will be delightful!”
“Oh, yes, Mrs Faucit, splendid! Miss Turner will be nicer than anyone if you can’t go yourself. But are you really obliged to go away? Why can’t you stay at home when it is only for two days?”
“My dear Mil! and allow Father to go by himself!” Bertha waxed quite mischievous in the relief of the moment. “You don’t know what an absent-minded creature he is! If Mother were not there to look after him, he would go to meet the Archbishop without a hat on his head, or stand gloating over an old bookstall in the street, until he forgot all about his appointment. Mother has to be very careful not to let him out of her sight. She writes down all that he wants to say on a piece of paper, and leads him up to the very door of the room. Then she says: ‘Now, Austin, do you know whom you are going to see?’ Father stares blankly, and says: ‘Er—er—I really er—.’ And then she says very slowly and distinctly: ‘You—are—going—to—see—the—Archbishop! You—want—to—see—him—very—badly—indeed. Here is a list of the things you want to say!’ Then she thrusts the paper into his hands, pushes him inside the door, and shuts it firmly behind him. It’s quite true! I know, because I have been with them.”
“Eh? eh? eh? What this! what’s all this?” The Dean pushed his chair from the table, and stared at his daughter with a comical expression of amused embarrassment upon his face. “Upon my word, Sarah, I believe you are right! The children are growing up—they are growing up! I—I never heard such an accusation in my life! Absent-minded! Am I indeed, Miss Bertha? I see a great deal more than you imagine, young lady!”
His lips were twitching, his grave eyes twinkling with amusement. He was a Dean and a scholar whose fame was world-wide; who wrote books the very names of which Mildred was unable to understand, but he had shown himself so considerate of the young people’s enjoyment, he looked, at the moment, so kindly and mischievous that a sudden wave of affection swelled within the girl’s heart. Up she leapt, and bounding across the room to his side, threw her long arms round his neck, and kissed him rapturously upon the lips. It was an extraordinary liberty to take, but what followed was more extraordinary still, for the Dean returned the salute with the utmost alacrity, and keeping one arm round Mildred’s waist, twirled off with her towards the door in something that was perilously,—perilously like a polka!
When he reached the doorway, and saw the old butler coming along the passage, he shook himself free in a moment, and shuffled off to the study, looking as sober as if he had never indulged in a game of romps in his life; but when Mildred turned back into the room the twins were clapping their hands in delight, Lady Sarah struggling in vain to restrain a smile, while Mrs Faucit was laughing softly to herself, with a glimmer of tears in her eyes.
There are two sorts of tears, however, and these of the Dean’s wife were certainly not those of sorrow. Perhaps she was thinking of the days when she was a girl herself, and of a certain lanky schoolboy who spent the vacations with her brothers, and who behaved in such harum-scarum fashion that an onlooker would have been ready to prophesy anything of him, rather than that he should have developed into a sober dignitary of the church!
But a day of busy preparation lay before Mrs Faucit. She had no time to waste in day-dreams, so excusing herself to Lady Sarah, she carried the girls upstairs to her room, where she proceeded to read them a gentle lecture on their behaviour for the next few days.
“Now do, dears, try to help me while I am away! I shall be miserable if I feel that things are not going on well at home, and it all depends upon you. Make up your minds that you will not allow little things to annoy you, and set yourselves to be cheerful and forbearing. The rest will follow as a matter of course. Bertha, I leave the children to you—see that they are happy. If any accident or sudden illness should happen, telegraph at once for me. Lois, you must take my place in the house. Look after the flowers, and see that a fire is lit in the small drawing-room if the weather is at all chilly. Mildred, I have a task for you too. I wonder if you can guess what it is? I am going to leave Lady Sarah in your care! Yes, really, dear—I mean it! I ask you as a favour to look upon her as your special charge while I am away—to see that she is comfortable and has all she wants. She is very old, Mildred, and in spite of her sharp manner, she appreciates kindness. Now remember, dear, I trust you!”
“Oh, dear!” groaned Mildred; “I wish you wouldn’t! I don’t like it a bit. I’d much sooner arrange the flowers—mayn’t I arrange the flowers, Mrs Faucit, please, and let Lois look after Lady Sarah? You said yourself I had quite a gift for arranging flowers!” Then, as Mrs Faucit only smiled and shook her head, she went off into fresh lamentations. “It’s perfectly miserable that you have to go away at all. Things do happen so nastily in this world! Just as I was going home Robbie fell ill, and now the very day before the picnic this letter arrives! It’s horrid. Cécile said you were going away, but I never believed you would!”
Mrs Faucit looked up sharply.
“Cécile said!” she repeated. “Cécile! What did she know about it, pray? The date of the interview was so uncertain that I have never spoken of it in the house. I hoped that, as it had been so often deferred, it might not come off until the end of the holidays. What did Cécile say?”
“Oh, not much!” replied Mildred easily. “Something about finding out what Lady Sarah was like when you went away and she was left in charge. I said you were not going away, and she muttered something about hearing the servants talk. I really forget what it was.”
Mrs Faucit wrinkled her brows, and looked perturbed. How could Cécile know of plans which had only been discussed between husband and wife? Could it be that the Dean, in his carelessness, had left a letter on the subject lying about, and that Cécile had been unprincipled enough to read the contents? It was the only explanation of which she could think, and it was sufficiently unpleasant to send her downstairs to interview Lady Sarah with a fresh weight on her mind.
“Will you be kind enough to take care of the keys for me, Sarah?” she asked. “There are a good many valuables in the chest in the strong-room, and I should feel more comfortable if you were in charge. James will apply to you for anything he needs, and pray do not hesitate to give him your instructions in return. By the way, Mildred has just been telling me that Cécile spoke to her some days ago of our leaving home! I can’t imagine how she can have known about it. I am afraid I have never got over my first dislike to that woman, Sarah. I don’t like her prying ways, and I don’t like her manner to you. You are not given to spoiling your servants, but it seems to me that you are allowing Cécile to get the upper hand; and if that goes on, it will be a great mistake. She does not impress me as a woman whom it is safe to indulge!”
Lady Sarah gave an impatient toss to her head.
“Oh, my dear Evelyn!” she cried; “it is easy for you to talk. You have your husband and children, and are not dependent upon a servant. I am! Cécile has it in her power to make my comfort or misery, and she is a capable woman, who understands my requirements. I have suffered so much from inefficient maids that I cannot afford to quarrel with one who really suits me!”
She evidently did not appreciate her friend’s interference, and Mrs Faucit realised that there was no more to be said on the subject.
Chapter Eleven.The Picnic at Last.The next morning Mildred awoke to find the sun pouring into her room through the uncurtained windows. A moment of sleepy confusion, and then remembrance awoke. It was the day of the picnic—the all-important day which had been dreamt of so long, and with such ardent anticipation. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window, to see if the sky fulfilled the promise of the sunshine. Well, not quite! the blue was broken by ominous clouds, which the wind drove along at a speed too rapid to be reassuring. Mildred knew that radiant mornings had an unpleasant knack of settling down into gloomy days, but she was so anxious to think the best that she would not allow herself to dwell upon unpleasant truths. It was enough to put anyone in good spirits to dress in that delicious blaze of sunshine, and the meeting at the breakfast-table took place under the brightest auspices.“Isn’t it a perfectly scrumptious day? Doesn’t it make you want to skip and dance?” cried Mildred enthusiastically. “I feel as if I could do anything when the sun shines like this—it’s so inspiring—it makes you feel so strong, and light, and well. I could jump over a mountain, I believe, if there was one in my way.” She gave a spring over a stool as she spoke, by way of illustrating her words, and might possibly have proceeded to further exploits had not Lady Sarah entered the room at that moment and taken her seat at the head of the table.She walked with an unusually brisk tread, and her face looked less lined and tired than usual. The brilliant morning had evidently its effect upon her as well as on the younger members of the household, and so amiable did she appear that the girls went on with their rhapsodies undeterred by her presence. They laughed, and chattered, and joked in overflowing spirits, and when Lady Sarah found a chance to put in a question about the scene of the day’s excursion there was a race to see who could answer first, and use the greatest number of superlatives in doing so.“A pretty place?—Oh, exquisite! The most beautiful little village that was ever seen! A river?—Yes, indeed, the prettiest river in the world, splashing over rocks, and with the sweetest little shady paths on either side! An inn?—Rather! Like an inn in a picture—oak walls, and blue china in corner cupboards. Walks?—Everywhere! In every direction?—Impossible to take a wrong turning where every step of the country was beautiful!”After these rhapsodies had continued for several moments Lady Sarah’s face began to assume an expression of curiosity, and she glanced out of the window from time to time, as if mentally considering some question.“I am not quite sure about the day, the clouds look low. If it were more settled I really think I should like to come with you myself instead of Miss Turner.”Had a bomb-shell suddenly exploded in the room its occupants could hardly have been more bewildered than they were by the utterance of these few, quietly-spoken words, “I should like to go with you myself.” The girls held their breath, and felt stupefied with horror. They had never dreamt that this would be the result of their ecstatic description; they had imagined that the subject of a chaperone was settled once for all, and it was a terrible awakening. Bertha was the first to recover her composure. She had a strong consciousness of the importance of her position as the Dean’s eldest daughter, and in her mother’s absence was determined not to shirk her responsibility.“But—but, Lady Sarah, Miss Turner has been asked. Mother has written to Mrs Newland. Do you think it would do to alter the arrangement?” she asked earnestly, and Lady Sarah tossed her head in derision.“My dear child, what nonsense you talk! I think Mrs Newland would have little hesitation in accepting me in Miss Turner’s place; I would explain it to her myself.”“But we go for a walk in the afternoon, a long walk. You would be terribly tired.”“Nothing of the sort. I am not quite paralysed yet. Say no more on that score, if you please. I am able and willing, and shall be glad of the chance of seeing the place; but, of course if you prefer the governess—”What could be said in answer to such a question as this? The usages of polite society forbidding a candid avowal of the truth, Bertha could only protest feebly in a weak, broken-spirited voice.“Very well, then, we will consider it settled. We do not leave the house until half-past eleven, by that time I shall see what the day is going to do. It is beginning to cloud over, and I don’t like the look of the sky. If it shows any disposition to rain I shall certainly not risk an attack of rheumatism by walking on damp grass, but if it keeps fine I shall be ready when the carriage comes round. Miss Turner will no doubt be very glad to stay at home.”She swept from the room, and the scene which followed can be better imagined than described. Mildred paced up and down, her cheeks aflame, her lips pressed together to keep back a torrent of angry words. Lois had hard work not to cry outright, while Bertha sat down on a chair, and clasped her hands in despair.“I know what it means!—I know what it means! She went with us once before. She made me stay beside her all day long, and wear mufflers round my neck; and sit inside the coach coming home. She wouldn’t let me have an ice at lunch, or sail on the lake—or—or—do anything nice! I’d just as soon give it up at once, and stay at home. It will be all spoiled! I sha’n’t enjoy it a bit!”She was very near tears herself, but for once in her life Mildred made no response. There was a strange, half-triumphant smile upon her lips, and she continued to pace up and down the room, and to take no part in her friend’s lamentations.By and by Bertha and Lois went away, with dejected mien, to attend to the various duties with which they had been charged. Bertha to the nursery, to give orders that some little friends should be invited to take tea with the children, Lois to arrange the basket of flowers which the gardener brought up to the house. About ten o’clock the sky clouded over in a threatening manner, and it seemed as if Lady Sarah’s prophecy was about to be fulfilled, but when the carriage came round to the door at half-past eleven, the sun was shining again in all its splendour, and the air felt warm and fragrant.Neither of the girls had seen anything of Mildred since parting from her in the breakfast-room, but at the last moment she came strolling leisurely across the hall, looking such a picture of youth and beauty as made them hold their breath in admiration. The blue dress looked as fresh and dainty as if it was being worn for the first time, a soft white sash was twisted round the waist, and a bunch of ox-eye daisies tucked into the folds of muslin round the neck. The golden hair fell in wavy masses down her back, and the shady hat dipped forward over her charming face. The Dean’s daughters looked colourless and insignificant beside her, but they were too radiantly happy to care about their own appearance, for it was Miss Turner who came forward to seat herself beside them in the carriage, while Lady Sarah stood within the porch speaking her farewells in tones of ill-concealed irritation.“Most rash and foolish I call it! I heard the rain distinctly, I tell you, and not satisfied with hearing, I put my head out of the window and felt several drops upon my face. Have you taken umbrellas and mackintoshes?—No? Now, my dear Lois, pray, don’t make objections to everything I say. Your mother is away, and I feel the responsibility on my shoulders. Miss Turner, will you be good enough to see that umbrellas and mackintoshes are taken, and good thick cloaks in case of cold? You will be starved to death on the coach coming home.”The echo of the fretful voice followed the carriage as it drove away from the door, and as Bertha waved her hand, a shadow of compunction fell over her face.“She is disappointed! Poor old lady; she looks lonely, standing there. She daren’t come because of her rheumatism; but just look at that sky, and imagine anyone saying that it had been raining; so positive about it, too. She must have been dreaming.”“Well, for goodness sake don’t begin to be miserable now, Bertha, because she isnotcoming! Two hours ago you were nearly crying because she was. You said you wouldn’t enjoy yourself at all, and would just as soon stay at home. For goodness sake be cheerful, and don’t grumble any more!”Mildred’s voice sounded so irritable that her friends stared at her in surprise. She looked exceedingly pretty and charming, but not quite like herself all the same. It was difficult to say wherein the difference lay, yet both Lois and Bertha recognised it at once. The air of exuberant happiness, which was one of her chief characteristics, had disappeared. She looked strained, worried, ill at ease.All through the earlier part of the day this curious depression seemed to hang over Mildred’s spirits. At every quiet opportunity she whispered an eager “Are you enjoying yourself?” into her friend’s ear; “You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Bertha?” but it was not until lunch was laid out upon the grass, and the merry scramble for knives and forks had begun, that she herself seemed able to enter into the fun with a whole heart. From that time onward she was her own merry self, and Bertha had the pleasure of seeing her prophecy fulfilled, for before the afternoon was over, Mildred, in her old blue dress and renovated hat, had become the principal personage in the party. The ladies were charmed with her because she was so pretty, and had such winsome, coaxing little ways; the gentlemen, because she was a thorough school-girl, free from every trace of young-ladyish affectation. It delighted them to see her race up the hillsides, or skip from rock to rock across the river bed, and when the time came for the return drive, there was quite a struggle for the seat by her side in the coach. The gentleman who gained it was, in Mildred’s estimation, the most interesting of the number. He was very tall, and so thin that his clothes hung upon him in baggy folds. His skin was burnt to a dull brown colour, and had a curious dried-up appearance, but his blue eyes shone with a boy-like gleam. Mildred could not make up her mind whether he were old or young, but as he remarked, in the course of conversation, that he had just returned from a fifteen-years sojourn in Ceylon, and that he had left England shortly after his twenty-first birthday, she was able to calculate his age with little difficulty.“I am interested in Ceylon. Do tell me all about it!” she said. Whereat her companion smiled, and said that was a “large order.” He proceeded, however, in easy, chatty manner to give some interesting accounts of the country, and his own adventures therein. He told, for instance, of how darkness fell suddenly upon the land, and the tiny streams swelled in an hour to the magnitude of a river; how, when returning from a friend’s bungalow one evening, the oil in his lantern had given out, and he had been compelled to crawl on hands and knees along the dangerous road; how, on the borders of a forest, he had seen two snakes standing erect in deadly combat, and could remember a flight of white butterflies, three miles in length and of such density that they obscured the sun as with a cloud. He told stories of his elephants, too; how they had worked for him in building the big tea-factory on which he had been engaged, dragging the heavy stones up the hillsides, and pushing them into their own particular niche, with their ponderous feet. How steadily they worked, and with what persistence, until the bell rang at four o’clock, when they instantly turned tail, ambled off to their lines, and refused to do a stroke of work until the next morning. “Fifteen years!” he sighed; “fifteen years! It is a good slice out of a man’s life. When I went out, I had dreams of making my fortune in a few years and coming home to spend it in England, but the days of rapid fortune making are over, and I shall probably end my life in Ceylon. I wasn’t much older than you are now, Miss Mildred, when my guardian packed me off to an office in the city, and I was obliged to sit copying letters at a desk from morning till night. Bah! how I hated it. I made up my mind to go abroad the moment I was twenty-one, and could claim my money, but when the time came, I felt pretty bad at leaving. I had a special chum, with whom I lived and worked, and played, and shared every joy and sorrow. It was a terrible wrench to part from him—and from someone else—the lady who is now my wife! You have been introduced to her, I think; there she is in the blue dress, sitting in the front of the other coach.”“With the brown hat? Yes, I know; I like her. She looks awfully sweet.” Mildred nodded her head decisively, and her companion’s eyes twinkled in response.“Oh, yes! she’s quite satisfactory. Bullies me a little now and then, you know—between ourselves; but one can’t have everything in this wicked world. Well, you see, she came out to me in due time. But before there was any talk of that, another curious thing had happened. I was sitting in front of my bungalow one afternoon, very low and homesick, and tired to death after a long day’s work. I was wondering if I should ever live to get back to the old country, or to see my friends again, when suddenly a man came round the corner of the road, and marched up the garden path. He was an Englishman—that was seen at the first glance; he was tall, and broad, and had a peculiar way of holding his shoulders. I stared at him, not knowing if I were awake or asleep, and when he was within a dozen yards, he raised his head to look at me, and it was my chum!—the very fellow I had been thinking of five minutes before, and despairing of ever seeing again!”“Good gracious! What did you do? What did you say?”Mr Muir smiled.“Do? Say? I called out ‘Halloa!’ and he called out ‘Halloa!’ and we shook hands and went into the bungalow. That seems strange to you, doesn’t it? If you had been in my place, and one of your school-fellows had appeared upon the scene, you would have behaved rather differently, I imagine!”“Rather!” cried Mildred; “I can’t think how you can have been so calm! If I had been there, and had seen Bertha coming, I’d have whooped like a red Indian, and rushed down, and simply smothered her with kisses. Men must be awfully cold-blooded.”“I don’t know about that. There are different ways of expressing one’s emotion. A grip of the hand goes a long way sometimes. Well, I was fortunate, you see, for I had my chum with me once more. He had been as lonely without me as I without him, and had made up his mind to come and join me. We bought an estate between us, and now have a factory of our own. I was grieved to see these good people drinking Chinese tea this evening. I believe some wiseacres pretend that it is good for the digestion, but what is that compared with encouraging the poor planters in Ceylon? Remember, Miss Mildred, I rely upon you to drink nothing but Indian tea for the rest of your life.”“Oh, I will!” promised Mildred readily. “I am quite interested in Ceylon now, because of you, and of another planter who was a friend of a great friend of mine. She told me a story about him only a few weeks ago. He wasn’t so fortunate as you. He was quite alone, and he tried to grow quinine—cinchona, you call it, don’t you? All the other estates suffered from blight, except his, and he was promised ever so much money for it—a fortune—but just when he was so happy, thinking of coming home, the disease came on his estate too, and everything died away before his eyes. All his work was lost, he had to begin over again, and dig up the land to plant tea instead.”“Now, I wonder who told you that story!” Mr Muir cried. “I knew a fellow who had exactly the same experience. Curiously enough, he came home in the ship with me. We only landed a week ago. Do you mind telling the name of your informant?”“No, of course not. Why should I? It was one of my school-mistresses—Miss Margaret Chilton. She and her eldest sister keep the school to which we all go—Bertha, and Lois, and I. We were talking of disappointments one day, and she told me this story as an illustration.”Mr Muir threw back his head, and began to laugh in a soft, amused fashion, most mystifying to the hearer.“Talk of coincidences!” he cried. “Talk of coincidences! Why, Miss Mildred, it is the very man of whom I was speaking. Isn’t that a curious thing? I knew him intimately, and he has told me stories too—about Miss Margaret Chilton among other people. And she is your school-mistress? Tell me now, what is she like? I have heard so much about her that I am interested to hear.”“She is a darling!”“Er—so I was given to understand!” said Mr Muir drily. “And as to appearance? Dark or fair, tall or short, plain or good-looking?”Mildred reflected.“She has brown eyes,” she said slowly. “Oh, you may think that is not a good description, but it is; because when you see Mardie’s eyes, you don’t notice anything else. They are so clear, and sweet, and lovely, and they look straight at you, as if they could see through and through, but so gently and kindly that you don’t mind it a bit.”Mildred opened her own eyes at her companion as she spoke, with a comical imitation of Miss Margaret’s expression, which made him laugh in spite of himself.“I see! I see! Well, I shouldn’t wonder if I were to have the pleasure of meeting Miss Chilton one of these fine days. If I do, I am sure I shall recognise her by the description.”At this point the coach drew up before the railway station, and the party separated to return to their various homes. Mr Muir whispered a word or two in his wife’s ear, and they came together to the window of the carriage in which the girls were seated, to wish them a last farewell.“Au revoir, Miss Mildred!” he cried, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “I am not going to say good-bye, for I expect to meet you again, on a still more interesting occasion.”“I haven’t the least idea what you mean, but I hope we shall!” returned Mildred.
The next morning Mildred awoke to find the sun pouring into her room through the uncurtained windows. A moment of sleepy confusion, and then remembrance awoke. It was the day of the picnic—the all-important day which had been dreamt of so long, and with such ardent anticipation. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window, to see if the sky fulfilled the promise of the sunshine. Well, not quite! the blue was broken by ominous clouds, which the wind drove along at a speed too rapid to be reassuring. Mildred knew that radiant mornings had an unpleasant knack of settling down into gloomy days, but she was so anxious to think the best that she would not allow herself to dwell upon unpleasant truths. It was enough to put anyone in good spirits to dress in that delicious blaze of sunshine, and the meeting at the breakfast-table took place under the brightest auspices.
“Isn’t it a perfectly scrumptious day? Doesn’t it make you want to skip and dance?” cried Mildred enthusiastically. “I feel as if I could do anything when the sun shines like this—it’s so inspiring—it makes you feel so strong, and light, and well. I could jump over a mountain, I believe, if there was one in my way.” She gave a spring over a stool as she spoke, by way of illustrating her words, and might possibly have proceeded to further exploits had not Lady Sarah entered the room at that moment and taken her seat at the head of the table.
She walked with an unusually brisk tread, and her face looked less lined and tired than usual. The brilliant morning had evidently its effect upon her as well as on the younger members of the household, and so amiable did she appear that the girls went on with their rhapsodies undeterred by her presence. They laughed, and chattered, and joked in overflowing spirits, and when Lady Sarah found a chance to put in a question about the scene of the day’s excursion there was a race to see who could answer first, and use the greatest number of superlatives in doing so.
“A pretty place?—Oh, exquisite! The most beautiful little village that was ever seen! A river?—Yes, indeed, the prettiest river in the world, splashing over rocks, and with the sweetest little shady paths on either side! An inn?—Rather! Like an inn in a picture—oak walls, and blue china in corner cupboards. Walks?—Everywhere! In every direction?—Impossible to take a wrong turning where every step of the country was beautiful!”
After these rhapsodies had continued for several moments Lady Sarah’s face began to assume an expression of curiosity, and she glanced out of the window from time to time, as if mentally considering some question.
“I am not quite sure about the day, the clouds look low. If it were more settled I really think I should like to come with you myself instead of Miss Turner.”
Had a bomb-shell suddenly exploded in the room its occupants could hardly have been more bewildered than they were by the utterance of these few, quietly-spoken words, “I should like to go with you myself.” The girls held their breath, and felt stupefied with horror. They had never dreamt that this would be the result of their ecstatic description; they had imagined that the subject of a chaperone was settled once for all, and it was a terrible awakening. Bertha was the first to recover her composure. She had a strong consciousness of the importance of her position as the Dean’s eldest daughter, and in her mother’s absence was determined not to shirk her responsibility.
“But—but, Lady Sarah, Miss Turner has been asked. Mother has written to Mrs Newland. Do you think it would do to alter the arrangement?” she asked earnestly, and Lady Sarah tossed her head in derision.
“My dear child, what nonsense you talk! I think Mrs Newland would have little hesitation in accepting me in Miss Turner’s place; I would explain it to her myself.”
“But we go for a walk in the afternoon, a long walk. You would be terribly tired.”
“Nothing of the sort. I am not quite paralysed yet. Say no more on that score, if you please. I am able and willing, and shall be glad of the chance of seeing the place; but, of course if you prefer the governess—”
What could be said in answer to such a question as this? The usages of polite society forbidding a candid avowal of the truth, Bertha could only protest feebly in a weak, broken-spirited voice.
“Very well, then, we will consider it settled. We do not leave the house until half-past eleven, by that time I shall see what the day is going to do. It is beginning to cloud over, and I don’t like the look of the sky. If it shows any disposition to rain I shall certainly not risk an attack of rheumatism by walking on damp grass, but if it keeps fine I shall be ready when the carriage comes round. Miss Turner will no doubt be very glad to stay at home.”
She swept from the room, and the scene which followed can be better imagined than described. Mildred paced up and down, her cheeks aflame, her lips pressed together to keep back a torrent of angry words. Lois had hard work not to cry outright, while Bertha sat down on a chair, and clasped her hands in despair.
“I know what it means!—I know what it means! She went with us once before. She made me stay beside her all day long, and wear mufflers round my neck; and sit inside the coach coming home. She wouldn’t let me have an ice at lunch, or sail on the lake—or—or—do anything nice! I’d just as soon give it up at once, and stay at home. It will be all spoiled! I sha’n’t enjoy it a bit!”
She was very near tears herself, but for once in her life Mildred made no response. There was a strange, half-triumphant smile upon her lips, and she continued to pace up and down the room, and to take no part in her friend’s lamentations.
By and by Bertha and Lois went away, with dejected mien, to attend to the various duties with which they had been charged. Bertha to the nursery, to give orders that some little friends should be invited to take tea with the children, Lois to arrange the basket of flowers which the gardener brought up to the house. About ten o’clock the sky clouded over in a threatening manner, and it seemed as if Lady Sarah’s prophecy was about to be fulfilled, but when the carriage came round to the door at half-past eleven, the sun was shining again in all its splendour, and the air felt warm and fragrant.
Neither of the girls had seen anything of Mildred since parting from her in the breakfast-room, but at the last moment she came strolling leisurely across the hall, looking such a picture of youth and beauty as made them hold their breath in admiration. The blue dress looked as fresh and dainty as if it was being worn for the first time, a soft white sash was twisted round the waist, and a bunch of ox-eye daisies tucked into the folds of muslin round the neck. The golden hair fell in wavy masses down her back, and the shady hat dipped forward over her charming face. The Dean’s daughters looked colourless and insignificant beside her, but they were too radiantly happy to care about their own appearance, for it was Miss Turner who came forward to seat herself beside them in the carriage, while Lady Sarah stood within the porch speaking her farewells in tones of ill-concealed irritation.
“Most rash and foolish I call it! I heard the rain distinctly, I tell you, and not satisfied with hearing, I put my head out of the window and felt several drops upon my face. Have you taken umbrellas and mackintoshes?—No? Now, my dear Lois, pray, don’t make objections to everything I say. Your mother is away, and I feel the responsibility on my shoulders. Miss Turner, will you be good enough to see that umbrellas and mackintoshes are taken, and good thick cloaks in case of cold? You will be starved to death on the coach coming home.”
The echo of the fretful voice followed the carriage as it drove away from the door, and as Bertha waved her hand, a shadow of compunction fell over her face.
“She is disappointed! Poor old lady; she looks lonely, standing there. She daren’t come because of her rheumatism; but just look at that sky, and imagine anyone saying that it had been raining; so positive about it, too. She must have been dreaming.”
“Well, for goodness sake don’t begin to be miserable now, Bertha, because she isnotcoming! Two hours ago you were nearly crying because she was. You said you wouldn’t enjoy yourself at all, and would just as soon stay at home. For goodness sake be cheerful, and don’t grumble any more!”
Mildred’s voice sounded so irritable that her friends stared at her in surprise. She looked exceedingly pretty and charming, but not quite like herself all the same. It was difficult to say wherein the difference lay, yet both Lois and Bertha recognised it at once. The air of exuberant happiness, which was one of her chief characteristics, had disappeared. She looked strained, worried, ill at ease.
All through the earlier part of the day this curious depression seemed to hang over Mildred’s spirits. At every quiet opportunity she whispered an eager “Are you enjoying yourself?” into her friend’s ear; “You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Bertha?” but it was not until lunch was laid out upon the grass, and the merry scramble for knives and forks had begun, that she herself seemed able to enter into the fun with a whole heart. From that time onward she was her own merry self, and Bertha had the pleasure of seeing her prophecy fulfilled, for before the afternoon was over, Mildred, in her old blue dress and renovated hat, had become the principal personage in the party. The ladies were charmed with her because she was so pretty, and had such winsome, coaxing little ways; the gentlemen, because she was a thorough school-girl, free from every trace of young-ladyish affectation. It delighted them to see her race up the hillsides, or skip from rock to rock across the river bed, and when the time came for the return drive, there was quite a struggle for the seat by her side in the coach. The gentleman who gained it was, in Mildred’s estimation, the most interesting of the number. He was very tall, and so thin that his clothes hung upon him in baggy folds. His skin was burnt to a dull brown colour, and had a curious dried-up appearance, but his blue eyes shone with a boy-like gleam. Mildred could not make up her mind whether he were old or young, but as he remarked, in the course of conversation, that he had just returned from a fifteen-years sojourn in Ceylon, and that he had left England shortly after his twenty-first birthday, she was able to calculate his age with little difficulty.
“I am interested in Ceylon. Do tell me all about it!” she said. Whereat her companion smiled, and said that was a “large order.” He proceeded, however, in easy, chatty manner to give some interesting accounts of the country, and his own adventures therein. He told, for instance, of how darkness fell suddenly upon the land, and the tiny streams swelled in an hour to the magnitude of a river; how, when returning from a friend’s bungalow one evening, the oil in his lantern had given out, and he had been compelled to crawl on hands and knees along the dangerous road; how, on the borders of a forest, he had seen two snakes standing erect in deadly combat, and could remember a flight of white butterflies, three miles in length and of such density that they obscured the sun as with a cloud. He told stories of his elephants, too; how they had worked for him in building the big tea-factory on which he had been engaged, dragging the heavy stones up the hillsides, and pushing them into their own particular niche, with their ponderous feet. How steadily they worked, and with what persistence, until the bell rang at four o’clock, when they instantly turned tail, ambled off to their lines, and refused to do a stroke of work until the next morning. “Fifteen years!” he sighed; “fifteen years! It is a good slice out of a man’s life. When I went out, I had dreams of making my fortune in a few years and coming home to spend it in England, but the days of rapid fortune making are over, and I shall probably end my life in Ceylon. I wasn’t much older than you are now, Miss Mildred, when my guardian packed me off to an office in the city, and I was obliged to sit copying letters at a desk from morning till night. Bah! how I hated it. I made up my mind to go abroad the moment I was twenty-one, and could claim my money, but when the time came, I felt pretty bad at leaving. I had a special chum, with whom I lived and worked, and played, and shared every joy and sorrow. It was a terrible wrench to part from him—and from someone else—the lady who is now my wife! You have been introduced to her, I think; there she is in the blue dress, sitting in the front of the other coach.”
“With the brown hat? Yes, I know; I like her. She looks awfully sweet.” Mildred nodded her head decisively, and her companion’s eyes twinkled in response.
“Oh, yes! she’s quite satisfactory. Bullies me a little now and then, you know—between ourselves; but one can’t have everything in this wicked world. Well, you see, she came out to me in due time. But before there was any talk of that, another curious thing had happened. I was sitting in front of my bungalow one afternoon, very low and homesick, and tired to death after a long day’s work. I was wondering if I should ever live to get back to the old country, or to see my friends again, when suddenly a man came round the corner of the road, and marched up the garden path. He was an Englishman—that was seen at the first glance; he was tall, and broad, and had a peculiar way of holding his shoulders. I stared at him, not knowing if I were awake or asleep, and when he was within a dozen yards, he raised his head to look at me, and it was my chum!—the very fellow I had been thinking of five minutes before, and despairing of ever seeing again!”
“Good gracious! What did you do? What did you say?”
Mr Muir smiled.
“Do? Say? I called out ‘Halloa!’ and he called out ‘Halloa!’ and we shook hands and went into the bungalow. That seems strange to you, doesn’t it? If you had been in my place, and one of your school-fellows had appeared upon the scene, you would have behaved rather differently, I imagine!”
“Rather!” cried Mildred; “I can’t think how you can have been so calm! If I had been there, and had seen Bertha coming, I’d have whooped like a red Indian, and rushed down, and simply smothered her with kisses. Men must be awfully cold-blooded.”
“I don’t know about that. There are different ways of expressing one’s emotion. A grip of the hand goes a long way sometimes. Well, I was fortunate, you see, for I had my chum with me once more. He had been as lonely without me as I without him, and had made up his mind to come and join me. We bought an estate between us, and now have a factory of our own. I was grieved to see these good people drinking Chinese tea this evening. I believe some wiseacres pretend that it is good for the digestion, but what is that compared with encouraging the poor planters in Ceylon? Remember, Miss Mildred, I rely upon you to drink nothing but Indian tea for the rest of your life.”
“Oh, I will!” promised Mildred readily. “I am quite interested in Ceylon now, because of you, and of another planter who was a friend of a great friend of mine. She told me a story about him only a few weeks ago. He wasn’t so fortunate as you. He was quite alone, and he tried to grow quinine—cinchona, you call it, don’t you? All the other estates suffered from blight, except his, and he was promised ever so much money for it—a fortune—but just when he was so happy, thinking of coming home, the disease came on his estate too, and everything died away before his eyes. All his work was lost, he had to begin over again, and dig up the land to plant tea instead.”
“Now, I wonder who told you that story!” Mr Muir cried. “I knew a fellow who had exactly the same experience. Curiously enough, he came home in the ship with me. We only landed a week ago. Do you mind telling the name of your informant?”
“No, of course not. Why should I? It was one of my school-mistresses—Miss Margaret Chilton. She and her eldest sister keep the school to which we all go—Bertha, and Lois, and I. We were talking of disappointments one day, and she told me this story as an illustration.”
Mr Muir threw back his head, and began to laugh in a soft, amused fashion, most mystifying to the hearer.
“Talk of coincidences!” he cried. “Talk of coincidences! Why, Miss Mildred, it is the very man of whom I was speaking. Isn’t that a curious thing? I knew him intimately, and he has told me stories too—about Miss Margaret Chilton among other people. And she is your school-mistress? Tell me now, what is she like? I have heard so much about her that I am interested to hear.”
“She is a darling!”
“Er—so I was given to understand!” said Mr Muir drily. “And as to appearance? Dark or fair, tall or short, plain or good-looking?”
Mildred reflected.
“She has brown eyes,” she said slowly. “Oh, you may think that is not a good description, but it is; because when you see Mardie’s eyes, you don’t notice anything else. They are so clear, and sweet, and lovely, and they look straight at you, as if they could see through and through, but so gently and kindly that you don’t mind it a bit.”
Mildred opened her own eyes at her companion as she spoke, with a comical imitation of Miss Margaret’s expression, which made him laugh in spite of himself.
“I see! I see! Well, I shouldn’t wonder if I were to have the pleasure of meeting Miss Chilton one of these fine days. If I do, I am sure I shall recognise her by the description.”
At this point the coach drew up before the railway station, and the party separated to return to their various homes. Mr Muir whispered a word or two in his wife’s ear, and they came together to the window of the carriage in which the girls were seated, to wish them a last farewell.
“Au revoir, Miss Mildred!” he cried, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “I am not going to say good-bye, for I expect to meet you again, on a still more interesting occasion.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you mean, but I hope we shall!” returned Mildred.