MY hopes were doomed to disappointment. Aunt Clara wrote that Agneta would be only too pleased to share my room, as she had a nervous dread of sleeping alone in a strange place. So I had to resign myself to the inevitable, and I tried to do it with as good a grace as possible. Aunt Clara said that she would like Agneta to join us in the following week; thus my room had soon to be prepared for another occupant. There was ample space in it for two bedsteads, and aunt had everything arranged very comfortably, but for me, its charm had gone when it was no longer my own sanctum.
"It may not be for long, Nan," my aunt said, reading my thoughts, as together we inspected the new arrangements. "I cannot tell how long these guests will remain with me. I naturally hope they will stay all the summer, but I shall be exceptionally fortunate if they do. When there is another room vacant Agneta shall have it."
"You forget that she does not like to sleep alone," I said. "Oh, it will be all right, auntie. I dare say we shall get on nicely together, and it will be better for you, for then you can let the vacant room to some one else."
"If any one else wants it," said Aunt Patty smiling. "I am really very thankful to have all my rooms occupied. It makes things much easier, and it might have been so different."
That day I received a box from home. It struck me as a curious coincidence, when I perceived that it contained the evening gown that had belonged to my cousin, but was now to be worn by me. I had asked Olive to send it as soon as possible, for I felt altogether too dowdy of an evening in contrast with Paulina's splendour, to say nothing of Miss Cottrell's tasteless efforts at display. Veiled with black grenadine, and finished with dainty frills and furbelows by Olive's clever fingers, the pink gown was so transformed, that I doubted if even its former wearer would recognise it. As I examined it, I remembered the spots we had seen on the bodice, which Olive had declared to be tears. Surely she was mistaken!
Then I saw that Olive had pinned a little note to the sleeve.
"Dearest Nan," she wrote, "I do hope you will like this frock. I really feel that I have succeeded beyond my hopes. Last night I tried it on, and even mother said it was very pretty, while Peggy grew green with envy, and declares she shall ask Aunt Patty to have her another year. Is it not funny to think that you will wear it before the eyes of its former owner? I hardly think, though, that she will know it again. We were so surprised to hear of Aunt Clara's plan, and only think, Agneta is to break her journey in London, and will stay a night here, so we shall all see her! Aunt Clara gives a poor account of her though, says she is nervous, depressed, excitable, and difficult to manage at home, and hints that it is all owing to a 'foolish fancy' for a man who is a 'sad detrimental.' Poor little cousin to have lost her heart so soon, and to one of whom her parents disapprove! Peggy says that it makes her as interesting as the heroine of a penny novelette. We all look forward to seeing her, and mother is going to write and ask her to stay a few days with us. Do write soon and say how you like the frock and tell us the latest about Pollie Dicks.""Your loving sister,""OLIVE."
"So those were tears!" I said to myself, as I folded up Olive's letter. "Poor Agneta! I wonder what the 'sad detrimental' is like. She is to be sent down here to be well out of his way. Probably it is not so much that Manchester does not suit her, as that it does not suit Aunt Clara to keep her in Manchester just now. I wonder how she likes being banished to this rural solitude." And I, as well as my sisters, began to look forward with some curiosity to making our cousin's acquaintance.
We expected Agneta about the middle of the week, but mother succeeded in keeping her for a day or two, and sent us word that she would come on Saturday. An early train was named, and Aunt Patty asked me to drive into Chelmsford in the "sociable" and meet my cousin at the station. It was a lovely day, and I ran cheerfully to get ready. I was so glad that Agneta should arrive on a day when "Gay Bowers" was looking its best. Already there were roses opening their pink petals against the wall of the house, and the flower-beds were bright with scarlet geraniums and verbenas. Through the staircase window I caught sight of Miss Cottrell's garden hat away in the corner to which she devoted her energies, and was glad to think that she was engaged in gardening. Paulina, I knew, was busy with letters, which she meant to "mail" later, so I hoped to get off by myself on this occasion.
But I congratulated myself too soon. When I came downstairs the carriage was not yet at the door, but Miss Cottrell came hurrying in from the garden.
"Are you going to Chelmsford to meet your cousin?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered, putting on my gloves with an air of haste.
"Can I go with you?" she asked. "I want to change my book at the railway stall."
"You had better let me do that for you," I said. "I must be off in three minutes."
"Oh, but I can be ready in that time," she said, "and there are other things I want to do in town."
"Very well, if you will not make me late for the train," I said coldly.
I felt sure that nothing short of telling her I did not want her would deliver me from her company.
She was back again almost as soon as the conveyance drove up. She had changed her hat and added a gauzy ruffle, which was rather incongruous, to the morning blouse which so ill-became her heavy thick-set figure. She looked an odd individual, and I could not help wondering what Agneta would think of her.
The fresh air and the sweet scent of the hedges, on which the may blossom still lingered, soon soothed my ruffled feelings, and I tried to respond amiably to Miss Cottrell's remarks.
"Now where do you wish to be put down?" I asked as we drove into the town. "If you are coming back with us, you must not be very long, or we shall all be late for luncheon."
"Oh, I will go straight to the station," she replied. "I like to be there when the train comes in. One sees life at a railway station, as dear Lady Mowbray used to say."
So it seemed that her business was a mere pretext for assisting at the meeting between me and the cousin of whom, as she had already discovered, I knew so little! I felt both cross and contemptuous; but my vexation vanished when the train came in, for a delightful surprise awaited me. One of the first persons to step on to the platform was my father!
"Oh, father, it is never you!" I cried, feeling ready to hug him. "How nice of you to come!"
"Nice for myself you mean," he said. "I felt it high time I came and saw how my Nan was getting on—to say nothing of your Aunt Patty and her 'paying guests'—so I thought I would bring your cousin down and have a peep at you all."
So saying he turned and gave his hand to a fair, slender girl, who stepped lightly from the carriage. I saw at a glance that she was very pretty, but her face was colourless, and, though she shook hands with me pleasantly enough, her manner showed a strange lack of animation. She wore a grey travelling gown, and a red hat which made me think of Olive's riddle.
"I am so glad you have such a nice day," I said. "It is really warm at last. I hope you like the country."
"Oh, yes, I like it well enough," she said indifferently. "It seems rather pretty about here."
"How well you look, Nan!" said my father. "You are not like the same girl whom I saw off from Liverpool Street four months ago. I hope 'Gay Bowers' will do as much for your cousin; she needs some roses badly. Why, Miss Smith, who would have thought of seeing you here? How are you?"
To my amazement I saw that it was Miss Cottrell whom he thus addressed. She shrank back, her face crimson.
"You are mistaken," she stammered, "my name is not Smith."
"Then you have changed it since I last saw you; you are married, I suppose," he said pleasantly; "for we certainly called you Miss Smith at the 'Havelock Arms.'"
"The ''Avelock Arms!'" she stammered. Her h's always dropped when she was agitated.
"Why, father, this is Miss Cottrell," I said, pitying her embarrassment as she grew redder and redder.
"Then she has changed her name," said my father, looking at her in astonishment, "for it was as Miss Smith I knew her in Devonshire. I used to stay sometimes at her uncle's inn, a very pleasant place of sojourn on the border of Dartmoor, where I went for the sake of fishing. But it must be nearly twenty years since I was last there. I heard only the other day that John Smith and his wife were both dead and the inn had changed hands. That is true, I suppose?"
He looked keenly at her as he spoke, and her eyes fell beneath his gaze. She was crimson. Her face was the picture of misery and shame. But it was clear that my father had not the least doubt of her identity with Miss Smith, and she dared not deny it.
"Yes, my uncle and aunt have passed away," she said awkwardly. "I do not remember that I ever saw you at their house. There are so many Smiths in the world that I thought I should like another name and took that of Cottrell, which was my mother's. I hope there is no harm in that?"
"Not at all; this is a free country, and it is not an unheard-of thing for people to change their names," said my father, anxious now to relieve the embarrassment which he had innocently caused. "I must see about your luggage, Agneta. Is there a conveyance outside, Nan?"
"John and the wagonette are there," I said. "Come, Agneta, we may as well take our seats."
Father was about to shake hands with Miss Cottrell when I said hurriedly:
"Miss Cottrell is coming with us, father; she is staying at 'Gay Bowers.'"
"Oh, that is right," he said quickly, but I saw a gleam of amusement leap into his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched.
Poor Miss Cottrell looked utterly bewildered and crestfallen as she followed us to the wagonette. She hardly said a word as we drove homewards. Father and I had a great deal to say to one another. I wanted to hear all the home news, but I tried to draw Agneta into the talk. As I observed her, it struck me that she was more like my mother than her own. I could trace no resemblance in her features to Aunt Clara, but something in her face reminded me of mother.
For some time Miss Cottrell's tongue was absolutely still, a thing I could hardly have believed possible, until father said:
"By the way, Miss Smith—Cottrell, I mean—I remember that it was only in the summer that you were at the 'Havelock Arms.' You lived with a lady—all, I have forgotten her name—who had an afflicted daughter whose nurse you were."
"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Cottrell angrily, "I was her companion."
"That would be the same thing under the circumstances, would it not?" he asked gently.
Miss Cottrell vouchsafed no reply, but her eyes flashed fire. I pitied the uncomfortable position into which false pride had led her, and hastily drew father's attention to the beauty of the common across which we were driving.
"So you have Professor Faulkner at 'Gay Bowers,'" father said presently. "I am looking forward to making his acquaintance."
I started and felt my colour rise.
"Why, what do you know of him?" I asked eagerly.
"No more than all the world may know," he said. "That he is a very brilliant young scholar and has written a scientific criticism of Shakespeare's plays which promises to become a standard work."
"Oh, father, you fairly frighten me!" I said; yet somehow I was very glad. "I know he writes and studies a great deal. He spends all the mornings in his room at work, yet he is so simple and human in his ways that auntie and I had almost forgotten that he is a learned professor."
"Don't you know yet, Nan, that greatness and simplicity are generally combined?" my father asked, with a smile. "It is your shallow-pated man who gives himself airs."
Aunt Patty was delighted to welcome father, for she had no more expected to see him than I had. We seemed a large party at luncheon, and there was plenty of talk, although Miss Cottrell was unusually silent. I was terribly afraid that father would call her "Miss Smith," but happily, he never addressed a remark to her, being much absorbed in talk with Colonel Hyde and Professor Faulkner. He seemed to get on exceedingly well with the latter, and I longed to hear what they were saying, but with Agneta beside me demanding my attention and Paulina chattering to me across the table, I could never catch more than a word or two. Paulina made various attempts to draw out Agneta, but with only partial success.
"Say," she said to me aside, after luncheon, "what is the matter with that cousin of yours? Is she shy, or sick, or what?"
"I don't think she is shy," I said, "but she has not been well lately and is rather depressed."
"I believe you," said Paulina; "but, do you know, it strikes me that she is not so meek as she looks and has a will of her own."
"Very likely," I said, reflecting that the curves of Agneta's mouth and chin were similar to mother's, and mother had never shown any lack of spirit and determination.
I was rather sorry to see Mr. Faulkner go off on his bicycle soon after luncheon, for I wanted father to know more of him. The rest of us spent the afternoon in the garden. Paulina and her father, Colonel Hyde and Agneta had a game of croquet, while Aunt Patty, father and I sat and chatted in the summer-house at the end of the lawn.
"Oh, father, do tell auntie about Miss Cottrell!" I said, after first looking cautiously round to be sure that the spinster was not within earshot, but for once she had taken herself out of the way.
"Alias Miss Smith," he said.
"Was it really an inn in which you used to see her?" I asked.
"Yes, a good old country inn, much frequented by fishermen in the season. I went there several summers in succession, till the cares of a family shackled my movements. John Smith and his wife were homely, honest folk who made us very comfortable in rustic fashion. They did not call the 'Havelock Arms' an hotel, nor speak of their boarders as 'paying guests,'" said my father with a mischievous glance at Aunt Patty.
"Their niece would have done so, if she had ever alluded to the business," I remarked. "I imagine John Smith was the uncle whose money she inherited."
"She told me he was in the tea trade," said my aunt.
Father laughed.
"Why, so he was," he said. "A good many tourists and picnic-parties used to come to the inn for tea. I believe he sold as much tea as beer."
"And was she really a nurse?" I asked.
"Well, yes, in a way, but not like a modern trained nurse," he replied. "Lady—let me see—"
"Mowbray," I suggested.
"Mowbray! that's the name," he said. "Well, Lady Mowbray had a daughter who was sadly afflicted—I believe she was almost an idiot—and Miss Smith used to take care of her—was her 'companion' as you heard her say. I suppose she thinks that word is more genteel than nurse. Lady Mowbray lived somewhere near Bath."
"And had also a house in Bryanston Street," I said.
"Ah, I see you know all about it," said my father.
"With a difference," I rejoined. "Lady Mowbray was Miss Cottrell's dearest friend and could not bear to be separated from her."
"Really! Well, I believe she was very grateful for Miss Smith's devotion to her child. Miss Smith was generally with them except that she came to the 'Havelock Arms' for a month or so in the summer, and then used to help her aunt look after her customers. So she has been posing here as a fine lady! How droll!"
And father quietly laughed with an air of the utmost amusement.
"She has tried to do so," said my aunt dryly.
"I am afraid she is sorely mortified to think that you have revealed so much to us," I said.
"We will not talk of it," said my aunt quickly. "Her vanity is foolish and paltry, but we will spare her feelings. I must ask Agneta not to mention it. Oh, dear, how white that girl looks!"
So my cousin became the topic of conversation, and father told Aunt Patty that Mrs. Redmayne begged that she would not allow Agneta to go up to London, on any pretext whatever, unless she or I could accompany her. I could see that aunt did not like the injunction.
"My guests are free to do as they like," she said. "This is not a boarding school."
WE sat down to dinner rather earlier than usual that evening because father had to catch a train which left Chelmsford a little before nine. Mr. Faulkner's place at the table was vacant. I kept expecting that he would drop in, but he did not appear. It vexed me that father should go away without having another word with him, for although we were comparatively near London, I knew it might be a very long time ere father came again. He was a busy man and rarely gave himself a holiday.
I got ready to drive with father to the station, and no one offered to accompany us. Miss Cottrell was not visible when he took his departure. It struck me that she must have slipped away to avoid saying good-bye to him, fearing that he might address her as Miss Smith in the hearing of the others.
"It's a pretty place," said father, looking back at "Gay Bowers," as we drove away in the fair, sweet dusk of the evening, "and I am glad that your aunt can stay there, if she is happy at least. How does it answer, Nan? Do the 'paying guests' bother her much?"
"I think not, father," I answered. "Miss Cottrell was rather a worry; but we are beginning not to mind her peculiarities."
Father laughed.
"Poor thing!" he said. "What a pity she should try to pass herself off as other than she is! It is an attempt fore-doomed to failure. Do you know Emerson's words? 'Don't say things. What you are stands over you the while, and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.' She does herself an injury, for she is really an excellent woman in many respects."
"Aunt says she is a capital nurse," I replied. "She was very helpful when Mr. Dicks was ill."
"What a man he is!" said father; "but a genuine one, I think. I wish I could have had a longer talk with Professor Faulkner. He is a fine man. Do you read much now, Nan?"
"You forget that books are forbidden me," I said, "though I must confess I do not pay much heed to Dr. Algar's prohibition when something good comes in my way. The difficulty is to get time for reading."
"If Dr. Algar could see you, I don't think he would be afraid of your reading," said my father. "Do you get any headaches now?"
"I have almost forgotten what a headache is like," I replied joyfully. "Even after I had worked out a mathematical problem which Jack Upsher could not master, my head did not ache."
"What, you presumed to beat Jack?" said father, smiling. "How did he stand that assumption of feminine superiority?"
"He was very grateful to me for helping him," I said. "Jack is not in the least ashamed of his feeble scholarship."
"Do you think he will get through his exam?" he asked.
"I hope so," I said. "He is working harder than he has ever worked before."
"I wish he might," said father. "I should like to see him in the Artillery, for I believe there is in him the making of a good soldier."
"He is tempted to spend too much of his time at 'Gay Bowers,'" I said laughingly; "but aunt is very severe with him. He flirts with Paulina, or rather, I believe, it would be more correct to say that she flirts with him."
Father laughed.
"That is harmless enough," he said, "since she must be several years older than he. Well, Nan, I am glad the experiment has answered so well as far as you are concerned. Your mother will be delighted to hear how much better you are. You must run up to town and see us all one of these days. You deserve a little change, for your aunt says you are the greatest comfort to her, and she does not know what she would do without you."
"Oh, father!" I exclaimed. "Why, I do nothing!"
Yet I knew that the nothings I did—cycling into Chelmsford to give orders, answering letters, seeing to the entertainment of the guests, and the like—filled up my days and were not exactly what I should have chosen to do had I been free to choose.
I saw father off in the train and started homeward, sitting alone in the wagonette. We were getting clear of the houses when John suddenly pulled up, and I saw Mr. Faulkner standing on the path.
"Will you take me home with you, please?" he asked smilingly.
"Why, of course," I said. "But what have you done with your bicycle?"
"It has come to grief," he said. "I had a spill—oh, don't be alarmed, it was nothing serious! I was coming down a hill near Maldon; there was a sharp bend, and rounding it incautiously, I came into collision with a wagon which was right across the road."
"Oh, how dangerous!" I exclaimed. "Are you sure you were not hurt?"
"Oh, I wrenched my shoulder a bit and got a few bruises," he said; "but I jumped off, you see, and the machine got the brunt of it. Of course, I could not ride it afterwards, so I had to get back to Chelmsford in a roundabout way by rail, and I have now left my machine to be repaired."
"How fortunate that I can give you a lift!" I said. "I have just been seeing father off."
"I am sorry Mr. Darracott has gone," he said. "I like your father, Miss Nan."
"And he likes you," was on the tip of my tongue, but I did not say it. His remark, however, so set me at ease that I began to talk to him about my home and my people as I had never done before.
"Oh, you can't think," I said with a sudden burst of confidence, "how I long to see them all again. Father says I must go up one day soon."
"I wonder you have not been before," said Alan Faulkner; "it is so easy to run up to town from here. And your sisters—why do they not come and spend the day sometimes?"
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"It is because we are all so busy," was my reply, "and moreover have little superfluous cash. We can afford neither the time nor the money for such pleasant little trips."
Then I felt the blood mount to my forehead, and was thankful that in the twilight, he could not see how I blushed for my outspokenness. Why do people find it harder to avow poverty than to confess to grave faults? Few, except those who are really comfortably off, can talk with ease of being poor. I was not to blame, nor were they, that my parents' income was so limited, yet I felt ashamed of the fact that the small sum required for the railway fare to and from London was of importance to us.
"I understand," said Alan Faulkner quietly. "Indeed, I have had to practise that kind of self-denial a good deal myself, and know well how irksome is the effort to keep one's expenditure within narrow limits, yet it is good for one to learn how easily one may do without many of the things that seem desirable."
With that he began to tell me about his early life. His father had died when he was a little boy. When he was twelve years old, his mother married again. Up to that time they had been everything to each other, and he could by no means welcome this change in their life. But his stepfather was good to him, and he became very fond of the little sisters who were born later. Before they were grown-up, their father died, and Alan found himself the sole guardian of his mother and his sisters. Very simply, he told the story, saying little of the part he had played. Not till long afterwards did I know that the self-denial of which he had spoken had been voluntarily practised in order that he might secure for his sisters a first-class education.
"So," I said, "the sister who has lately left school and gone to Paris to perfect her French is your half-sister merely."
"But a very real and dear sister all the same," he said.
"And your other sister, where is she?"
"She is a governess in a school in Yorkshire," he replied. "I hope that you and my sisters may know each other some day, Miss Nan."
"Oh, I should like so much to know them!" I said earnestly, while I wondered how it could come about. There was another thing I wanted to know, but I did not like to question him. Perhaps he divined my thoughts, for after a few moments' silence he said in a low tone:
"There are only the three of us now. The saddest thing about my return to England was that there was no mother to welcome me."
"Oh, I am very sorry!" was all I could find to say.
The words came from my very heart, for I did not need to be told all that this meant for him.
Hardly another word passed between us then, for we had reached the gate of "Gay Bowers." I ran into the house, feeling that the past day had been a golden one for me. Each hour had been full of quiet pleasure, and not least should I prize the memory of the confidential talk with Alan Faulkner, which seemed to have made us true friends.
Aunt told me that Agneta had complained of being tired, and had gone to bed. I soon followed her example, though I was far from feeling sleepy.
When I entered our room, Agneta was already in bed. She lay with her head almost hidden by the bed-clothes, and when I wished her "Good-night," she responded in a muffled tone. She did not raise her face for me to kiss, and I could divine the reason. Her face was wet with tears.
I felt very sorry for my cousin as I lay down and gave myself up, not to sleep, but to the delight of recalling every word that had passed between me and Alan Faulkner. I thought I knew how full of pain her heart was, and I longed to assure her of my sympathy, but did not like to open the subject.
On the following Wednesday some friends of the Colonel's, who were staying at Chelmsford, were expected to dine with us, so I arrayed myself in my new evening frock. I saw Agneta looking at me as I put it on, and when the last hook was fastened, she said admiringly:
"What a sweet frock, Nan!"
"I am glad you like it," I said as I turned slowly round before the mirror. "It is Olive's contrivance. Don't you think she is very clever?"
"Indeed I do. She has quite a genius for dressmaking. The girls showed me some of her masterpieces when I was at your home."
"And do you mean to say that you do not recognise this gown?" I asked.
"No, how should I?" She came nearer, and looked closely at it. Then her face changed. "Why, it is—never! Yes, it is my pink ball-dress! Oh, Nan, I wish you had not told me! Why did you remind me of that night?"
She threw up her hands with a tragic, despairful gesture, and I saw she was struggling with strong emotion.
"Oh, Agneta, what about it? What is it that makes you so unhappy? Tell me about that night."
"Indeed, I am unhappy—never anything but unhappy now," said Agneta with tears, and the whole story came out.
It seemed that she had last worn this frock at a ball, where she met Ralph Marshman, and said farewell to him. He was a junior clerk in a bank, and Mr. Redmayne had been indignant at his presumption in thinking to wed his daughter. He had forbidden him to address Agneta again, and, in order to make obedience easy, had used his influence to get the young man removed from the Manchester bank to a branch bank at Newcastle.
In spite of every precaution, however, the two had managed to secure a few minutes' quiet talk at this ball on the night prior to Marshman's departure for Newcastle. They had vowed to be faithful to one another, and to meet, in spite of Mr. Redmayne's prohibition, whenever opportunity offered. They had even arranged to carry on a secret correspondence; but, through the treachery, as Agneta described it, of a servant whom she had bribed to secrete her letters, one of them had fallen into her mother's hands. A painful scene ensued, and her mother, after extorting from her a promise that she would not write to Marshman again, had finally arranged to send her to "Gay Bowers." And now, at a distance from her lover, and fearful, in spite of her protestations that she would never give him up, lest her parents should succeed in finally separating her from him, Agneta was in a miserable frame of mind.
I pitied her greatly as she opened her heart to me, and yet I listened with a sense of revulsion. There seemed to me something ignoble and degrading in the way this courtship had been conducted. It hurt me to think that my cousin could stoop to practise such dissimulation, and I found it hard to believe that the man could be worthy of a woman's love who wooed her in this clandestine fashion. The beautiful crown of love was tarnished and defiled by being thus dragged in the dust.
I was shocked, too, by the way Agneta spoke of her parents. She seemed to regard them as her natural enemies. It was clear to me that the atmosphere of her home must be very different from that of ours. We girls had no secrets from our mother. Our parents were not afraid to trust us, nor we to trust them.
"Mother cares for nothing but money," Agneta said, and I was afraid there might be some truth in this statement. "Because Ralph is poor, she cannot say a good word for him. If he were rich, she would not mind what his past had been."
"His past!" I said. "What about that?"
"Oh, nothing," she returned; "only mother listens to gossip. He is so clever, Nan; he has written a play! Of course, his salary at the bank is small; we should be poor, but I should not mind poverty with the man I loved."
I was silent, reflecting that Agneta's ideas of poverty were probably very vague.
"I mean to marry him, whatever mother may say," Agneta said presently. "I shall soon be of age, and then I will do as I like. She shall not spoil my life."
"Oh, Agneta, don't talk like that! It frightens me," I said. "You might spoil your life just by taking your own way."
"What do you mean, Nan?" she asked.
"Only that we are so blind and ignorant that we cannot know what is good for us unless we are sure that God is guiding our steps," I said timidly. "I did not at all like having to give up my studies and come down here; but it was God's will for me, and I know now that it is for my good. If only you would be patient, Agneta, and leave your life in God's hands, He would bring it about in His own good time if—"
Here my cousin, who had turned upon me an astonished and impatient glance, rudely exclaimed:
"Oh, don't preach to me, Nan, if you please. I cannot stand that. I see I have shocked you, but I cannot help it. You won't say anything to your aunt, will you?"
"Of course I shall not repeat what you have told me in confidence," was my hasty reply.
But I was very uncomfortable as I pondered what Agneta had told me. And in spite of all she said in praise of the man who had fascinated her, I could not feel that he was worthy of her love. I felt more uneasy as the days went on, for Agneta was constantly receiving letters which she slipped quickly out of sight, and I knew that she wrote letters which she was careful to post herself. Then something occurred which for a while drove from my mind all thought of my cousin Agneta and her doubtful proceedings.
IN spite of the fears she had exhibited on her arrival, Paulina Dicks was apparently content with her life at "Gay Bowers." As she appeared cheerful, and was never one to disguise her feelings, we could safely conclude that she was not dull. Of a highly nervous, energetic temperament, she was for ever planning new enterprises, and whatever she took in hand she accomplished most thoroughly.
When she wearied of cycling, she took to driving about the country roads in Aunt Patty's little old-fashioned chaise. Sometimes her father and sometimes Miss Cottrell accompanied her. Aunt was much afraid that she overdrove the fat little pony, that had grown accustomed to an easy life; but Paulina declared that he was far too fat, and she was doing him good by rousing him from the silly jog-trot which was the pace he preferred.
She played croquet occasionally, under protest, to please her father; but she was indefatigable at tennis until she heard Alan Faulkner say that the common was just the place for golf, and drew from him an admission that he was extremely fond of this game. Then nothing would do but she must learn golf. It was in vain that any one raised objections. She made light of every difficulty suggested, and would not rest till she had coaxed Mr. Faulkner into helping her to arrange a course and get the requisites for the game.
"What Pollie Dicks wants, she'll have," said her father admiringly, and he showed himself willing to meet all the expense which her scheme involved.
But his words did not prove true in this instance, for Paulina had to put up with something she did not at all desire and was far from foreseeing as she made her plans, and with a business-like air wrote a list of the things she would order when next she went to London. Not a week passed without her going to town, and sometimes she would go two or three times in the week. Her father seldom accompanied her. He found the Chelmsford shops good enough for him, and if he wanted anything special his daughter could get it. The bustle and stir of London, so dear to Paulina, no longer attracted him. He was taking kindly to a country life, and found himself the better for it.
One morning when Paulina came down prepared to start for London, as she had informed us on the previous evening was her intention, I noticed that she was pale and heavy-eyed and took little breakfast.
"You don't seem quite the thing, Paulina," I remarked in an undertone. "Have you a headache?"
She nodded.
"Then why go to town to-day?" I said. "London is hardly the place to cure a headache."
"Oh, it is nothing; I must go," she said impatiently. "I hate putting things off. I want to start the golf while this fine weather lasts."
It was a lovely June morning. When I had seen Paulina off, I went round the garden with basket and scissors, gathering fresh flowers for the vases. I came to the corner where was Miss Cottrell's tiny domain, and found her exhibiting its beauties to Alan Faulkner. She had certainly done wonders in the short time she had had it in her care. The little parterre was gay with flowers. She was especially proud of a cluster of fine carnations of the striped variety which I believe is commonly known as "strawberries and cream."
"They are splendid," said Mr. Faulkner, as he bent to inhale their perfume; "I am so fond of carnations."
"I will give you a buttonhole," said Miss Cottrell eagerly. "Your scissors, please, Miss Darracott."
In vain he protested that it would be a pity to gather them. Miss Cottrell cut two of the finest blooms and presented them to him.
"Oh, I cannot be so greedy as to take two," he said. "Miss Nan must have one. Yes, indeed, Miss Nan." And he insisted on giving me one.
"Here is a pin," said Miss Cottrell, as I tried to fasten the carnation beneath my brooch. I adjusted it carefully, but no sooner had I done so than Mr. Faulkner declared that the other was a finer one, and asked me to change flowers with him.
"They are both fine," said Miss Cottrell. "What does it matter?"
But I had already discovered that in spite of his quiet manner Alan Faulkner had a very strong will. Even in trifles I generally found myself gently constrained to yield to him. So the flowers were exchanged, and, to make sure that he would not give it away, Miss Cottrell herself secured the Professor's at his buttonhole. Then he and I took a stroll round the garden. I asked him about an article which had recently appeared in one of the reviews. He said he had the review in question, and would lend it to me if I cared to see it. He went into the house to fetch the periodical, and while I sauntered near the door, Miss Cottrell came up.
"I am glad he gave you that carnation," she said, looking fondly at it, "but I am afraid Miss Pollie will get the other. She made him give her the rose he was wearing last night."
"Really!" I said stiffly.
"I am awfully amused at all I see," she went on. "Professor Faulkner is pretty deep. What a smart dodge it is his teaching her to play golf!"
"I don't know what you mean," I said coldly.
"Don't you?" she returned with a laugh. "Well, I must say, Miss Darracott, although you can talk so cleverly, you are stupid over some things. It is plain enough to me that the Professor means to win the millionaire's daughter."
I cannot describe the aversion I felt towards Miss Cottrell when she said that. Before she could add another word Mr. Faulkner appeared with the review. When I came to look into it, I found that it contained an article from his pen. I read this first, for it interested me far more than the one of which I had spoken to him. It was the first thing of his which I had read, and it struck me as very clever.
Paulina came home that evening looking flushed and weary. I happened to be in the hall talking to Mr. Dicks, when she entered, and I could see that she was not well, but he, deceived by her colour, exclaimed:
"Well, Pollie Dicks, you look as if going to town agreed with you!"
"Of course it does," she responded.
But when I asked her in an undertone as we went upstairs how her head was, she answered, "Simply raging!"
I tried to persuade her to lie down, but she insisted on preparing for dinner as usual. But, though she sat down with the rest, she could eat nothing, and was soon obliged to leave the table.
Aunt Patty went to her a little later, saw her to bed, and did what she could for her. Mr. Dicks was sorely perturbed by the indisposition of his darling. He hung over her, suggesting all kinds of possible and impossible remedies, till Paulina peremptorily ordered him to go away, and leave her in peace, whereupon he retired and despatched a note to the doctor, who had attended him when he was ill begging him to come to "Gay Bowers" as soon as possible on the following day. After a while Paulina seemed inclined to sleep, and aunt and I went to bed, hoping that her ailment would prove only temporary. Her father wished that some one should sit up with her, but she would not hear of it, and, as usual, obtained her own way.
I don't know what it was that made me awake about two hours later, but in the stillness of the night I was aware of movements in the adjoining room. Fearing that Paulina was worse, I rose, slipped on my dressing gown, and went into the next room. A night-light was burning there, and by its dim rays I saw Paulina standing by the washstand, bathing her head with cold water. She said the pain she had in it was terrible. I touched her forehead; it was burning hot, and so were her hands, yet every now and then she shivered. I knew enough of illness to be sure that this meant fever of some kind or other.
"If only I had some ice!" she moaned.
With some difficulty I persuaded her to lie down again. I placed wet bandages on her forehead, and kept changing them as they grew warm.
"Oh, Nan, I feel so ill—don't leave me!" she said more than once, and I promised that I would stay with her. When, after a while, she grew drowsy, I stole into my room and brought away my blankets, in which I rolled myself up on Paulina's sofa, for the night was growing chill, as it generally does towards dawn. But I did not lie there long, for Paulina was soon tossing to and fro and moaning again.
As the grey light of early morning was creeping into the room she suddenly sat up in bed, her fevered face looking haggard and distraught, and exclaimed in a tone of desperate conviction:
"Oh, Nan, I know what this means. I guess I've got smallpox."
"Oh, no, Paulina!" I exclaimed, shocked by the suggestion. "What can make you think of such a thing?"
"I guess I'm right," she said gloomily. "You know how bad it has been in London."
"Yes; but it is better now," I said. "The epidemic is over. There were only ten cases last week."
"I don't care," she persisted. "I guess I'm one of the next ten. You know it was very bad when first we came to London and father wanted me to be vaccinated, and I would not. I thought I would trust to my luck."
"I feel perfectly sure that you are mistaken," I said, "so pray dismiss that idea from your mind."
"I can't," she said. "It is such a horrible disease to have, and spoils one's appearance so. I don't know what Charlie would do."
"Charlie?" I repeated.
"Oh, my cousin, I mean," she repeated impatiently. "You must have heard me speak of him."
But I never had.
How long it seemed ere there was any sound of movement in the household! When at last I heard a step on the stairs I opened the door and looked out. Miss Cottrell was descending, clad in the short rough skirt and jersey which she donned for hard work in the garden. She loved to toil there for an hour before any one else was astir. She saw me and turned back to ask how Paulina was. She came into the room, looked critically at the sick girl and drew my attention to a rash which was beginning to appear on her face and neck. When she had shaken up the pillows and made the bed more comfortable, which she did in the deft manner of one accustomed to such a task, speaking cheerily to Paulina the while, Miss Cottrell beckoned to me to follow her from the room.
"This is scarlet fever," she said, before she had properly closed the door.
A thrill went through me as she spoke. In an instant I seemed to see all the trouble, anxiety and loss that this outbreak of illness might involve in such a household as ours.
"Are you sure?" I gasped.
"I don't think I am mistaken," said Miss Cottrell. "I have seen it before, indeed, I've had it myself. I need not tell you to be brave, Miss Darracott. We must keep our heads in this emergency or there will be a panic in the household."
"Yes, yes," I said. "Mr. Dicks has written to ask Dr. Poole to call, but something might be done to hasten his arrival."
"Certainly; a messenger must be sent for him," said Miss Cottrell. "I'll go and break the news to Mrs. Lucas. You had better go back into the room for the present, for you must not go near your cousin. Have you ever had scarlet fever, by the by?"
I shook my head but smiled. I was determined not to be nervous on my own account.
"Then I will soon come and relieve you," she said. "There is not great danger of infection yet, but we must take every precaution."
When I re-entered the room I found Paulina in tears and knew that she must have overheard Miss Cottrell's diagnosis.
"Oh, Nan, if it is scarlet fever, I shall die as my mother did. There is nothing I dread so much," she sobbed, forgetting that a few minutes before she had been in terror of quite another malady.
"Oh, come, you must not meet trouble half-way," I said. "I am not yet absolutely sure that it is scarlet fever; but if Miss Cottrell is right, you know that numbers of people have that fever who do not die of it."
"But I shall," she persisted. "My mother died of it and my little brother, so I do not suppose I shall escape. But, oh, I do not want to die! I am so frightened, Nan."
Never shall I forget the look on her face, nor the sound of her voice as she said these words. Face to face with the "shadow feared of man", she felt herself utterly helpless. But a Helper there was. I knew the strength of my own faith as I saw her need. I had to speak, though the words were weak and poor in which I tried to give her comfort.
"Do not be afraid, Paulina; you will not be alone. You know the Bible says that neither life nor death can separate us from the love of Christ. Your life is in His hands, the hands that for your sake were nailed to the cross. Is it not a comfort to remember that?"
But Paulina shook her head.
"It means nothing to me," she said drearily. "You know that I have never been particularly religious. I cannot grasp what you say."
"That does not matter, dear, if only you will give yourself into the keeping of the Lord Jesus," I said. "Our safety consists not in our taking hold of Christ, but in His taking hold of us. The grasp of our faith is too often weak and wavering, but neither life nor death can draw us from the embrace of His love. Ask Him to take you into His tender keeping, and bring you safely through all trouble."
"I cannot—I don't know how!" she whispered. "You ask Him, Nan."
I don't know how I did it—I had never prayed audibly in any one's presence—but I knelt beside Paulina then, and asked the Lord to hold her ever in His loving care, and to bring her safely through this illness.
I had not long risen from my knees when Miss Cottrell entered the room. She brought a cup of tea for Paulina, and she said brightly as she set down the tray:
"There's one for you in my room, Miss Darracott. You will also find a bath prepared for you, and clothes for you to put on. Your aunt gave them to me, since you cannot go to your own room at present."
"That means that you are in quarantine, Nan," said Paulina. "You seem pretty certain about the matter," she added, turning to Miss Cottrell.
"I know a few things," said that spinster with a smile, "but we shall soon know whether I am right, for Mr. Jack Upsher has ridden into Chelmsford to fetch the doctor. Now say 'Good-bye' to Miss Darracott, for I have constituted myself your nurse for the present."
Tears sprang anew to Paulina's eyes. She stretched out her arms appealingly to me, but Miss Cottrell interposed her person, and gently pushed me towards the door.
"Good-bye," said Paulina with a sob, and I promised that if I might not see her, she would be constantly in my thoughts.
"Stay in my room till I come to you," was Miss Cottrell's last mandate.
Thus strangely did the new day begin. How little we know what is before us!
WHEN Dr. Poole arrived, he confirmed Miss Cottrell's verdict. Happily the doctor was an eminently practical man, and, being an old friend of aunt's, he was disposed to regard the matter as much from her point of view as from that of Josiah Dicks. So he decided that the best thing possible in the circumstances was to remove the patient to a house in the village. He assured her father that the removal could be accomplished without risk of harm to her; but he had considerable difficulty with Mr. Dicks before he could persuade him to consent to this arrangement.
Aunt Patty and I have often said since that we do not know what we should have done without Miss Cottrell at this juncture. She rose to the occasion in the most wonderful way, and showed herself so thoughtful and expeditious that we could quite understand how the Lady Mowbray, of whom we had heard so much, had found her invaluable. She it was who suggested the house to which Paulina was conveyed, a modern "villa" belonging to a widow who was glad to let her best apartments, and was willing to receive an infectious case on the handsome terms offered by Mr. Dicks.
Miss Cottrell won his consent to the plan by proposing to accompany Paulina to this house, and remain with her there till she was convalescent. He gladly closed with the offer, and she earned his lasting gratitude. I must, however, in justice to Miss Cottrell, admit that, in spite of the esteem for wealth and position which she so openly displayed, I do not think that her action on this occasion was prompted by the fact that the patient was a rich man's daughter. I believe that she would have done as much for any one of us, for she dearly loved managing people, and, although she had not received a hospital training, she was in her element in a sickroom. She wore a happy face whenever she entered the room where I remained an unwilling prisoner. Hurriedly she would tell me how things were proceeding, and then disappear.
Everything was done with the greatest possible celerity. Colonel Hyde had been induced to take Agneta for a long drive almost immediately after breakfast. The widow's rooms were in excellent order, so it did not take long to prepare them for the reception of the patient and her guardian. The doctor sent out an ambulance and a trained nurse from Chelmsford, and by mid-day Paulina's removal was effected. Then the business of disinfection was begun, and presently aunt came to me.
"Well, Nan," she said with a smile as she opened the door, "is your patience pretty well exhausted?"
"I am afraid it has come to an end, auntie," I replied, marvelling to see her so calm, though her face looked pale and tired.
"Poor child! It is no wonder," she said. "Now come into the garden with me. We will talk in the fresh air."
I was glad enough to get outside. As we walked up and down the lawn aunt told me that Dr. Poole had decided that it would be wise to separate me from the others for a while.
"You must not let it frighten you," Aunt Patty said. "The doctor quite hopes that you have escaped infection, but for the sake of my guests it is right to guard against the possibility of a second case in the house. I cannot bear to send you away, but Mrs. Hobbes has a nice little room which she lets sometimes, and if you would not mind sleeping there just for a week till we see how things turn out."
"Of course I shall not mind," I replied. "Fancy staying at Hobbes's cottage—that will be truly rural."
And I smiled at the idea of sojourning for a week in the pretty thatched cottage which was our gardener's home. It stood in a lane running off the common, and was so picturesque that artists often painted it.
"Of course we can come to see you," said my aunt, "and you need not avoid us as long as you keep well. It is chiefly for Agneta's sake that I take this precaution. I do not think the gentlemen are in any danger, but I want to assure Mrs. Redmayne that I am taking all possible care of her child."
"And if I should develop the fever, I suppose you will commit me to Miss Cottrell's care at 'Ivy House,'" I said.
"Oh, there is little fear of that," said my aunt hastily. "I am glad that Paulina likes Miss Cottrell better than you do."
"Ah, but she has gone up immensely in my estimation during the last few hours!" was my reply.
"There is no doubt she has excellent qualities," said my aunt warmly, "if only she were content to be her simple, honest self, and not attempt to seem something different, which is such a fatal mistake."
Presently I took my way to the gardener's cottage. It was the kind of abode which would be called "idyllic" nowadays. Mrs. Hobbes, a dear old woman, who had been cook at Squire Canfield's before her marriage, was delighted to welcome me. She was very proud of the small garden in which her husband managed to grow specimens of almost every variety of flower. She showed me, too, her bees, and boasted of the amount of honey they produced. I thought it no wonder when I saw the wealth of flowers from which they could cull nectar, to say nothing of the glorious common, golden with gorse, lying beyond.
I listened with pleasure to Mrs. Hobbes as she talked of her bees, but found her conversation less interesting when she began to describe all the cases of scarlet fever which had come within her knowledge. Her memory had treasured up every harrowing detail of the cases which had proved fatal, and she spared me none of them.
"Ah, it's a terrible complaint!" she was saying. "If it hasn't killed them outright, I've known it make people deaf or lame for the rest of their lives. I do hope you may not have taken it, miss, for there's no saying what it will leave behind—" when to my relief I saw John coming down the lane with the small trunk aunt had promised to pack for me.
His arrival created a welcome diversion. I hastened to arrange my belongings. My bedroom was scrupulously clean, but so small and low that it became a puzzle how to make my toilette to the best advantage. But its lattice windows were open to the fresh sweet air and framed a lovely view of the common and the woods beyond. I tried to persuade, myself that this unexpected change of place was rather a happy thing for me, but with Mrs. Hobbes's dismal forebodings lingering in my mind, I could not quite succeed.
That was surely the longest day I had ever known in my life. I was not more than half-a-mile from "Gay Bowers," yet I seemed quite cut off from all the pleasant life there. No one came to see how I was settling in. Aunt Patty, I knew, had far too much depending on her. Mr. Faulkner had gone up to town in the morning, and I could not be sure that he had heard of the calamity which had befallen us. Colonel Hyde was doubtless still entertaining Agneta. Jack, whose examination was now close at hand, was working with desperate energy. I had no right to feel myself neglected, yet a sore, forlorn sense of being forsaken crept over me.
I can smile at my folly now, but as I sat on the windowsill of my room and watched the sun sink out of sight behind the fir-wood, a feeling of deep melancholy took possession of me. I believed it to be a presentiment of early death. By this time I was utterly tired out and my head ached. I forgot that I had had but two hours' sound sleep on the past night and took these symptoms to be the precursors of the fever. Then on my heart, too, fell the chill of fear. I felt anxiously for my faith, and asked myself if it had been indeed true comfort I had tried to give Paulina. God be thanked that I found it was! Even while one part of my nature shrank with dread from the thought of sickness and suffering, a voice within my soul cried confidently, "I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."
Suddenly I was roused from my serious meditations by the sound of a familiar voice below speaking to Mrs. Hobbes. I sprang up, my headache forgotten, hastily straightened my blouse and gave a touch to my hair, ere I ran downstairs. But I was too late to see my friend, except that presently I caught a distant glimpse of a bicycle and rider speeding across the common. On the round table in Mrs. Hobbes's "best parlour" lay a pile of papers and magazines. They were the latest issues and represented the spoil Alan Faulkner had brought from town. He knew how I should enjoy seeing them, and he had hastened to bring them to me as soon as he heard of my temporary exile. I did not need Mrs. Hobbes's assurance that the gentleman had said he could not stay a minute. It was already the dinner-hour at "Gay Bowers," and Mr. Faulkner as a rule practised the minor virtue of punctuality.
That kindly act of his made a vast difference to my solitary evening. I was able to enjoy the simple supper Mrs. Hobbes set before me. I did not read a great deal, but I turned over the leaves with delight and sampled the contents by skimming a few lines here and there while an agreeable undercurrent of thought, wholly untinged by melancholy, ran through my mind. At nine o'clock I went to bed and slept soundly till the sun awoke me shining warm and bright into my room. I rose and dressed, feeling as well as possible.
Mrs. Hobbes had set my breakfast on a little table in the garden beneath the old pear-tree which grew beside the cottage. There was a beautifully baked loaf of her home-made bread and some of the golden honey from her hives, with one of the brown eggs that I always think taste so much better than white ones. No one would have judged my health precarious who saw how I enjoyed that meal. I felt so cheerful that I was ashamed of myself and tried to subdue my spirits by thinking pitifully of poor Paulina and of her father's suspense and anxiety.
I had hardly finished breakfast when I saw Mr. Faulkner spinning down the lane on his bicycle. I went to the gate to meet him and could have laughed at the seriousness with which he inquired how I was. My colour rose beneath his earnest gaze.
"You need not be afraid; there is no rash yet," I said.
"Afraid!" he repeated. "Of what should I be afraid? But I hope you will not stay here long. We missed you so much last evening. It seemed so strange to see nothing of you all day."
"I had a pleasant proof that I was not forgotten," I said. "Thank you so much for bringing me those papers. I will get them for you."
"Pray do not trouble unless you wish to be rid of them," he said. "I do not want them, and you can hardly have read them all yet."
"Indeed, I read very little last night; I felt too tired and unsettled," I said. "But I liked having them."
His steady eyes met mine with that look which seemed to read my very soul. I had a strange feeling that he knew all the nervous, foolish ideas that had passed through my mind.
"Do you know how Paulina is this morning?" I asked hurriedly. "Has aunt heard?"
"Yes, Mr. Dicks went down to 'Ivy House' at a very early hour and brought back word that his daughter had passed a restless night," he replied. "Still, I do not think there is any cause for anxiety; the fever must take its course."
"Poor Paulina!" I said. "It is hard to imagine her anything but restless under the circumstances."
"She is not exactly reposeful at any time, is she?" he responded with a smile. "I feel very much for her father. He seems terribly upset by this wholly unlooked-for development of affairs."
"He is not allowed to see her, is he?" I asked.
"No, I believe he does not even enter the house. Miss Cottrell gives her report from a window. This is her opportunity."
I could not help laughing, though I felt it was mean when the spinster was acting so bravely.
"Whatever will he do without Paulina?" I said.
"Well, you know, he has not always had a great deal of her company," Mr. Faulkner replied; "but Mrs. Lucas is puzzled to think how she can best divert his thoughts. By the by, I was to say that he is coming to take you for a drive presently. He has forestalled me, for I was going to ask you to cycle with me this afternoon."
"I shall be delighted to do so another day," I replied, pleased to think that my isolation was to be thus alleviated. Then my eyes fell on his buttonhole, which was adorned by a fine striped carnation. "So," I exclaimed, "Miss Cottrell has given you another of her carnations."
"How could she?" he asked with a smile. "Miss Cottrell is not at 'Gay Bowers.' This is the one you gave me."
"What do you mean?" I said. "I never gave you a carnation."
"Did you not?" he asked. "At least you gave me back one after you had worn it a few seconds, thus giving it a new and rare value."
Who would have thought that a learned man like Professor Faulkner could have said a thing like that? It was the sort of compliment Jack Upsher might have paid me, and I should have thought it silly from his lips; but somehow I was not impressed with its silliness at this moment. I should have been annoyed with Jack for saying it, but I was not annoyed with Alan Faulkner. I recalled the words many times in the course of that day and ever with a joyous thrill of the heart. What little things make up the sum of life! To this day I can never see what is called a "strawberry and cream" carnation without recalling that hour and the sweetness of the strange new hope that then awoke to life.
But at the moment Alan Faulkner's words struck me dumb. My eyes fell beneath his gaze, and to my vexation I felt the colour mounting to my forehead. The awkward pause which ensued seemed long to my consciousness, but it could have been but a second or two ere I lifted my head and said stiffly:
"Oh, that was a mere exchange."
Ere Alan Faulkner could make any rejoinder, there was the sound of another bicycle rushing down the lane and Jack Upsher came in sight. He had turned aside on his way to Chelmsford in order to assure himself that I had not yet developed scarlet fever.
JACK seemed rather annoyed to find that I was not alone, though Alan Faulkner immediately decided that it was time he went to his morning's work and rode off. Jack wanted me to ride with him later in the day, and was vexed when he learned that Mr. Dicks was going to take me for a drive. His ill-humour increased when I told him that I had promised to ride with Mr. Faulkner on the following day.
"It is too bad!" he said morosely. "You might have kept the last day for me!"
"The last day?" I said.
"Yes," he said, "you know I go up for my exam on Monday."
I had forgotten that the day was so near. I felt almost frightened as I realised it.
"Oh, Jack, I do hope you will do well!" I said. "Do you feel fairly ready?"
"I don't feel in the least fit," he said. "I believe I shall make a horrid mess of it again, and then you will have nothing more to say to me, I suppose. In that case I shall just enlist as a Tommy."
"Don't talk nonsense!" I said severely. "You will not fail this time; you cannot, and must not. You really have worked, you know."
"Thanks for giving me so much credit," he said, "but that has really little to do with it. I am unlucky at these things. The old fogeys who prepare the papers are sure to hit upon questions that will bowl me out."
"Rubbish!" I said. "Make up your mind to succeed, and you will come out all right."
"You might have let me have a last ride with you," he said reproachfully.
"It won't be the last, I hope, but there is nothing to hinder you from joining us to-morrow," I said, feeling, however, rather blank as I made the suggestion.
"Thank you very much," he said sarcastically; "but I have not the least desire to make an unwelcome third."
"Make a welcome fourth, then," I said. "I dare say Agneta will be pleased to come too."
But this did not do either. He was in a very perverse mood that morning. It was a relief to me when he had departed, having lingered till it was necessary for him to ride at break-neck speed into Chelmsford if he would arrive punctually at his tutor's. I felt very anxious that he should do well in his examination, and gave him every wise admonition that my own experience could suggest. For his own sake, and for his father's, it would be a thousand pities if he failed again. Foolish boy as Jack often showed himself to be, I knew that he was brave and manly, and I believed, with my father, that he would make a fine soldier.
Hobbes had graciously given me permission to gather any flowers I pleased from his garden, so when Jack had gone I busied myself in making a nosegay, which I carried to the village and left at the door of the house which had been converted into a sanatorium for Paulina's benefit. On the way I encountered Mr. Dicks wandering aimlessly along. He was so changed that I hardly knew him. His air of almost aggressive self-complacency, as if he were for ever exulting in the thought of his own smartness, had vanished, and he looked profoundly melancholy. When he lifted his hat I saw that even the wisp of hair on his forehead, usually erect, lay flat and limp. His appearance inspired me with the fear that some alarming change in Paulina's condition had occurred, but it was not so. He was merely brooding on the idea that since, through scarlet fever, he had lost his wife and little son, it would probably rob him of his daughter also.
He seemed pleased to meet me, and turned back with me.
"I am looking for Poole," he said. "He ought to be here by now. If he sees the least cause for fear, I shall telegraph at once for one of the first physicians from London."
When we reached the gate of "Ivy House," he pointed out to me the windows of the room in which Paulina lay. Just then Miss Cottrell's head appeared above one of the muslin blinds. She smiled and nodded briskly as she saw us.
"She looks cheerful," I remarked. "I don't think she can be very uneasy about her patient."
"I hope not," he said, brightening. "She is a good woman, an excellent woman. I know she will watch over Pollie like a mother."
The words struck me as significant, and I could not help thinking that Miss Cottrell would have liked to hear them. As I turned from the house Dr. Poole's carriage came in sight driving rapidly towards it, so I had no more of Mr. Dicks's company at that time.
The morrow brought me a delightful letter from mother. She had been very sorry, she wrote, to learn of the outbreak of illness at "Gay Bowers." She had much sympathy for aunt and Mr. Dicks, and still more for the sufferer herself. It was perhaps wise of aunt to turn me out of the house for a while, but she was convinced that I had run little risk of taking the malady, and I was not to allow myself to think of such a thing. So sure was mother of my immunity from danger, that she told me I might come up to town on Monday and spend a couple of days at home, thus completing my week of quarantine.
"We all want to see you badly," she said, "and we have surprising news for you. I cannot do justice to it in a letter, and besides, I believe that Olive would like to tell you all about it herself."
I was delighted at the thought of going home, and mother's mysterious hint filled me with the liveliest curiosity. What could this surprising news be? Evidently it was something in which Olive was greatly interested; but although I made many surmises, I did not hit upon the truth. But when I spoke of it to Aunt Patty, she said quietly:
"I expect it means that Olive is engaged."
"Oh, auntie," I exclaimed, and the colour flew into my face, "what can make you say so? That is a most unlikely thing."
"Is it?" aunt asked with a smile. "You are paying Olive a nice compliment. It seems to me likely enough."
"But Olive!" I gasped. "Olive! Oh, I don't think it can be that!"
The idea was more startling than agreeable. How could we do without Olive? She seemed as truly a pillar of the house as either father or mother. Certainly I had never supposed that she would remain single all her days, but that within the near future she would marry and leave us was a prospect which appalled me, and I tried to persuade myself that it could not be as Aunt Patty imagined.
I could see that my aunt thought it rather rash of mother to have me home at this time, but I troubled little about that. When Jack heard that I was going up to town on Monday, he insisted that we must travel together; so it was under his escort that I arrived at Liverpool Street that afternoon, and found Peggy awaiting me on the platform.
Peggy looked lively as ever. She never was shy—art students seldom are, I think—and she was soon chattering away to Jack. She appeared shorter than usual as she stood looking up at him, and she complained to me afterwards that conversing with him had given her a pain at the back of her neck. He was in no hurry to reach his destination, and insisted on accompanying us to Moorgate Street, and seeing us into the train for Clapham.