CHAPTER XI.THE BURNT ARM.
After supper the excitement waxed fast and furious. The boys, aided by the farmer and one of his men, proceeded to send off the fireworks. This was done on a little plateau of smoothly cut lawn just in front of the best sitting-room windows. The girls pressed their faces against the glass, and for a time were satisfied with this way of looking at the fun. But soon Nancy could bear it no longer.
“It is stupid to be mewed up in the close air,” she said. “Let’s go out.”
No sooner had she given utterance to the words than all four girls were helping the boys to let off the squibs, Catherine-wheels, rockets, and other fireworks. Pauline now became nearly mad with delight. Her shouts were the loudest of any. When the rockets went high into the air and burst into a thousand stars, she did not believe that the world itself could contain a more lovely sight. But presently her happiness came to a rude conclusion, for a bit of burning squib struck her arm, causing her fine muslin dress to catch fire, and the little girl’s arm was somewhat severely hurt. She put out the fire at once, and determined to hide the fact that she was rather badly burnt.
By-and-by they all returned to the house. Nancy sat down to the piano and began to sing some of her most rollicking songs. Then she played dance music, and the boys and girls danced with all their might. Pauline, however, had never learned to dance. She stood silent, watching the others. Her high spirits had gone down to zero. She now began to wish that she had never come. She wondered if she could possibly get home again without being discovered. At last Nancy noticed her grave looks.
“You are tired, Paulie,” she said; “and for that matter, so are we. I say, it’s full time for bed. Good-night, boys. Put out the lamps when you are tired of amusing yourselves. Dad has shut up the house already. Come, Paulie; come, Amy; come, Becky.”
The four girls ran upstairs, but as they were going down the passage which led to their pretty bedroom, Pauline’s pain was so great that she stumbled against Becky and nearly fell.
“What is it?” said Becky. “Are you faint?”
She put her arm around the little girl and helped her into the bedroom.
“Whatever can be wrong?” she said. “You seemed so lively out in the open air.”
“Oh, you do look bad, Paulie!” said Nancy. “It is that terrible fasting you went through to-day. My dear girls, what do you think? This poor little aristocrat, far and away too good to talk to the likes of us”—here Nancy put her arms akimbo and looked down with a mocking laugh at the prostrate Pauline—“far too grand, girls—fact, I assure you—was kept without her food until I gave her a bit of bread and a sup of water at supper. All these things are owing to an aunt—one of the tip-top of the nobility. This aunt, though grand externally, has a mighty poor internal arrangement, to my way of thinking. She put the poor child into a place she calls Punishment Land, and kept her without food.”
“That isn’t true,” said Pauline. “I could have had plenty to eat if I had liked.”
“That means that if you were destitute of one little spark of spirit you’d have crawled back to the house to take your broken food on a cold plate like a dog. But what is the matter now? Hungry again?”
“No; it is my arm. Please don’t touch it.”
“Do look!” cried Amy Perkins. “Oh, Nancy, she has got an awful burn! There’s quite a hole through the sleeve of her dress. Oh, do see this great blister!”
“It was a bit of one of the squibs,” said Pauline. “It lit right on my arm and burned my muslin sleeve; but I don’t suppose it’s much hurt, only I feel a little faint.”
“Dear, dear!” said Nancy. “What is to be done now? I don’t know a thing about burns, or about any sort of illness. Shall we wake cook up? Perhaps she can tell us something.”
“Let’s put on a bandage,” said one of the other girls. “Then when you lie down in bed, Pauline, you will drop asleep and be all right in the morning.”
Pauline was so utterly weary that she was glad to creep into bed. Her arm was bandaged very unskilfully; nevertheless it felt slightly more comfortable. Presently she dropped into an uneasy doze; but from that doze she awoke soon after midnight, to hear Nancy snoring loudly by her side, to hear corresponding snores in a sort of chorus coming from the other end of the long room, and to observe also that there was not a chink of light anywhere; and, finally, to be all too terribly conscious of a great burning pain in her arm. That pain seemed to awaken poor Pauline’s slumbering conscience.
“Why did I come?” she said to herself. “I am a wretched, most miserable girl. And how am I ever to get back? I cannot climb into the beech-tree with this bad arm. Oh, how it does hurt me! I feel so sick and faint I scarcely care what happens.”
Pauline stretched out her uninjured arm and touched Nancy.
“What is it?” said Nancy. “Oh, dear! I’d forgotten. It’s you, Paulie. How is your arm, my little dear? Any better?”
“It hurts me very badly indeed; but never mind about that now. How am I to get home?”
“I’ll manage that. Betty, our dairymaid, is to throw gravel up at the window at four o’clock. You shall have a cup of tea before you start, and I will walk with you as far as the wicket-gate.”
“Oh, thank you! But how am I to get into my room when I do arrive at The Dales? I don’t believe I shall be able to use this arm at all.”
“Of course you will,” said Nancy. “You will be miles better when cook has looked to it. I know she’s grand about burns, and has a famous ointment she uses for the purpose. Only, for goodness’ sake, Paulie, don’t let that burn in the sleeve of your dress be seen; that would lead to consequences, and I don’t want my midnight picnic to be spoilt.”
“I don’t seem to care about that or anything else any more.”
“What nonsense! You don’t suppose I should like this little escapade of yours and mine to be known. You must take care. Why, you know, there’s father. He’s very crotchety over some things. He likes all of you, but over and over again he has said:
“‘I’m as proud of being an honest farmer as I should be to be a lord. My grandfather paid his way, and my father paid his way, and I am paying my way. There’s no nonsense about me, and I shall leave you, Nancy, a tidy fortune. You like those young ladies at The Dales, and you shall have them come here if they wish to come, but not otherwise. I won’t have them here thinking themselves too grand to talk to us. Let them keep to their own station, say I. I don’t want them.’
“Now you see, Paulie, what that means. If father found out that your aunt had written to me and desired me to have nothing further to do with you, I believe he’d pack me out of the country to-morrow. I don’t want to leave my home; why should I? So, you see, for my sake you must keep it the closest of close secrets.”
“You should have thought of that before you tempted me to come,” said Pauline.
“That is just like you. You come here and enjoy yourself, and have a great hearty meal, and when you are likely to get into a scrape you throw the blame on me.”
“You can understand that I am very miserable, Nancy.”
“Yes; and I’m as sorry as I can be about that burn; but if you’ll be brave and plucky now, I’ll help you all I can. We’ll get up as soon as ever the day dawns, and cook shall put your arm straight.”
As Nancy uttered the last words her voice dwindled toa whisper, and a minute later she was again sound asleep. But Pauline could not sleep. Her pain was too great. The summer light stole in by degrees, and by-and-by the sharp noise made by a shower of gravel was heard on the window.
Pauline sprang into a sitting posture, and Nancy rubbed her eyes.
“I’m dead with sleep,” she said. “I could almost wish I hadn’t brought you. Not but that I’m fond of you, as I think I’ve proved. We haven’t yet made all our arrangements about the midnight picnic, but I have the most daring scheme in my head. You are every single one of you—bar Penelope, whom I can’t bear—to come to that picnic. I’ll make my final plans to-day, and I’ll walk in the Forest to-morrow at six o’clock, just outside your wicket-gate. You will meet me, won’t you?”
“But—— Oh! by the way, Nancy, please give me back that beautiful thimble. I’m so glad I remembered it! It belongs to Aunt Sophia.”
“I can’t,” said Nancy, coloring, “I lent it to Becky, and I don’t know where she has put it. I’ll bring it with me to-morrow, so don’t fuss. Now jump up, Paulie; we have no time to lose.”
Accordingly Pauline got up, dressed herself—very awkwardly, it is true—and went downstairs, leaning on Nancy’s sympathetic arm. Nancy consulted the cook, who was good-natured and red-faced.
“You have got a bad burn, miss,” she said when she had examined Pauline’s arm; “but I have got a famous plaster that heals up burns like anything. I’ll make your arm quite comfortable in a twinkling, miss.”
This she proceeded to do, and before the treatment had been applied for half an hour a good deal of Pauline’s acute pain had vanished.
“I feel better,” she said, turning to Nancy. “I feel stronger and braver.”
“You will feel still braver when you have had your cup of tea. And here’s a nice hunch of cake. Put it into your pocket if you can’t eat it now. We had best be going; the farm people may be about, and there’s no saying—it’s wonderful how secrets get into the air.”
Pauline looked startled. She again took Nancy’s hand, and they left the house together.
Now, it so happened that the the morning was by no means as fine as those lovely mornings that had preceded it. There was quite a cold wind blowing, and the sky was laden with clouds.
“We’ll have rain to-day,” said Nancy; “rain, and perhaps thunder. I feel thunder in the air, and I never was mistaken yet. We must be quick, or we’ll both be drenched to the skin.”
Accordingly the two walked quickly through the Forestpath. But before they reached the wicket-gate the first mutterings of thunder were audible, and heavy drops of rain were falling.
“I must leave you now, Paulie,” said Nancy, “for if I go any farther I’ll be drenched to the skin. Climb up your tree, get into your bedroom, and go to bed. If you can manage to send that white dress over to me, I will put on a patch that even your aunt will not see. Put on another dress, of course, this morning, and say nothing about the burn. Good-bye, and good luck! I’ll be over about six o’clock to-morrow evening to talk over our midnight picnic.”
“And the thimble,” said Pauline. “You won’t forget the thimble.”
“Not I. Good gracious, what a flash! You had best get home at once; and I must run for my life or I may be struck down under all these trees.”
Pauline stood still for a minute, watching Nancy as she disappeared from view; then slowly and sadly she went up to the house.
She was too tired and depressed to mind very much that the rain was falling in showers, soaking her thin white muslin dress, and chilling her already tired and exhausted little frame. The rattle of the thunder, the bright flash of the lightning, and the heavy fall of the tempest could not reach the graver trouble which filled her heart. The way of transgressors had proved itself very hard for poor Pauline. She disliked the discomfort and misery she was enduring; but even now she was scarcely sorry that she had defied and disobeyed Aunt Sophia.
After a great deal of difficulty, and with some injury to her already injured arm, she managed to climb the beech-tree and so reach the gabled roof just under her attic window. She pushed the window wide open and got inside. How dear and sweet and fresh the little chamber appeared! How innocent and good was that little white bed, with its sheets still smoothly folded down! It took Pauline scarcely a minute to get into her night-dress, sweep her offending white dress into a neighboring cupboard, unlock the door, and put her head on her pillow. Oh, there was no place like home! It was better to be hungry at home, it was better to be in punishment at home, than to go away to however grand a place and however luxuriant a feast.
“And Nancy’s home isn’t grand,” thought Pauline. “And the food was rough. Aunt Sophia would even call it coarse. But, oh, I was hungry! And if I hadn’t been so naughty I’d have been very happy. All the same,” she continued, thinking aloud, as was her fashion. “I won’t go to that midnight picnic; and Renny must not go either. Of course, I can’t tell Aunt Sophia what I did last night. I promised Nancy I wouldn’t tell, and it wouldn’t be fair; but see if I do anythingwrong again! I’ll work like a Briton at my lessons to-day. Oh, how badly my arm hurts! And what an awful noise the storm is making! The thunder rattles as though it would come through the roof. My arm does ache! Oh, what lightning! I think I’ll put my head under the sheet.”
Pauline did so, and notwithstanding the tempest, she had scarcely got down into the real warmth of her bed before sleep visited her.
When she awoke the storm was over, the sun was shining, and Verena was standing at the foot of her bed.
“Do get up, Paulie,” she said. “How soundly you have slept! And your face is so flushed! And, oh, aren’t you just starving? We only discovered last night that you hadn’t touched any of your food.”
“I’m all right,” said Pauline.
“You will try to be good to-day, won’t you, Paulie? You don’t know how miserable I was without you, for you are my own special most darling chum. You will try, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will try, of course,” said Pauline. “Truly—truly, I will try.”
CHAPTER XII.CHANGED LIVES.
After the mental storm of the day before, Pauline would never forget the peace of the day that followed. For Miss Tredgold, having punished, and the hours of punishment being over, said nothing further to signify her displeasure. She received Pauline kindly when she appeared in the schoolroom. She took her hand and drew the little girl toward her. It was with a great effort that the poor girl could suppress the shriek that nearly rose to her lips as the unconscious Miss Tredgold touched her burnt arm.
“We will forget about yesterday, Pauline,” said her aunt. “We will go back to work this morning just as though there never had been any yesterday. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” said Pauline.
“Do you happen to know your lessons?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well, my dear, as this is practically your first transgression, I am the last person to be over-hard. You can listen to your sisters this morning. At preparation to-day you will doubtless do your best. Now go to your seat.”
Pauline sat between Briar and Adelaide. Adelaide nestled up close to her, and Briar took the first opportunity to whisper:
“I am so glad you are back again, dear old Pauline! We had a horrid time without you yesterday.”
“They none of them know what I did,” thought Pauline; “and, of course, I meant to tell them. Not Aunt Sophia, but the girls. Yes, I meant to confide in the girls; but the atmosphere of peace is so nice that I do not care to disturb it. I will put off saying anything for the present. It certainly is delightful to feel good again.”
Lessons went on tranquilly. The girls had a time of delightful rest afterwards in the garden, and immediately after early dinner there came a surprise. Miss Tredgold said:
“My dear girls, there are several things you ought to learn besides mere book knowledge. I propose that you should be young country ladies whom no one will be ashamed to know. You must learn to dance properly, and to skate properly if there ever is any skating here. If not, we will go abroad for the purpose. But while you are in the Forest I intend you to have riding lessons and also driving lessons. A wagonette will be here at two o’clock, and we will all go for a long and delightful drive through the Forest. I am going to some stables about six or seven miles away, where I hear I can purchase some good horses and also some Forest ponies. Don’t look so excited, dears. I should be ashamed of any nieces of mine brought up in the New Forest of England who did not know how to manage horses.”
“Oh, she really is a darling!” said Verena. “I never did for a single moment suppose that we should have had the chance of learning to drive.”
“And to ride,” said Pauline.
She began to skip about the lawn. Her spirits, naturally very high, returned.
“I feel quite happy again,” she said.
“Why, of course you are happy,” said Verena; “but you must never get into Punishment Land again as long as you live, Paulie, for I wouldn’t go through another day like yesterday for anything.”
The wagonette arrived all in good time. It drew up at the front door, and Mr. Dale, attracted by the sound of wheels, rose from his accustomed seat in his musty, fusty study, and looked out of the window. The window was so dusty and dirty that he could not see anything plainly; but, true to his determination, he would not open it. A breeze might come in and disturb some of his papers. He was busy with an enthralling portion of his work just then; nevertheless, the smart wagonette and nicely harnessed horses, and the gay sound of young voices, attracted him.
“I could almost believe myself back in the days when I courted my dearly beloved Alice,” he whispered to himself. “I do sincerely trust that visitors are not beginning to arrive at The Dales; that would be the final straw.”
The carriage, however, did not stop long at the front door. It was presently seen bowling away down the avenue. Mr. Dale, who still stood and watched it, observed that it was quite packed with bright-looking young girls. Blue ribbons streamed on the breeze, and the girls laughed gaily.
“I am glad those visitors are going,” thought the good man, who did not in the least recognize his own family. “A noisy, vulgar crowd they seemed. I hope my own girls will never become like that. Thank goodness they did not stay long! Sophia is a person of discernment; she knows that I can’t possibly receive incidental visitors at The Dales.”
He returned to his work and soon was lost to all external things.
Meanwhile the girls had a lovely and exciting drive. Aunt Sophia was in her most agreeable mood. The children themselves were quite unaccustomed to carriage exercise. It was a wonderful luxury to lean back on the softly cushioned seats and dash swiftly under the noble beech-trees and the giant oaks of the primeval forest. By-and-by they drove up to some white gates. Verena was desired to get out and open them. The carriage passed through. She remounted into her seat, and a few minutes later they all found themselves in a great cobble-stoned yard surrounded by stables and coach-houses. The melodious cry of a pack of fox-hounds filled the air. The girls were almost beside themselves with excitement. Presently a red-faced man appeared, and he and Miss Tredgold had a long and mysterious talk together. She got out of the wagonette and went with the man into the stables. Soon out of the stables there issued, led by two grooms, as perfect a pair of Forest ponies as were ever seen. They were well groomed and in excellent order, and when they arched their necks and pawed the ground with their feet, Pauline uttered an irrepressible shout.
“Those ponies are coming to The Dale in a fortnight,” said Miss Tredgold. “Their names are Peas-blossom and Lavender.”
“I believe I’ll die if much more of this goes on,” gasped Briar. “I’m too happy. I can’t stand anything further.”
“Hush, Briar!” said Verena, almost giving her sister a shake in her excitement, and yet at the same time trying to appear calm.
“Now, my dear children, we will go home,” said their aunt. “The wagonette will come any day that I send for it, and Mr. Judson informs me he hopes by-and-by to have a pair of carriage horses that I may think it worth while to purchase.”
“Aren’t these good enough?” asked Verena, as they drove back to The Dales.
“They are very fair horses, but I don’t care to buy them. Judson knows just the sort I want. I am pleased with theponies, however. They will give you all a great deal of amusement. To-morrow we must go to Southampton and order your habits.”
“I wonder Ieverthought her cross and nasty and disagreeable,” thought Pauline. “I wonder I ever could hate her. I hope she’ll let me ride Peas-blossom. I liked his bright eyes so much. I never rode anything in my life, but I feel I could ride barebacked on Peas-blossom. I love him already. Oh, dear! I don’t hate Aunt Sophia now. On the contrary, I feel rather bad when I look at her. If she ever knows what I did yesterday, will she forgive me? I suppose I ought to tell her; but I can’t. It would get poor Nancy into trouble. Besides—I may as well be frank with myself—I should not have the courage.”
As soon as the girls got home Penelope ran up to Pauline.
“You stayed for a long time in the shrubbery yesterday, didn’t you, Pauline?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Pauline.
“You didn’t by any chance find Aunt Sophy’s thimble?”
“I! Why should I?”
Pauline felt herself turning red. Penelope fixed her exceedingly sharp eyes on her sister’s face.
“You did find it; you know you did. Where is it? Give it to me. I want my penny. Think of all the fun you are going to have. She doesn’t mean me to ride, ’cos I asked her. I must have my penny. Give me the thimble at once, Paulie.”
“I haven’t got it. Don’t talk nonsense, child. Let me go. Oh! you have hurt me.”
Pauline could not suppress a short scream, and the next minute she felt herself turning very faint and sick, for Penelope had laid her exceedingly hard little hand on Pauline’s burnt arm.
“What is it, Paulie? I know you are not well,” said Verena, running up.
“It is ’cos of her bad conscience,” said Penelope, turning away with a snort of indignation.
“Really,” said Verena, as Pauline leaned against her and tried hard to repress the shivers of pain that ran through her frame, “Penelope gets worse and worse. Only that I hate telling tales out of school, I should ask Aunt Sophia to send her back to the nursery for at least another year. But what is it, Paulie dear? You look quite ill.”
“I feel rather bad. I have hurt my arm. You must not ask me how, Renny. You must trust me. Oh dear! I must tell you what has happened, for you will have to help me. Oh, Renny, I am in such pain!”
Poor Pauline burst into a torrent of tears. Where was her happiness of an hour ago? Where were her rapturous thoughts of riding Peas-blossom through the Forest? Her arm hurt her terribly; she knew that Penelope was quitecapable of making mischief, she was terrified about the thimble. Altogether her brief interval of sunshine was completely blotted out.
Verena, for her years, was a wonderfully wise girl. She had since her mother’s death been more or less a little mother to the younger children. It is true, she had looked after them in a somewhat rough-and-ready style; but nevertheless she was a sympathetic and affectionate girl, and they all clung to her. Now it seemed only natural that Pauline should lean on her and confide her troubles to her. Accordingly Verena led her sister to a rustic seat and said:
“Sit down near me and tell me everything.”
“It is this,” said Pauline. “I have burned my arm badly, and Aunt Sophia must not know.”
“You have burnt your arm? How?”
“I would rather not tell.”
“But why should you conceal it, Paulie?”
“I’d rather conceal it; please don’t ask me. All I want you to do is to ask me no questions, but to help me to get my arm well; the pain is almost past bearing. But, Renny, whatever happens, Aunt Sophia must not know.”
“You are fearfully mysterious,” said Verena, who looked much alarmed. “You used not to be like this, Paulie. You were always very open, and you and I shared every thought Well, come into the house. Of course, whatever happens, I will help you; but I think you ought to tell me the whole truth.”
“I can’t, so there! If you are to be a real, real sister to me, you will help me without asking questions.”
The girls entered the house and ran up to Pauline’s bedroom. There the injured arm was exposed to view, and Verena was shocked to see the extent of the burn.
“You ought to see a doctor. This is very wrong,” she said.
She made Pauline lie down, and dressed her arm as well as she could. Verena was quite a skilful little nurse in her own way, and as Pauline had some of the wonderful ointment which the Kings’ cook had given her, and as Verena knew very nicely how to spread it on a piece of rag, the arm soon became more comfortable.
Just before dinner Miss Tredgold called all the girls round her.
“I have something to say,” she remarked. “I want you all to go upstairs now; don’t wait until five minutes before dinner. You will each find lying on your bed, ready for wearing, a suitable dinner-blouse. Put it on and come downstairs. You will wear dinner-dress every night in future, in order to accustom you to the manners of good society. Now go upstairs, tidy yourselves, and come down looking as nice as you can.”
The girls were all very much excited at the thought ofthe dinner-blouses. They found them, as Aunt Sophia had said, each ready to put on, on their little beds. Verena’s was palest blue, trimmed daintily with a lot of fluffy lace. The sleeves were elbow-sleeves, and had ruffles round them. The blouse in itself was quite a girlish one, and suited its fair wearer to perfection. Pauline’s blouse was cream-color; it also had elbow-sleeves, and was very slightly open at the neck.
“Do be quick, Paulie,” called out Briar. “I have got a sweet, darling, angel of a pink blouse. Get into yours, and I’ll get into mine. Oh, what tremendous fun this is!”
Briar ran whooping and singing down the corridor. She was met by nurse with baby in her arms.
“Now, Miss Rose, what’s up?” said the good woman. “You do look happy, to be sure. You don’t seem to miss the old days much.”
“Of course I don’t, nursey. I’m twice as happy as I used to be.”
“Twice as happy with all them lessons to learn?”
“Yes; twice as happy, and twice as good. She doesn’t scold us when we’re good. In fact, she’s just uncommonly nice. And to-night she says she’ll play and sing to us; and it’s so delicious to listen to her! Dad comes out of his study just as if she drew him by magic. And I like to learn things. I won’t be a horrid pig of an ignorant girl any more. You will have to respect me in the future, nursey. And there’s a darling little blouse lying on my bed—pink, like the leaf of a rose. I am to wear it to-night. I expect Aunt Sophia chose it because I’m like a rose myself. I shall look nice, shan’t I, nursey?”
“That’s all very well,” said nurse. “And for my part I don’t object to civilized ways, and bringing you up like young ladies; but as to Miss Pen, she’s just past bearing. New ways don’t suit her—no, that they don’t. She ain’t come in yet—not a bit of her. Oh! there she is, marching down the corridor as if all the world belonged to her. What have you done to yourself, Miss Pen? A nice mess you are in!”
“I thought I’d collect some fresh eggs for your tea, nursey,” said the incorrigible child; “and I had three or four in my pinafore when I dropped them. I am a bit messy, I know; but you don’t mind, do you, nursey?”
“Indeed, then, I do. Just go straight to the nursery and get washed.”
Penelope glanced at Briar with a wry face, and ran away singing out in a shrill voice:
“Cross patch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin.”
She disappeared like a flash, and nurse followed her, murmuring angrily.
Briar ran into her bedroom. This room she shared with Patty and Adelaide. They also were wildly delighted with their beautiful blouses, and had not begun to dress when Briar appeared.
“I say, isn’t it all jolly?” said Briar. “Oh, Patty, what a duck yours is!—white. And Adelaide’s is white, too. But don’t you love mine? I must be a very pretty girl to cause Aunt Sophia to choose such a lovely shade of rose. I wonder if I am really a pretty girl. Do stand out of the way; I want to stare at myself in the glass.”
Briar ran to the dressing-table. There she pushed the glass into such an angle that she could gaze contentedly at her features. She saw a small, rather round face, cheeks a little flushed, eyes very dark and bright, quantities of bright brown curling hair, dark pencilled eyebrows, a little nose, and a small pink mouth.
“You are a charming girl, Briar Dale,” she said, “worthy of a rose-pink blouse. Patty, don’t you just love yourself awfully?”
“I don’t know,” said Patty. “I suppose every one does.”
“The Bible says it is very wrong to love yourself,” said Adelaide. “You ought to love other people and hate yourself.”
“Well, I am made the contrary,” said Briar. “I hate other people and love myself. Who wouldn’t love a darling little face like mine? Oh, I am just a duck! Help me into my new blouse, Patty.”
The three girls, each with the help of the other, managed to array themselves even to Briar’s satisfaction. She was the neatest and also the vainest of the Dales. When she reached the outside corridor she met Verena, looking sweet, gentle, and charming in her pale-blue blouse. They all ran down to the drawing-room, where Miss Tredgold was waiting to receive them. She wore the old black lace dress, which suited her faded charms to perfection. She was standing by the open French window, and turned as her nieces came in. The girls expected her to make some remark with regard to their appearance, but the only thing she said was to ask them to observe the exquisite sunset.
Presently Pauline appeared. She looked pale. There were black shadows under her eyes, and she was wearing a dirty white shirt decidedly the worse for wear. The other girls looked at her in astonishment. Verena gave her a quick glance of pain. Verena understood; the others were simply amazed. Miss Tredgold flashed one glance at her, and did not look again in her direction.
Dinner was announced in quite the orthodox fashion, and the young people went into the dining-room. Mr. Dale was present. He was wearing quite a decent evening suit. He had not the faintest idea that he was not still in the old suit that had lain by unused and neglected for so many longyears. He had not the most remote conception that Miss Tredgold had taken that suit and sent it to a tailor in London and desired him to make by its measurements a new suit according to the existing vogue. Mr. Dale put on the new suit when it came, and imagined that it was the old one. But, scholar as he was, he was learning to appreciate the excellent meals Miss Tredgold provided for him. On this occasion he was so human as to find fault with a certain entrée.
“This curry is not hot enough,” he said. “I like spicy things; don’t you, Sophia?”
Miss Tredgold thought this an enormous sign of mental improvement. She had already spoken to cook on the subject of Mr. Dale’s tastes.
“Why, drat him!” was Betty’s somewhat indignant answer. “In the old days he didn’t know sprats from salmon, nor butter from lard. Whatever have you done to him, ma’am?”
“I am bringing him back to humanity,” was Miss Tredgold’s quiet answer.
Betty raised her eyebrows. She looked at Miss Tredgold and said to herself:
“So quiet in her ways, so gentle, and for all so determined! Looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth; yet you daren’t so much as neglect the smallest little sauce for the poorest littleentréeor you’d catch it hot. She’s a real haristocrat. It’s a pleasure to have dealings with her. Yes, it’s a downright pleasure. When I’m not thinking of my favorite ’ero of fiction, the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton, I feel that I’m doing the next best thing when I’m receiving the orders of her ladyship.”
Another of cook’s ideas was that Miss Tredgold was a person of title, who chose for the present to disguise the fact. She certainly had a marvellous power over the erratic Betty, and was turning her into a first-rate cook.
“Are you going to give us some of that exquisite music to-night, Sophia?” asked Mr. Dale when he had finished his dinner. He looked languidly at his sister-in-law.
“On one condition I will,” she said. “The condition is this: you are to accompany my piano on the violin.”
Mr. Dale’s face became pale. He did not speak for a minute; then he rose and went nimbly on tiptoe out of the room.
There was silence for a short time. The girls and their aunt had migrated into the drawing-room. The drawing-room looked sweetly pretty with its open windows, its softly shaded lamps, its piano wide open, and the graceful figures of the girls flitting about. Even Pauline’s ugly blouse was forgotten. There was a sense of mystery in the air. Presently in the distance came the sound of a fiddle. It was the sound of a fiddle being tuned. The notes were discordant;but soon rich, sweeping melodies were heard. They came nearer and nearer, and Mr. Dale, still playing his fiddle, entered the room. He entered with a sort of dancing measure, playing an old minuet as he did so.
Miss Tredgold stepped straight to the piano and without any music, played an accompaniment.
“I have won,” she thought. “I shall send him away for change of air; then the study must be cleaned. I shall be able to breathe then.”
CHAPTER XIII.NANCY SHOWS HER HAND.
It was not until after breakfast on the following morning that Miss Tredgold said anything to Pauline about the ugly shirt she had chosen to wear on the previous evening.
“My dear,” she said then, very gently, “I did not remark on your dress last night; but for the future remember that when I say a thing is to be done, it is to be done. I had a pretty, suitable blouse put into your room for you to appear in last night. Why did you wear that ugly torn shirt?”
“I couldn’t help myself,” said Pauline.
“That is no reason.”
Pauline was silent. She looked on the ground. Miss Tredgold also was silent for a minute; then she said decisively:
“You will wear the new blouse to-night. Remember, I expect to be obeyed. I will say nothing more now about your forgetting my orders last evening. Do better in the future and all will be well.”
It was with great difficulty that Pauline could keep the tears from her eyes. What was to become of her. She did not dare expose her burnt arm; she could not possibly wear a blouse with sleeves that reached only to the elbow without showing the great burn she had received. If Miss Tredgold found out, might she not also find out more? What was she to do?
“What am I to do, Verena?” she said on the afternoon of that same day.
“What do you mean, Paulie? Your arm is better, is it not?”
“Yes; it doesn’t hurt quite so much. But how can I wear the new blouse to-night?”
“Would it not be wiser,” said Verena, “if you were to tell Aunt Sophy that you have burnt your arm? It is silly to make a mystery of it.”
“But she will make me tell her how I did it.”
“Well?”
“I daren’t tell her that. I daren’t even tell you.”
“What am I to think, Paulie?”
“Anything you like. You are my own sister, and you must not betray me. But she must never know. Can’t you think of something to get me out of this? Oh, dear! what is to be done?”
Verena shook her head.
“I don’t know what is to be done,” she said, “if you haven’t the courage to speak the truth. You have probably got into some scrape.”
“Oh! I——”
“I am sure you have, Paulie; and the sooner you tell the better. The longer you conceal whatever it is, the worse matters will grow.”
Pauline’s face grew crimson.
“I am exceedingly sorry I told you,” she said. “You are not half, nor quarter, as nice a sister as you used to be. Don’t keep me. I am going into the shrubbery to help Penelope to look for Aunt Sophy’s thimble.”
Verena said nothing further, and Pauline went into the shrubbery.
“I seem to be getting worse,” she said to herself. “Of course, I don’t really want to help Penelope. How should I, when I know where the thimble is? There she is, hunting, hunting, as usual. What a queer, unpleasant child she is growing!”
Penelope saw Pauline, and ran up to her.
“You might tell me everything to-day,” said the child. “Where did you put it?”
“I have come to help you to look for it, Pen.”
“Don’t be silly,” was Penelope’s answer.
She instantly stood bolt upright.
“There’s no use in my fussing any longer,” she said. “I’ve gone round and round here, and picked up leaves, and looked under all the weeds. There isn’t a corner I’ve left unpoked into. Where’s the good of troubling when you have it? You know you have it.”
“I know nothing of the kind. There! I will tell you the simple truth. I have not got the thimble. You may believe me as much as you like.”
“Then I’ll believe just as much as nothing at all. If you haven’t got the thimble, you know where it is. I’ll give you until this time to-morrow to let me have it, and if you don’t I’ll go straight to Aunt Sophy.”
“Now, Pen, you are talking nonsense. You have no proof whatever that I have touched the thimble; and what will Aunt Sophia say to a little child who trumps up stories about her elder sister?”
“Perhaps she’ll be very glad,” said Penelope. “I have often thought that with such a lot of you grown-up girls,and all of you so very rampagious and not a bit inclined to obey or do your lessons nicely, poor Aunt Sophy, what is really a dear old duck of a thing, wants some one like me to spy round corners and find out what goes on ahind her back. Don’t you think so? Don’t you think her’ll love me if I tell her always what goes on ahind of her back?”
“If she’s a bit decent she’ll hate you,” said Pauline. “Oh, Pen, how were you made? What a queer, queer sort of child you are! You haven’t ideas like the rest of us.”
“Maybe ’cos I’m nicer,” said Penelope, not at all impressed by Pauline’s contempt. “Maybe I shouldn’t like to be made same as all you others are. There is something wrong about Aunt Sophy’s thimble, and if I don’t get it soon I’ll be ’bliged to tell her.”
Penelope’s eyes looked like needles. She walked away. Pauline gazed after her; then she went into the house.
“That thimble is really a very trifling matter,” she said to herself, “but even that at the present moment annoys me. Nancy has promised to bring it back to me this evening, and I will just put it somewhere where Pen is sure to find it. Then she’ll be in raptures; she’ll have her penny, and that matter will be set at rest. Oh, dear! it is almost time to go and meet Nancy. She must not keep me long, for now that that horrid dressing for dinner has begun, it takes quite half an hour to get properly tidy. But what am I to do? How can I wear that blouse?”
Pauline waited her chance, and slipped out at the wicket-gate without even Penelope’s sharp eyes watching her. She found Nancy pacing up and down at the other side. Nancy was decidedly cross.
“Why did you keep me waiting?” she said. “It is five minutes past six, and I have barely another five minutes to stay with you, and there’s a lot to talk over.”
“I’m in great luck to be able to come at all, Nancy. I didn’t think I could ever slip away from the others. As to the midnight picnic, we must give it up. It is quite impossible for me to come. And I know the others won’t; they’re all getting so fond of Aunt Sophy. What do you think? She has given us ponies, and we’re to have carriage-horses presently; and we are obliged to dress for dinner every evening.”
“Oh, you are turning aristocratic, and I hate you,” said Nancy, with a toss of the head.
She looked intensely jealous and annoyed. She herself was to ride soon, and her habit was already being made. She had hoped against hope that Miss Tredgold would be impressed by seeing her gallop past in an elegant habit on a smart horse.
“Oh, Nancy!” said Pauline, “don’t let us talk about ponies and things of that sort now; I am in great, great trouble.”
“I must say I’m rather glad,” said Nancy. “You know,Paulie, you are in some ways perfectly horrid. I did a great deal for you the other night, and this is all the thanks I get. You won’t come to the midnight picnic, forsooth! And you won’t have anything more to do with me, forsooth! You’ll ride past me, I suppose, and cut me dead.”
“I shall never do anything unkind, for I really do love you, Nancy. I have always loved you, but I can’t get into fresh scrapes. They’re not worth while.”
“You didn’t talk like that when you were mad and starving the other day.”
“No, I didn’t; but I do now. I have been miserable ever since I came back; and, oh, my arm has pained me so badly! You can imagine what I felt last evening when we were desired to wear pretty new blouses with elbow-sleeves; such sweet little dears as they all were. Mine was cream-color—just what suits me best—but of course I couldn’t appear in it.”
“Why not?”
“With my burnt arm! How could I, Nancy?”
Nancy burst out into a roar of laughter.
“What a lark!” she cried. “Well, and what did the poor little Miss Misery do?”
“I had to put on an old dirty shirt, the only one I could find. Aunt Sophia gave me no end of a lecture this morning. She says I am to wear my new blouse to-night or she’ll know the reason why. Of course, I can’t wear it.”
“Then you can’t have any dinner?”
“I am absolutely beside myself to know what to do,” said Pauline. “Sometimes I think I’ll go to bed and pretend I have got a headache. Oh, dear, what a bad girl I am turning into!”
Nancy laughed again.
“It is sometimes very tiresome to develop a conscience,” she said. “You were a much nicer girl before that grand aunt of yours arrived to turn things topsy-turvy. As to the midnight picnic, you must come. I have made a bet on the subject. Jack and Tom say you won’t come—that you will be afraid. ‘Pauline Dale afraid! That’s all you know about her,’ says I. I have assured them that you will come whatever happens, and they have said you won’t. So the end of it is that Tom, Jack, and I have made a bet about it. It is ten shillings’ worth either way. If you come, I get three beautiful pairs of gloves. If you don’t come, I give the boys ten shillings. Now you see how important it is. Why, Paulie, of course you will come! We are going to have a right-down jolly time, for father is so tickled with the notion that he is coming, too; and he says he will give us a real good lark. And we are going to Friar’s Oak, eight miles away; and we are to take hampers full of dainties. And Fiddler Joe will come with us to play for us; and there’s a beautiful green-sward just under the beech-treesby Friar’s Oak, and there we’ll dance by the full light of the moon. Oh, you must come! I told father you were coming, and he was awfully pleased—as pleased as Punch—and he said:
“‘That’s right, my girl; that’s right, Nancy. If the Dales stick to me through thick and thin, I’ll stick to them.’
“You know, Pauline, you have always been at our fun before; so, aunt or no aunt, you can’t fail us now.”
“I’d like to go beyond anything,” said Pauline, who felt intensely tempted by this description. “It is so horrible to be pulled up short. But I know I can’t, so there’s no use thinking about it.”
“You needn’t answer me now. I’ll come back again. This is Friday night. I’ll come back on Monday night. The picnic is arranged for Wednesday night. Listen, Paulie; you will have to change your mind, for if you don’t—well!”
“If I don’t?”
“I can make it very hot for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll come and have a talk with your aunt. There!”
“Oh, Nancy. What about?”
“Such an interesting story, darling! All about our fun that night when you burnt your arm—all about our gaiety, and the fireworks, and your stealing away as you did, and your stealing back as you did. Oh! I shall have a jolly story to tell; and I will tell it, too. She’ll turn me away, and tell me she’ll never see me any more; but what of that? She’s done that already. I will have my fun; you will have your punishment. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? You don’t desert Nancy King for nothing, remember that, Pauline, so you had better say at once that you will come. Now, my love, I think that is about all.”
Nancy’s face was very red. She was feeling thoroughly angry. Pauline’s manner annoyed her past description. She really imagined herself to be extremely kind and good-natured to Pauline, and could not endure the little girl taking her present high stand.
“I must be going now,” she said.
She gave Pauline a nod which was scarcely friendly, but was, at the same time, very determined, and was about to run home, when Pauline called her.
“Don’t go for a minute, Nancy. There’s something else. Have you brought me back Aunt Sophia’s thimble?”
“No, I have not. I have a story to tell you about that, and I was just forgetting it. I do hope and trust you won’t really mind.”
“Oh, what is it? You know I am quite likely to get into a scrape about that horrid thimble as well as everything else. What is the story? The thimble isn’t yours. You surely haven’t lost it!”
“Nothing of the kind. You look as though you thought Ihad stolen it. Mean as I am, I am not quite so bad as that. Now let me tell you. Becky, poor old girl! saw it. She’s always mad about finery of any sort, and her people are rich as rich. I had the thimble in my pocket, and she was snuggling up close to me in her nice, engaging little fashion, and she felt the thimble hard against my side, much as I felt it when it was in your pocket. In she slipped her little bit of a white hand and drew it out. I never saw any one so delighted over a toy of the sort in all my life. It fitted her little finger just to a nicety.
“‘Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘I never, never saw a thimble like this before; did you, Nancy?’
“‘Guess not,’ I answered. ‘It’s a cunning one, isn’t it?’
“She kept turning it round and round, and looking at it, and pressing it up to her cheek, and trying to see her own reflection in that wonderful sapphire at the bottom of the thimble. Then what do you think happened? I own it was a little sharp of her, but of course you can’t be so unfriendly as to mind. She took the precious little toy and put it into a dear, most precious little box, and covered it over with soft, soft cotton-wool, and placed a sweet little lid on the top. Dear me, Pauline! you needn’t open your eyes any wider. And when she had secured the little box, she wrapped it in brown paper, and twined it, and sealed it, and addressed it to her sister Josephine in London.”
“Then she stole it,” said Pauline.
“Not a bit of it. What a narrow-minded girl you are! Just hear my story out. Becky sent the thimble to Josephine to their house in Bayswater, with directions that Josephine was to take it to their jeweller, Paxton, and ask him to make another in all particulars precise ditto the same. You understand? Precise ditto the same—sapphire, gold, turquoise, and all. And this beautiful thimble is to be worn on the dear little middle finger of Becky’s dear little white hand. When it is faithfully copied you will have the original thimble back, my love, but not before. Now, then, ta-ta for the present.”
Nancy ran off before Pauline had time to reply. She felt stunned. What did everything mean? How queer of Nancy to have suddenly turned into a perfectly awful girl—a sort of fiend—a girl who had another girl completely in her power; who could, and would if she liked, make that other girl wretched; who could and would ruin that other girl’s life. There was a time when the midnight picnic seemed the most delightful thing on earth; but it scarcely appeared delightful now to poor Pauline, whose head ached, whose arm ached, and whose whole body ached. What was she to do?
When she re-entered the shrubbery, her unhappy feelings were by no means lightened to see that Penelope was waiting for her. Penelope stood a little way off, her feet firmlyplanted a little apart, her straw hat pushed back from her sunburned face, her hands dropped straight to her sides.
“I didn’t eavesdrop,” she said. “I could have easy. There was a blackberry briar, and I could have stole under it and not minded the scratches, and I could have heard every single word; but I didn’t, ’cos I’m not mean. But I saw you talking to Nancy, what kind Aunt Sophy says you’re not to talk to. Perhaps, seeing you has done what is awful wrong, you’ll give me a penny instead of Aunt Sophy; then I needn’t tell her that you were talking to Nancy when you oughtn’t, and that I think you have got the thimble. Will you give me a penny or will you not?”
Pauline put her hand into her pocket.
“You are a most detestable child,” she said.
“Think so if you like,” said Penelope. “Oh, here’s my penny!”
She snatched at the penny which was reposing on Pauline’s palm.
“Now I’ll go straight off and get John to bring me in some cookies,” she exclaimed.