CHAPTER XIV.PAULINE CONFESSES.
Pauline was in such a strait that she made up her mind to tell a lie. She had never, so far as she could remember, told an actual and premeditated lie before. Now matters were so difficult, and there seemed such a certainty of there being no other way out, that she resolved to brave the consequences and add to her former sin by a desperate, downright black lie. Accordingly, just before dinner she ran into Verena’s room.
“Renny,” she said, “I have made up my mind.”
“What about?” asked Verena. “Why, Pauline, you do look bad. Your face is as white as a sheet.”
“I shall have to explain,” continued Pauline. “I am going to tell how I got the burn on my arm.”
Verena gave a great sigh of relief.
“I am glad,” she cried. “It is far better to tell.”
“So I think,” said Pauline in an airy fashion. “Give me a kiss, Verena; I must dress for dinner, and I haven’t a moment to lose.”
“You will wear your pretty blouse?”
“Certainly.”
Pauline dashed out of the room, banging the door noisily after her.
“I wonder what she means,” thought Verena. “She is certainly getting rather queer. I am afraid she has a terrible secret on her mind. I am glad she means to confess, poor darling! I seem to have less influence over her than I used to have, and yet I love no one like Paulie. She is all the world to me. I love her far better than the others.”
Meanwhile Pauline, with great difficulty, put on her pretty evening-blouse. How she hated those elbow-sleeves! How she wished the little soft chiffon frills were longer! At another time she would have been delighted with her own reflection in the glass, for a cream-colored silk blouse suited her. She would have liked to see how well she looked in this new and fashionable little garment. She would have been pleased, too, with the size and brilliancy of her black eyes. She would have admired that flush which so seldom visited her sallow cheeks; she would even have gazed with approbation at her pearly-white teeth. Oh, yes, she would have liked herself. Now she felt that she hated herself. She turned from the glass with a heavy sigh.
Having finished her toilet, she wrapped a soft muslin handkerchief round her wounded arm and ran downstairs. Her aunt was already in the drawing-room, but to Pauline’s relief no one else was present. The little girl ran up to her aunt, dropped a curtsy, and looked somewhat impertinently into her face.
“Here I am,” she said; “and how do I look?”
“You have put on your blouse, Pauline. It suits you. Turn round and let me see how it fits at the back. Oh! quite nicely. I told Miss Judson to make the blouses in a simple fashion, so that they could be washed again and again. But what is the matter, my dear? Your face is very white. And—why, my dear Pauline, what is wrong with your arm?”
“I have something to confess, Aunt Sophy. I hope you won’t be terribly angry.”
“Something to confess, my dear child? Well, I am glad you have the courage to confess when you do wrong. There is nothing like owning up one’s faults, Pauline. There is nothing else that really strengthens the soul. Well, I am listening, dear. Now, what is it?”
Pauline slowly unfastened the handkerchief which she had bound round her arm, and showed the great burn to Miss Tredgold.
Miss Tredgold started, uttered an exclamation, took the little arm in her hand, and looked tenderly at the ugly place.
“My poor little girl,” she said. “Do you mean that you have been suffering from this all this time? But how in the world did it happen?”
“That is what I want to confess. I did something extremely naughty the day you kept me in Punishment Land.”
“What was it?”
“You sent me to bed at seven o’clock.”
“Yes; that was part of the punishment.”
“Well, I didn’t like it. Oh! here comes Verena. Renny, I am confessing my sins.”
Verena ran up, her face full of anxiety. She put her arm round Pauline’s waist.
“See how bad her poor arm is,” she said, glancing at Miss Tredgold.
“Yes,” said Miss Tredgold, “it is badly hurt; but don’t interrupt, Verena. I am listening to the story of how Pauline burnt her arm.”
“You sent me to bed at seven o’clock,” said Pauline, who, now that she had embarked on her narrative, felt emboldened and, strange to say, almost enjoyed herself. “I could not possibly sleep at seven o’clock, you know; so, to amuse myself, I tried on my new white dress; and then I lit a candle, drew down the blinds, and looked at myself in the glass. I was so pleased! I did look nice; I felt quite conceited.”
“You needn’t tell me how you felt, Pauline. I want to hear facts, not accounts of your feelings. You did wrong to put on your white dress, for it had already been fitted on by the dressmaker, and it was being carefully kept for Sunday wear. But proceed. After you lit the candle and drew down the blinds what happened?”
“A great puff of wind came in through the window, and it blew the blind against the candle, and the flame of the candle came towards me, and I had my hand up to arrange my hair. I was fastening it up with hairpins to make myself look quite grown-up.”
“Well?”
“And the candle caught my sleeve and set it on fire.”
Miss Tredgold now began to look so pale that Verena vaguely wondered if she were going to faint. The little culprit, however, stood bolt upright and gazed with defiant black eyes at her aunt.
“Yes,” said Pauline, “I suffered awful pain, and the sleeve blazed up like anything; but I ran to the basin of water and put it out. I was afraid to tell you. I had to tell Renny that I had burnt my arm, but I didn’t tell her how it happened, and I wouldn’t allow her to breathe to you that I was in pain. That was the reason I could not wear my pretty blouse last night, and you were angry with me. I hope you won’t be angry any more; but the sleeve of the dress is burnt badly. Perhaps you won’t give me any birthday present because the sleeve of my new dress is so much injured.”
“I will see about that. The thing is to cure your arm. The doctor must come immediately.”
“But it is getting better.”
“You must see the doctor,” said Miss Tredgold.
She went out of the room as she spoke. Pauline sank into a chair; Verena looked down at her.
“Have you told the truth?” asked Verena suddenly.
Pauline nodded with such a savage quickness that it made her sister positively certain that she had not heard the right story.
Miss Tredgold came back in a minute.
“I have sent for Dr. Moffat,” she said. “I hope he will be here after dinner. My dear child, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Are you going to forgive me?” faltered Pauline. “I—I almost think I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You are a very queer child, and I may as well tell you frankly you are talking nonsense. You did wrong, of course, to put on the white dress; but I think, my dear, your sufferings have been your punishment. We will say no more now about the burnt sleeve. Fortunately I have plenty of the same muslin in the house, and the mischief can be quickly repaired. Now, dear, lie back in that chair. No; you are not to come in to dinner. It shall be sent to you here on a tray.”
For the rest of the evening Pauline was so pitied and fussed over, and made so thoroughly comfortable, that she began to think the black, black lie she had uttered quite a good thing.
“Here am I half out of my scrape,” she thought. “Now, if I can only persuade Nancy not to force us to go to that midnight picnic, and not to tell if we don’t go, and if I can get the thimble back, I shall be once more as happy as the day is long. This wicked black lie shall not frighten me. There is no other way out. I cannot possibly tell the truth. What would Nancy think if I did?”
The doctor came. He ordered a healing lotion for the arm; he also felt the pulse of the little patient. He declared her to be slightly feverish, and ordered her to bed.
Half the next day Pauline stayed in her comfortable bed. She was fed with dainties by Aunt Sophia, was not expected to learn any lessons, and was given a fascinating story-book to wile away the time. During the morning, when she was not engaged in the schoolroom, Miss Tredgold stayed by the little girl’s side, and mended the burnt dress, cutting out a new sleeve and putting it in with deft, clever fingers.
Pauline watched her as one fascinated. As she looked and observed the graceful figure, the kindly expression of the eyes, and the noble pose of the head, there stole over her desolate little heart a warm glow. She began to loveAunt Sophia. When she began to love her she began also to hate herself.
“I don’t want to love her a bit,” thought the child. “I want quite to detest her. If I love her badly—and perhaps I may—it will make things that must happen much more difficult.”
Aunt Sophia left the room. She came back presently with a dainty jelly and some home-made biscuits. She put an extra pillow at Pauline’s back, and placed the little tray containing the tempting food in front of her.
“What are you thinking about, Paulie?” she asked suddenly.
“About how nice you are,” answered the child; and then she added, “I don’t want you to be nice.”
“Why so?”
“Because I don’t. I can’t tell you more than just I don’t.”
Miss Tredgold said nothing more. She resumed her work, and Pauline ate her jelly.
“Aunt Sophy,” she said presently, “I want to be awfully good at my lessons next week. I want to learn real desperate hard. I want to turn into a very clever girl. You’d like me to be clever, wouldn’t you?”
“Provided you are not conceited with it,” said Aunt Sophia in her abrupt way.
“Perhaps I should be,” said Pauline. “I was always thought rather smart. I like people to call me smart. You don’t want me to turn stupid because I may get conceited.”
“No, dear; I want you to be natural. I want you to try very hard to be learned, to be good, to be a lady. I want you to be the sort of woman your mother would have wished you to be had she lived. I want you to grow up strong in mind and strong in body. I want you to be unselfish. I want you to look upon life as a great gift which you must not abuse, which you must make use of. I want you, Paulie, and your sisters to be the best in every sense of that great word. You will fail. We all fail at times; but there is forgiveness for each failure if you go to the right and only source. Have I said enough?”
“Yes,” said Pauline in a low voice.
Her conscience was pricking her. She lowered her eyes; the long black lashes trembled with tears. Miss Tredgold stooped and kissed her.
“I hear Briar in the garden,” she said. “I will send her up to you. Be as merry as you please with her, and forget my words for the present.”
Pauline got up in time for late dinner. She was, of course, excused wearing her dinner-blouse, and was still treated somewhat as an invalid. But on Sunday morning she was so much better that she was able to wear her white dress, and able also to join her sisters in the garden.
They all went to the pretty little church in the next village, and Miss Tredgold accompanied them.
Looking back on it afterwards, that Sunday always seemed to Pauline like an exquisite dream of peace. Her lie did not press at all against her heart. The discomfort of it was for the time in abeyance. She tried to forget Miss Tredgold’s ideal girl; she was happy without knowing why. She was happy, but at the same time she was quite well aware of the fact that her happiness would come to an end on Sunday night. She was quite certain that on Monday morning her grave and terrible troubles would begin. She would have to see Nancy. She would have to decide with regard to the midnight picnic. There was no joy for Pauline in the thought of that picnic now, but she dared not stay away from it, for if she did Nancy would have her way. Nancy’s temper, quick and hot as a temper could be, would blaze up. She would come to Miss Tredgold and tell her everything. If it had been awful to Pauline’s imagination to think of Miss Tredgold knowing the truth before, what would it be to her now after the lie she had told?
“I must coax Nancy,” thought the little girl to herself. “I must tell her that I can’t go to the picnic, and I must implore her not to tell. Oh, what shall I do? How shall I persuade her?”
On Sunday morning, therefore, notwithstanding her promises, Pauline was inattentive at lessons. But Miss Tredgold was not inclined to be over-severe. The doctor had said that the child had not only been badly burnt, but had also received a nervous shock. He had further added that the more liberty she was given, and the more fresh air just at present, the better.
Accordingly Pauline was sent into the garden long before the others had finished their lessons. She presently sat down under the shade of a tree. She was not to meet Nancy till six o’clock.
By-and-by Penelope came out, saw her sister, and ran towards her.
“Have you got the thimble?” she asked.
“Of course I haven’t. I don’t know anything about the thimble. What do you mean?”
Alas for Pauline! Her first lie had made her second easy.
Penelope looked at her in puzzled wonder.
“I thought you did know about it,” she said, disappointment stealing over her shrewd little face.
“I don’t know anything about it. Don’t worry me.”
“You are so cross that I’m sure you have done something desperate naughty,” said Penelope. “I want to find out what it is, and I don’t want to stay with you. I think you are horrid.”
She marched away defiantly, her squat little figure and bare legs looking so comical that Pauline burst out laughing.
“What am I coming to?” she said to herself. “This is lie number two. Oh, dear! I feel just as if a net were surrounding me, and the net was being drawn tighter each moment, and I was being dragged into a pit out of which there is no escape. What shall I do?”
Just then Mr. Dale, who seldom left the house, appeared in view. He was walking slowly, his hands thrust into his pockets, his head bent forward; he was murmuring some sentences of his beloved Virgil to himself. He took no notice of Pauline. He did not even see her. Neither did he notice the chair in which she was sitting. He came bang up against her before he knew that she was there.
“What have I done?” he exclaimed. “Oh, it is you, Pauline! How inconsiderate of you to sit like this on the lawn!”
“But we always sit on the chairs, dad,” said Pauline, springing to her feet.
He forgot that he had made the remark. He laid his hand on her shoulder.
“I have been having a delightful time,” he said—“truly a delightful time. All this morning I have been in contact with noble thoughts. My child, can you realize, even dimly, what it is to dip into those mines of wealth—those mines of illimitable wisdom and greatness and strength and power? Oh, the massiveness of the intellects of the old classic writers! Their lofty ideas with regard to time and eternity—where can their like be found?”
Pauline yawned.
“Are you tired?” asked her father.
“No—only worried,” she answered.
She did not know why she made the latter remark; but at the same time she was perfectly well aware that anything she said to her father was safe, as he would absolutely forget it in the course of the next minute. He was roused now from his visions of the past by a certain pathos in the little face. He put his arm round the child and drew her to him.
“My dear, pretty little girl,” he said.
“Am I pretty?” asked Pauline.
He gazed at her out of his short-sighted eyes.
“I think not,” he said slowly. “I was imagining you were Verena, or perhaps Briar. Briar is certainly very pretty. No, Pauline, you are not pretty; you are plain. But never mind; you have perhaps got”—he put a finger on each temple—“you have perhaps got something greater.”
“It doesn’t matter if you are plain or not,” said Pauline almost crossly, “when you are awfully worried.”
“But what worries you, my child? I would not haveone so young subjected to worries. My dear, is it possible that you already are perplexed with the ways of this present life? Truly, I am scarcely surprised. The life we lead in these degenerate days is so poor; the giants have left the earth, and only the pigmies are left. Don’t worry about life, child; it isn’t worth while.”
“I am not,” said Pauline bluntly. “I am worrying because——”
“Because of what, dear?”
“Because I am going to be desperately naughty.”
Mr. Dale shook his head slowly.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “It is very uncomfortable and wrong, and it sullies the conscience. When the conscience gets sullied the nature goes down—imperceptibly, perhaps, but still it goes down. If your worry is an affair of the conscience, take it to Him who alone can understand you.”
Pauline looked at her father with awed astonishment.
“You mean God?” she said. “Will He help me?”
“Certainly He will. He is the Great Deliverer, and His strength is as immeasurable as it ever was. He gave power to the martyrs to go through the flames. He will help a little, weak girl if she asks Him. Oh, my dear, it has struck twelve! I have lost a quarter of an hour. Don’t keep me another moment.”
The scholar and dreamer hurried to the house. Long before he got there he had forgotten Pauline and her childish worries. She was going to be desperately naughty. He certainly no longer remembered those words.
Meanwhile the child stayed behind with her hands clasped.
“I wish he had told me more,” she said to herself. “I don’t believe God could put this straight.”
CHAPTER XV.THE NET.
On Monday Pauline’s troubles began over again. She ought to have been very happy on this special day, for the birthday—the great, important birthday, her very own, when she would reach the completion of her fourteenth year—was near at hand. But although Pauline was perplexed and unhappy, there was nevertheless a birthday feeling in the air. In the first place, there was a great and exciting sense of mystery. The girls were seen darting quickly here and there; in every imaginable corner there were whispered consultations. Aunt Sophia, in particular,never looked at Pauline without smiling. She was kindness itself. It seemed to the poor little girl that her aunt had taken a great fancy to her. This was the case. Miss Tredgold was interested in all her nieces, but even Verena with her daintiness and pretty face, and Briar with her most charming personality, did not attract Miss Tredgold as did the blunt-looking, almost plain child who called herself Pauline.
“She has got character and independence,” thought the good lady. “She will be something by-and-by. She will always be able to hold her own in the world. She is the kind of girl who could do much good. It hurt me very much to send her into Punishment Land, but she is all the better for it. Oh, yes, she must taste the rough as well as the smooth if she is to be worth anything. She will be worth a good deal; of that I am convinced.”
Miss Tredgold, therefore, had compassion on Pauline’s late indisposition, and made lessons as easy as possible for her. Thus Pauline had very little to do, except to think of that mystery which was growing thicker and thicker. In one way it helped her own dilemma. With her sisters walking in twos and threes all over the place, it would not be at all remarkable for her to slip down at the appointed hour to the wicket-gate. Even Penelope would not notice her, so absorbed was she in assisting Adelaide to make a special present for Pauline.
As the day advanced the little girl became terribly nervous. She felt a sense of irritation when one of her sisters looked at her, whispered to her companion, and then turned away. She would almost have preferred Miss Tredgold to be as stern as she was before. Her whole mind was in a state of tumult. She felt the net closing tighter and tighter around her. Even the birthday was scarcely interesting while such a weight rested on her heart. Miss Tredgold had said during the afternoon as they were all sitting together on the lawn:
“This is to be a great birthday. This is the very first birthday I have spent under your roof. You must all remember it as long as you live.”
“Oh, can I ever forget it?” thought poor Pauline. “But Aunt Sophy little knows that I shall not remember it for its kindness and its sunshine and its presents; I shall remember it always because I am such a wicked girl.”
Now as evening approached she could not help whispering to herself:
“The net is closing—closing round me. It is gathering me up into a heap. My legs and arms are tied. Soon the wicked, dreadful thing will press my head down, and I shall be powerless and lost.”
She thought out this metaphor, and it seemed to haunt her footsteps.
“It is right that a girl who told a black lie should be cramped up in it,” thought Pauline. “Oh, why hadn’t I courage to tell Aunt Sophy the truth? She might have been angry, but in the end she would have forgiven me. I would far rather have no notice whatever taken of my birthday than be as miserable as I am now.”
“That child isn’t well,” said Miss Tredgold to Verena, as Pauline was seen slowly creeping in a subdued sort of way in the direction of the lower shrubbery. “Why is she always stealing off by herself? I have a good mind to call her back and take her for a drive. It is a lovely evening, and a drive would do her good.”
“So it would, Aunt Sophy. You know how busy all the rest of us are finishing her presents. I am sure she would love to drive with you, for I think she is getting very fond of you.”
“Perhaps, my dear; but I have made up my mind not to have favorites. As long as you are all good I shall love you all.—Pauline—yes, Verena, I shall offer her a drive—Pauline, come here.”
Pauline hated to be called back, but she could not do otherwise than obey. She approached lingeringly.
“Yes, Aunt Sophy,” she said.
“Would you like to take a drive with me? We might go and find out how soon Peas-blossom and Lavender will be ready to come to their new home.”
At another time such a request on the part of Miss Tredgold would have enraptured Pauline; but she knew that it only wanted five minutes to six, and she doubted if Nancy would consent to be kept waiting long.
“No,” she answered slowly; “my head aches. Please, I would rather not take a drive.”
She did not wait for Miss Tredgold’s response, but continued her slow walk.
“The poor child is certainly ill,” said the good lady. “If she continues to look as poorly and as sadly out of sorts next week I shall take her to the seaside.”
“Will you, Aunt Sophy? How lovely! Do you know that Paulie and I have never been to the sea? We do so long to see it!”
“Well, my dear, I shall take you all presently, but I can’t say when. Now, as Pauline does not want to drive with me, I shall go into the house and finish some of my arrangements.”
Miss Tredgold went indoors, and Verena joined Briar and Patty, who were in a great state of excitement.
Meanwhile Pauline had reached the wicket-gate. She opened it and went out. Nancy was waiting for her. Nancy’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. She looked as if she had been quarreling with somebody. Pauline knew that look well. Nancy’s two friends Becky andAmy were standing at a little distance. There was a small governess-cart drawn up not far away, and Becky was stroking the nose of a rough little Forest pony.
“Father gave me the cart and pony this morning,” said Nancy. “There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me. The pony and cart aren’t much, perhaps, but still it is fun to have them to fly over the place. Well, and how goes her little high-and-mightiness? Frumpy, I can see. Grumpy, I can guess. Now, is Pauline glad to see poor old Nance—eh?”
“Of course, Nancy; but I have come to say——”
“We’ll have no ‘buts,’ darling, if you please.”
“I can’t come to the picnic, Nancy; I really cannot.”
“How white poor little Dumpy looks! Wants some one to cheer her up, or she’ll be dumped and frumped and grumped all in one. Now, darling, I’m going to put my arm round your waist. I am going to feel your little heart go pit-a-pat. You shall lean against me. Isn’t that snug? Doesn’t dear old Nancy count for something in your life?”
“Of course you do, Nancy. I am fond of you. I have always said so,” replied Pauline.
“Then you will yield, darling, to the inevitable.”
“I am yielding to it now,” replied Pauline. “I am not going with you because I can’t.”
“And you are going with me because you must,” Nancy responded. “For listen, Pauline. Although I am affectionate, I can be—oh, yes—dangerous. And if you don’t come, why, I can keep my word. Wednesday is your birthday. I wonder when the crown of the day will come?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, there always is a crown to a birthday. There is a time, either in the evening or in the morning, when the queen receives the homage of her subjects. She gets her presents, and there are pretty speeches made to her, and she has her dainty feast and her crown of flowers. Yes, that time is the crown of the day, and that is just the moment when the poor little queen shall topple down. The throne shall be knocked from under her; the presents will vanish; the sovereignty will cease to exist. Poor, poor little queen without a kingdom! How will you like it, Paulie? Do you think you could bear it? To have no kingdom and no crown and no presents and no love, and to be bitterly disgraced as well! How will you like it, Paulie?”
“I know that you can do all that you say,” answered Pauline. “I know you can be dreadful, and everything is against me. You can ruin me if you like, but I want you not to do it, Nancy.”
“And if you don’t come with us I want to do it, dear; and I rather think that my will is stronger than yours.”
“But if it kills me?”
“It won’t do that, Paulie. You will feel bad, and, oh! asthough somebody had crushed you; but you won’t die. There’s only one way out.”
Pauline was silent.
“It is quite an easy way,” continued Nancy. “It is easy and safe, and there’s a deal of fun to be got out of it. You have got to come to the picnic. Once you are there you will enjoy yourself tremendously. I promise to get you home in the morning. You will come, and you will bring two of your sisters with you. Two will be enough. I have yielded that point. You will meet us here, at this very spot, at eleven o’clock on Wednesday night. We are going some distance away, so that no one in the neighborhood of The Dales need hear our singing and our fun and our jollity. We will come back before daybreak and deposit you just outside the wicket-gate. You may think it very unpleasant just now, and very mean and all the rest, but it is the only possible way to save yourself. You must come to the picnic, and bring two of your sisters.”
“But suppose they won’t come?”
“They will if you manage things properly. It needn’t be Verena. I expect Verena, for all she is so soft and fair, is a tough nut to crack; but you can bring Briar and Patty. My father will be quite satisfied if three of you are present. The fact is, he is awfully hurt at the thought of your all thinking yourselves too good for us. He says that the Dales and the Kings were always friends. My father is a dear old man, but he has his cranks, and he has made up his mind that come you must, or he’ll make mischief. It won’t be only me; it will be my father as well. He will appear at The Dales, and if I go straight to Miss Tredgold, he will go straight to Mr. Dale. Now, what do you think of that? I am determined to have you for reasons of my own, and I shall poke up my father to do no end of mischief if you don’t appear. Now don’t be a goose. Get up a little dash of courage and a little dash of your old spirit and everything will be as straight as possible.”
Pauline stood quite still. Nancy danced in front of her. Nancy’s face was almost malicious in its glee. Pauline looked at it as a child will look when despair clutches at her heart.
“I didn’t know—I couldn’t guess—that you were like that,” she said in a sort of whisper.
“Couldn’t you, dear little duckledoms? Well, you do know it now; and you know also how to act. Don’t you see by the lines round my mouth and the expression in my eyes that I can be hard as hard when I please? I am going to be very hard now. My honor is involved in this. I promised that you would be there. There are presents being bought for you. Come you must; come you shall.”
Pauline stood quite silent; then she flung her arms to her sides and faced her tormentor.
“There was a time,” she said slowly, “when I loved you, Nancy. But I don’t love you now. By-and-by, perhaps, you will be sorry that you have lost my love, for I think—yes, I think it is the sort that doesn’t come back. I don’t love you to-night because you are cruel, because you have already got me into a scrape, and you want to push me into a yet deeper one. I am not the sort of girl you think me. However grand and stately and like a lady Aunt Sophia is—and compared to you and me, Nancy, she is very stately and very grand and very noble—I would not give you up. Aunt Sophy is a lady with a great brave heart, and her ideas are up-in-the-air ideas, and she doesn’t know anything about mean and low and vulgar things. I’d have clung to you, Nancy, and always owned you as my friend, even if Aunt Sophy had taken me into good society. Yes, I’d have stuck to you whatever happened; but now”—Pauline pressed her hand to her heart—“everything is altered. You are cruel, and I don’t love you any more. But I am in such trouble, and so completely in despair, that I will come to the picnic; and if I can bring two of the girls, I will. There is nothing more to say. You may expect us at eleven o’clock on Wednesday night.”
“But there is more to say,” cried Nancy.
She flew at Pauline, and before she could stop her Nancy had lifted the younger girl into her strong arms. She had not only lifted her into her arms, but she was running with her in the direction where Becky and Amy were minding the pony.
“Hurrah! I have won!” she cried. “She yields. Come and kiss her, the little duck.—Pauline, you silly, if you don’t love me, I love you; and you will soon find out for yourself what a good time you are going to have, and what a goose you have made of yourself with all this ridiculous fuss. What a grand birthday you are going to have, Paulie! A birthday for a whole twenty-four hours—a whole day and a whole night! Remember, there will be presents, there will be surprises, there will be love, there will be sweetness. Trust us, you will never get into a scrape for this. Now run along home as fast as you can.”
Pauline did not run. She closed the wicket-gate and walked soberly to the house. Strange as it may seem, once she had made her decision, the fact that she was to deceive her aunt, and do the thing that of all others would fill Aunt Sophia with horror, did not pain her. The conflict was over; she must rest now until the time came to go. She was a clever child, and she thought out the situation with wonderful clearness. She must go. There was no help for it. The sin must be sinned. After all, perhaps, it was not such a very great sin. Aunt Sophia would be happier if she never knew anything at all about it.
“If I go she will never know,” thought the child. “Nancyis clever, and now that I have yielded to her she will not fail me. If I go it will never be discovered, and what has happened before will never be discovered; and Aunt Sophy will never have reason to distrust me, for she will never know. Yes,” thought Pauline, “it is the only possible way.”
She saw Penelope coming to meet her. The other girls were still busy with their birthday surprises, but Penelope had just deposited her own small and somewhat shabby present in Verena’s keeping, and was now, as she expressed it, taking the air. When she saw Pauline she ran to meet her.
“I suppose you are feeling yourself monstrous ’portant, and all that sort of thing,” she said.
“No, I am not,” said Pauline.
Penelope gave her a quick glance out of her sharp eyes.
“Does you like me to be nursery or schoolroom child?” she asked.
“Oh, I like you to be just what you are, Pen; and I do beg of you not to worry me just now.”
“You is most ungrateful. I has been spending my teeny bit of money on you. You will know what I has done on your birthday. You are going to get a most ’licious present, and it will be I who has gived it to you. Sometimes I does wish I was two years older; but Aunt Sophy has got monstrous fond of me, Paulie, and of you, too. I know it. Shall I tell you how I know it?”
“How?” asked Pauline.
“I was standing near her when you said you wouldn’t go for a drive, and she gave a big sigh, just as though she was hurted. I was hurted, too, for I thought I might perhaps sit on the little back-seat and hear more’n is good for me. People always say that little girls like me hear more’n is good for them. I love—I love hearing things of that wicked sort. Well, you didn’t go, and I couldn’t have my nice drive on the little back-seat. But Aunt Sophy did give a pained sigh. She loves you, does Aunt Sophy. She loves me, too.”
“Do you love me, Pen?” said Pauline suddenly, for it occurred to her that perhaps Penelope was the child who would have to accompany her to the midnight picnic. She knew enough of Penelope to be sure that she could be bribed. She was not so certain about the others.
“Do you love me, Pen?” she repeated.
“When you speak in that softy, sympathisy voice, I feel that I could just hug you,” said Penelope.
“Then would you really help me?”
“Really and really. What am I to do? If you will whisper secrets to me, I will even forget that I am certain you know something most ’portant about that thimble, and I will cling to you like anything. You will be the oak, and I will be the ivy. It will be most lovely to be the closefriend of the birthday queen. I do—oh, I do hope you are going to tell me a great secret!”
“Perhaps I am, but I can’t tell you now.”
“When will you tell me?”
“If I ever tell you, it will be before midday on my birthday. Now run away. Don’t whisper a word of this.”
“Not me,” said Penelope. “I was borned to keep secrets.”
She marched away in her usual stalwart fashion.
“I may have to take her with me,” thought Pauline again. “If the others won’t be bribed, I must fall back on her.”
She felt a curious sense of relief, for of course Penelope could be bribed. A shilling would do it. Penelope would go to the end of the earth for a shilling, particularly if it was given to her all in pence. Twelve separate pence would send Penelope off her head.
CHAPTER XVI.THE CONFERENCE.
It was late on the following evening when Pauline found herself alone with Briar and Patty. Both these little girls had plenty of character; but perhaps Patty had more of that estimable quality than her sister. They were both straightforward by nature, upright and noble, and were already benefiting by the discipline which had at last come into their lives. The glories of the birthday which was so near were already beginning to shed some of their rays over Pauline, and her sisters felt themselves quite honored by her company.
“To think,” said Briar, “that you are really only Paulie! I can scarcely bring myself to believe it.”
“Why so?” asked Pauline.
“In twelve hours’ time—in less—you will be a queen.”
“It is rather like the Lord Mayor,” said Patty. “It’s all very grand, but it lasts for a very short time. Aunt Sophy was telling us to-day about the Lord Mayor and the great, tremendous Show, and I began to think of Pauline and her birthday. I could not help myself. It is a pity that a birthday should only last such a very short time!”
“Yes, that is the worst of it,” said Pauline. “But then it comes every year. Perhaps it is all for the best that it should have a quick come and a quick go. Of course, I shall be very happy to-morrow, but I dare say I shall be glad when the next day arrives.”
“Not you,” said Briar. “I have known what the next daymeant, even when we had only shilling birthdays. The others used to cry out, ‘Your birthday is the farthest off now.’ I used to keep my head covered under the bedclothes rather than hear them say it. Adelaide and Josephine always said it. But don’t let’s get melancholy over it now,” continued Briar in a sympathetic tone. “When you lie down to-night you won’t be able to sleep much; but you will sleep like a top to-morrow night. I expect you will wake about every two minutes to-night. Oh, it is exciting the night before a birthday! Even when we had shilling birthdays I used to wake the night before every few minutes. Once I got up at four o’clock in the morning. I went out. I had a cold afterwards, and a bad sore throat, but I never told anybody how I got it. If I was excited about my poor little birthday, what will you be to-morrow?”
“I don’t know,” said Pauline. “Listen, girls. I am so excited in one sense that I couldn’t be any more so. I am so excited that I’m not excited. Can you understand what I mean?”
“No, I’m sure I can’t a bit,” said Briar.
“And it’s quite likely,” continued Pauline, “that I shall have no sleep at all the night after my birthday.”
“What do you mean now?” asked Briar.
Pauline looked mysterious. The two girls glanced at her. Suddenly Pauline put one arm around Briar’s neck and the other arm round Patty’s neck.
“You are the nicest of us all—that is, of course, except Verena,” she said. “I have always been fonder of you two than of Adelaide or Josephine or Helen or Lucy. As to Pen, well, I don’t suppose any of us feel to Pen as we do to the rest. She is so different. Yes, I love you two. I love you just awfully.”
“It is sweet of you to say that; and, seeing that you are to have a birthday so soon, it makes us feel sort of distinguished,” said Briar.
“How old are you, Briar?”
“I’ll be thirteen next May. That’s a long time off. I do wish my birthday had waited until Aunt Sophy came on the scene.”
“And my birthday comes in the winter,” said Patty—“near Christmas; but I dare say Aunt Sophy will give us a good time then, too.”
“I do like her awfully,” said Pauline. “Now, girls, I want to ask you a question. I know you won’t tell, for you are not the sort to tell.”
“Of course we won’t tell, Paulie.”
“And you love me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” echoed both little girls.
“This is my question. If I do something that is not just exactly absolutely right, will you still love me?”
“Why, of course. We’re not so wonderfully good ourselves,” said Briar.
“I know what you are thinking of,” said Patty. “You are thinking of Punishment Day. But we have forgotten all about that.”
“I was thinking of Punishment Day. And now I want to say something. I want to make the most tremendous confidence. I want to tell you the most tremendous secret.”
“Oh!” echoed both.
“Light that candle, Briar,” said Pauline.
Briar crossed the room, struck a match, lit the candle, and then turned to see what her darling Paulie wished further.
“Bring it right over here,” said Pauline. “Put it on this table.”
Briar did so.
“Kneel down, Briar, so that the light from the candle falls full on your face.”
Briar knelt. Her eyes were beaming with happiness.
“Look at me,” said Pauline.
Briar raised two honest and pretty brown eyes to her sister’s face.
“I think,” said Pauline slowly, “that you are the sort of girl to make a promise—a solemn, awfully solemn promise—and stick to it.”
“Yes; you are right. I am made that way,” said Briar proudly.
“I see you are. Patty, will you kneel so that the candle may shine on your face?”
Patty hurried to obey.
“I am made like that, too,” she said. “I always was like that. When I said I wouldn’t tell, you might pinch me black and blue, but it didn’t change me. Pen has tried to run pins into me sometimes to make me tell. Pen is the only one who would tell when she promised not.”
“I think so,” said Pauline decidedly. “Pen would not do at all. Girls, I shall come to you to-morrow evening. To-morrow evening, very late, I will come to you here. Perhaps you will have gone to bed, but that won’t matter. I will come to you whether you are in bed or whether you are up; and I will claim your promise. You will do what I ask, and you will never, never, never tell. You must help me. You will—oh, you will!”
“Of course,” said Briar. “Darling Paulie, don’t cry. Oh, how the pet is trembling! Patty, she’s trembling like anything. Do kiss her and hug her, and tell her there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for her.”
“There’s nothing in all the world we wouldn’t do for you,” said Patty.
They both kissed her so often and with such deep affection that she found herself leaning on their innocent strength. She would not tell them yet; she would tell them just before the time to-morrow evening. Of course they would go with her. Pen would never do. It would be madness to confide in Pen.
Notwithstanding her excitement Pauline did sleep soundly that night before her birthday. No sooner had her head touched the pillow than sweet unconsciousness visited her. She slept without dreaming, and was at last awakened by the shouts of her sisters.
“Paulie, get up. It’s your birthday. Oh, do dress yourself fast! There’s such a lot of fun going on! We are to have a whole holiday, and Aunt Sophy is so delightful. And what do you think? She has dragged father out of his study, and he is standing in the very middle of the lawn. He has a huge, untidy-looking parcel in his hands, and he looks as if he didn’t in the least know what to do with it. He is trying each moment to escape back into the house, but Aunt Sophy won’t let him. She says he must not stir until you come down. Poor father does look in misery. Be quick and dress and come downstairs.”
At this moment there was a shout from below, and the three girls who had summoned Pauline from the land of dreams rushed off, dashing through the house with whoops of triumph.
Pauline rose and dressed quickly. She put on the pretty pale lavender print frock that Aunt Sophia had decided she was to wear, and went downstairs. When she joined the others Mr. Dale greeted her with one of his slow, sweet smiles.
“How are you, darling?” he said. “I have a sort of idea that I am kept standing here on this lawn, exposed to the heat of a very powerful sun, on your account.”
“Of course it is on Pauline’s account, Henry,” said Miss Sophia. “It is her birthday. Kiss me, Pauline, dear. Many happy returns of the day. Henry, give your daughter her present. She is fourteen to-day.”
“Fourteen! Ah!” said Mr. Dale, “a charming age. The ancients considered a woman grown-up at fourteen.”
“But no one is so silly in these days,” said Miss Tredgold. “We know that a girl is never more childish than at fourteen. Henry, open that parcel and give Pauline what it contains.”
Mr. Dale dropped the brown-paper parcel at his feet. He looked at it in bewilderment.
“It is heavy,” he said. “I haven’t the least idea what is in it.”
“It is your present to your daughter.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Dale, “I forgot; and I packed it myself last night. My child, I wonder if you are worthy of it.”
“I don’t suppose I am, father,” said Pauline.
“For goodness’ sake open it, Henry, and don’t torture the child’s feelings.”
“I put it in an old bandbox,” said Mr. Dale. “I couldn’t find anything else. Pauline, in giving you what I am about to give you, I show a high appreciation of your character. I remember now what my present is. I had an awful night in consequence of it. I felt as though one of my limbs was being severed from my body. Nevertheless, my dear, I don’t retract nor go back, for that is not my way. I give you this most noble gift with a distinct object. I have lately been examining all your foreheads. Although I have appeared to take little notice of you, I have watched you as day by day I have enjoyed the excellent food provided by your most worthy aunt. While my body was feeding, my mind was occupying itself, and I have at last come to the decision that you, my child, are the only one of my young people who has been blessed with a classical brow. As yet you have not even begun to learn the language of the ancients; but now that you have reached the mature age of fourteen, I shall be pleased to instruct you myself for one hour daily, in both that Latin and Greek which delighted our forefathers.”
“But the Romans and Greeks were not our forefathers,” said Miss Tredgold.
She snapped out the words quite angrily, and the look on her aunt’s face caused Pauline to go closer to her father and take one of his long white hands and hold it close to her heart.
“It doesn’t matter whether we are descended from them or not, does it, Padre?” she said.
“All that is noble in thought, all that is original, all that partakes of inspiration, has come down to us from the classics,” said Mr. Dale. “But take your gift, Pauline. Now, my dear children, I beseech of you, don’t keep me any longer from my important work.”
He was striding towards the house, when Verena got in front of him, Briar stood at his left hand, Patty at his right, and Adelaide, Josephine, Lucy, Helen, and Penelope came up in the rear.
“You don’t stir,” they cried, “until Paulie opens her parcel.”
So Pauline knelt down on the grass, untied the clumsy cord, and removed the brown paper. She then lifted the lid from a broken-down bandbox and revealed a musty, fusty tome bound in old calf.
“It is my precious annotated edition of Cicero,” said Mr. Dale. “I have written your name in it—‘Pauline Dale, from her affectionate father.’ It is yours now, and it will be yours in the future. If you like to leave it on the shelf in my study, I shall not object, but it is yours to do what you like with.”
He sighed profoundly, and turned away with his lip trembling.
“Good gracious!” Miss Tredgold was heard to exclaim. Then she spoke to Adelaide.
“Run into the house and bring out a cup of coffee. The precious man gets queerer each moment. What a present to give the child!”
Pauline raised the big book and clasped it against her neat lilac frock.
“Thank you, father,” she said. “I will learn to read it. Thank you very much.”
“And you don’t object to its occupying its old place on my shelf?”
“No. Shall I run and put it there now?”
“Do. You are really a wise child. Sophia, as I have given Pauline her present, I presume I need not stay out any longer wasting my precious time and running the risk of sunstroke.”
Miss Tredgold nodded and laughed. Adelaide appeared with the coffee. Mr. Dale drank it off at a single draught. Pauline ran into the house with the treasure which was hers and yet not hers. For surely never during his lifetime would Mr. Dale allow that special edition of Cicero out of his study. She put it gravely and quietly into its accustomed place, kissed her father, told him she appreciated his present beyond words, and then went back to her sisters and aunt, who were waiting for her.
What a day it was! What a wonderful, magnificent day! The weather was perfect; the air was sweet; the garden was full of perfume. And then the presents. Every imaginable thing that a little girl could want was poured at the feet of the birthday queen. The story-books she had longed for; the little writing-desk she had always coveted but never possessed; the workbox with its reels of colored silks, its matchless pair of scissors, its silver thimble, its odds and ends of every sort and description; the tennis-bat; the hockey-club; the new saddle that would exactly fit Peas-blossom: all these things and many more were given to Pauline. But besides the richer and more handsome presents, there were the sort of pretty things that only love could devise—that charming little pin-cushion for her dressing-table; that pen-wiper; that bag for her brush and comb; that case for her night-dress. Some of the gifts were clumsy, but all were prompted by love. Love had begun them, and gone on with them, and finished them, and Pauline laughed and had brighter eyes and more flushed cheeks each moment as the day progressed.
After breakfast Miss Tredgold took her nieces for a drive. The little party were all packed into the wagonette, and then they went off. They drove for miles and miles underthe trees of the Forest. Miss Tredgold told more interesting and fascinating stories of her own life than she had ever told before. The girls listened to her with the most absorbed attention. As a rule Miss Tredgold’s stories carried a moral with them; but the birthday stories had no moral. Pauline waited for one. She waited with a sort of trembling dread. She expected it to intrude its sober face at each moment, but it did not put in an appearance anywhere. It stayed out of sight in the most delightful and graceful manner. Soon the girls, Pauline amongst them, forgot to look out for the moral. Then Verena began telling anecdotes of the past, and Pauline joined her; and the children laughed, and nearly cried with delight. That drive was the happiest they had ever enjoyed.
But it was somewhat late in the afternoon when the birthday treat came to its culmination. They were having tea on the lawn, a most fascinating tea, with a frosted cake in the middle of the table, on which Pauline’s name was inscribed in golden letters, and round which were lighted fourteen little wax candles, denoting that she had now come to that mature age. The candles were protected by tiny glass shades, so that the soft summer air could not blow them about, and all the girls thought they had never seen such a wonderful sight. Mr. Dale was abducted from his study—there was really no other word to describe the way in which he was carried off bodily—and requested to light the candles. He did so looking very confused, and as though he did not in the least comprehend what he was doing. Nevertheless he was there, and he was obliged to seat himself in the centre of the group; and then garlands and garlands of flowers suddenly made their appearance, and Pauline was conducted to her throne, and a crown of tiny roses was placed on her dark head, and wreaths of flowers were laid at her feet.
“Now you are queen, Pauline,” said Miss Tredgold. “Your father and I and your sisters are bound to obey you from now until ten o’clock to-night. This is your reign. It is short, but full of possibilities. What are we to do for you, fair queen? In what way do you wish to employ us?”
“May I wish for anything?” asked Pauline eagerly.
She had a flashing thought as she uttered the words—a quick, terrible, agonized thought. Oh, if only she might claim her birthright! If only she might put into use her grand privilege and ask for the one thing she really wanted—a free, absolute pardon! If she might confess her sin without confessing it, and get her aunt and father to say that, whatever she had done in the past, she was forgiven now! Just for an instant her black eyes looked almost wild; then they fixed themselves on Miss Tredgold, who was looking at her attentively. She glanced beyond her,and met the great black eyes of Penelope. Penelope seemed to be reading Pauline. Pauline felt a sudden revulsion of feeling.
“That would never do,” she said to herself.
“Why don’t you speak?” said Verena in her gentle voice.
“I was considering what to ask,” replied Pauline.
“It isn’t to ask, it is to command,” said Miss Tredgold. “What sort of a queen would you make, Pauline, if you really had a kingdom? This is your kingdom. It lasts for a few hours; still, for the present it is your own. Your sway is absolute.”
“Then let us have hide-and-seek in the garden,” she said.
She laughed. The spell was broken. Penelope’s eyes lost their watchful glance. The girls were all agreeable. Mr. Dale rose to his feet.
“I have had my tea,” he said, “and the queen has received her crown. I am truly thankful that birthdays don’t last longer than a day. I presume there is no reason why I may not return to my study.”
“No, father, you mustn’t stir,” said Pauline. “You are my subject, and I command you to play hide-and-seek. You and Aunt Sophy must hide together. Now let us begin.”
The games that followed were provocative of mirth. Even Mr. Dale was heard to chuckle feebly. This was when Josephine put her hand into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. He made a scholarly remark the next moment to Miss Tredgold, who replied:
“For goodness’ sake, Henry, come down from the clouds. This is your child’s birthday. It is all very well to know all that musty stuff, but there are times when it is fifty times better to be full of nonsense.”
Mr. Dale groaned, and then Lucy seemed to spring out of the ground. She laughed in his face, and cried out that she had found him.
So the merry game proceeded. It had nearly come to an end when Pauline and Penelope found themselves alone.
“I waited for you at twelve o’clock,” said Penelope, “but you never comed. Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to, Pen. I have changed my mind. Think no more about what I said.”
“I can’t never forget it,” replied Pen.
But then she heard a whoop from a distant enemy, and darted to another part of the garden.
The game of hide-and-seek was followed by another, and then another and yet another, and the cries of mirth and laughter sounded all over the place. Even Betty forgot the tragic end of the Duke of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton, who was killed by a brigand in Italy while defending his fair duchess. Betty had been weeping scalding tears over the tragedy when the sound of mirth called her forth. Johnaccompanied her, and the other servants looked on in the distance.
“There never was such a rowdy family,” said Betty.
“Rowdy do you call it?” cried John.
“Yes; and the very rowdiest is Miss Tredgold. For mercy’s sake look at the way she runs! She’s as fleet as a hare.”
“She have very neat ankles,” said John. “I call her a neat figure of a woman.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Betty. “Much you know what a neat figure of a woman means. Miss Tredgold’s a haristocrat. Now, if you’ll believe me, she’s the moral image of the duchess.”
“What duchess?” cried John.
“The Duchess of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton—her that’s just made a widow, and is crying her eyes out over the murdered remains of the poor dook.”
“Sometimes,” said John, “I think that you have gone off your head, Betty. But I can’t stay to listen to any more of these nonsenses. I have my garden to look after.”
The final delight before the curtain of that birthday was dropped down for ever found its vent in music—music in which Mr. Dale took a part, and in which Miss Tredgold excelled herself. It was the music that awoke Pauline’s slumbering conscience. It was during that music that her heart truly began to understand itself.
“I am wicked—a coward and a liar,” she thought. “But, all the same, I am going on, for I must. Aunt Sophy loves me, and I love her, and I wouldn’t have her love turned to hate for all the world. She must never find out what I did in the past, and the only way to keep it from her is to go on as I am going on.”