Consequences
NOBODY had time to think about Hecla. Mildred took her home, and went off to change her own wet clothes; and for the first time in her life, Hecla was left to her own devices.
She felt utterly miserable, and did not know what to do with herself. Auntie Anne was away at the doctor's with Ivy; and Mrs. Prue and Elisabeth were both busy with Miss Storey in her room, where, wrapped in shawls and blankets, she sat shivering and icy-cold before a blazing fire, scarcely able to speak.
The house seemed so empty, so desolate. There was nobody to speak to. Hecla crept disconsolately from room to room, with a great weight upon her.
She could not help knowing that all this trouble and distress had come upon the household as a result of her own naughtiness. She wished now—oh, how she wished it!—that she had said No to Mildred's proposal, and had waited patiently for Auntie Anne's return from the gardener's cottage. If only she had listened to that warning voice which spoke so clearly in her heart, and had refused to do what she knew to be wrong, or had turned back in time, even after having started—how happy she might be now!
It had all been for no use. She had not found Chris; she had not received the boat. But even if she had, what would that have mattered in comparison?
The time seemed to her endless before at last Aunt Millicent's door opened, and Prue came out. Hecla was watching on the stairs, a few steps above, on the flight which led to the servants' room; and she ran downstairs after Prue, catching her skirt.
"Oh, please, Prue—please, dear Mrs. Prue—do tell me! Is Auntie Millicent better?"
Prue looked her grimmest.
"There, don't you be hindering of me, Miss Hecla! You've done mischief enough for one day."
"Is Auntie Millicent ill?" asked Hecla dolefully.
"I shouldn't wonder but she's going to be. She's all over shakes and shivers, and can't hardly say a word, she's that weak. It's pretty nigh enough to be the death of her!"
"Oh, Prue!"
"You just let go o' my dress, Miss Hecla—" as she bustled along, Hecla clinging still to her skirt. "I ain't got time for talk."
"But please tell me—I do want to know—about Ivy."
"She's opened her eyes; and that's about all. She don't know nobody."
"Doesn't she know Auntie Anne?"
"No—nor nobody."
"Won't she be quite well soon? Darling Mrs. Prue, please tell me!"
"Nobody can't tell. She may, and she mayn't," asserted Prue. "There's a lot o' mischief comes often after that sort o' accident, Miss Hecla. Why, dear me, I've had to do with a girl as fell into a river, and she wasn't never properly herself after, not all her life long she wasn't."
Mrs. Prue shook herself free and went off, and Hecla retreated into the dining-room. Plainly no comfort was to be had in that direction.
Would Ivy, sweet little Ivy, never be properly herself again? The suggestion was vague, and therefore all the more terrible. Hecla scarcely knew what she feared, but she did fear it. And she—she would be the cause. She crouched down in a corner, half-hidden by the heavy window-curtains, and felt very naughty and hopeless.
Then Elisabeth appeared; and even Elisabeth was for once severe. She brought the little girl her tea and bread-and-butter, and gave her also an admonition on her conduct, which really was not then needed, for Hecla was already as miserable as she knew how to be. Elisabeth's lecture proved just the one drop too much, and set her off crying helplessly. It was impossible to eat bread-and-butter when tears came streaming down and mixed with the food and fell into her cup, and sobs nearly choked her.
Mrs. Prue had called Elisabeth away, and Hecla was again alone. She left the tray, curled herself once more into the window-corner, and cried herself into a sound sleep.
There Chris found her. He had come in to see what was happening to his chum, half concerned for her sake, and more than half disposed to give her a piece of his mind respecting her behaviour. But when he saw the child's reddened and blistered face, and when he heard the pitiful little sobs which came from time to time even in her sleep, he changed his mind, and went straight back to the Vicarage. And ten minutes later the Vicar himself walked in.
Something awoke Hecla; she did not know what. Half unconscious still, she fancied it was her own mother kissing her. And then she opened her eyes and found herself on the Vicar's knees, with her head on his shoulder, and his kind arm supporting her.
It did not occur to her to wonder how she came there. She only felt how good it was to be so held, and not to be told that everything was her fault, which already she knew only too well. She gave one surprised look up into those kind eyes, and then she clung closer to him, trying to pull his arm more tightly round her. It was, oh, such a comfort to be no longer all alone and desolate.
The Vicar said nothing for some time. Busy man that he was, he might have had the whole day at his disposal, so long he remained thus, and so quietly he held the child. But presently, with a little added pressure, he said,—
"Tell me all about it, Hecla."
Hecla's dread broke out in words: "Will Ivy die? Must Ivy die?"
"I hope not, indeed."
"And Auntie Millicent?"
"She will be better soon, I think. Tell me how it all happened, my child."
A few questions drew forth the sad little tale. In his mind, the Vicar silently blamed Mildred even more than Hecla, for she was the older girl, and she had no business to ask the others to go with her, or to neglect Ivy when near the river. But he had at this moment only to do with Hecla's share.
"I didn't, didn't mean to be naughty," sobbed Hecla. "But I did want so very much to go—and—auntie—"
"If you had just waited to think, and had put up one little prayer to be kept from doing what was wrong, all this might have been avoided."
Hecla sighed and nestled into that kind encircling arm.
"Mrs. Prue says—Mrs. Prue says—Ivy perhaps won't ever be properly herself again."
"Mrs. Prue is anxious, no doubt, as we all are; but I hope there is no fear of that. The doctor says Ivy is doing nicely now."
"Does he? I'm so glad." Then after a break. "And Elisabeth says—says—"
"Yes."
"She says, God doesn't love me, because I'm so naughty."
"Elisabeth is wrong. People often say that kind of thing, and it is a very great mistake. I think she only means that God is sorry. But He loves you always—always—even when you are naughty. Never forget that. If little Ivy were naughty, do you think her mother could leave off loving her? That could never happen. And you are God's little child—His own dear little child. It is just because He loves you so dearly that He is grieved when you are disobedient. And then you have to come back to Him, and tell Him how sorry you are, and ask Him to forgive you and to make you a better child, for the sake of our dear Lord Jesus Christ. Would you like to come with me now to His footstool, and tell Him?"
"Please!" Hecla whispered.
The Vicar knelt down and made her kneel beside him, and his arm was still round the child. "Say after me," he murmured, and he led the way with words that she knew well, words which seemed just made for her at that moment: only he put "I" instead of "we," that she might speak for herself.
"Almighty and most merciful Father—I have erred and strayed from Thy ways like a lost lamb—I have followed too much the devices and desires of my own heart—I have offended against Thy holy laws—"
And so on to the end. Then came a few simple words of his own, telling in what way she had acted wrongly, and how sorry she was, and how he and she earnestly prayed that, if it were God's will, dear little Ivy and Miss Storey might both soon be quite well again.
After which the Vicar went back to his chair, taking Hecla again upon his knee, and she felt quiet and comforted. And presently Elisabeth came in.
"Miss Storey wants to see Miss Hecla, please, sir."
"You may run upstairs, my child," the Vicar said, putting her down. "And don't cry any more. I shall see you to-morrow morning again."
Hecla went gravely upstairs, wondering what Auntie Millicent would say, and whether she would be punished, and hoping she would not be told again that everything was her doing, because she knew that would bring more tears. But when she went into the room she saw Auntie Millicent in bed, looking pale and shaky, not a bit like her usual self.
And Miss Storey, instead of saying a word of blame, held out both arms.
Hecla crept into them and hid her face, and said not a word either, but only sobbed, forgetting that she was not to cry any more; and Auntie Millicent stroked her hair and fondled her with trembling fingers.
"I know you are sorry, Hecla," came at last in a whisper.
"Oh, auntie, I'm so dreadfully sorry," gasped the child, feeling as if she had never known before how much she loved this kind auntie.
"Yes, I know, and you will never do so again. And we must thank God—mustn't we?"
And they clung faster still together.
Then Dr. Evans walked in and said, "Hullo! This won't do."
"I had to see the child, Dr. Evans. I could not put off any longer."
"You should have asked my leave first."
"How is Ivy?" asked Miss Storey.
"Better, I hope. Sound asleep, and that is the great thing. Miss Anne will be with her all night. And you are not to be anxious."
Miss Storey smiled, for that was more easily ordered than obeyed.
"We will try," she said.
"Hecla must go to bed now and to sleep. And you have to rest. News shall be brought the first thing in the morning."
"Won't Auntie Anne come back?" Hecla asked in a very subdued voice.
The doctor answered, "No." Then he made Hecla say "Good-night," and sent her away with Elisabeth. And he told Mrs. Prue she must be in Miss Storey's room, in case anything were wanted in the night.
He did not tell them that there had been a time that day when he feared little Ivy might not live many hours. She had been in great danger of sinking from the severe shock and the sudden chill of her fall into the water. Think what it would have meant to Hecla and to Mildred if the little one had died! But mercifully she was now improving, and the doctor hoped that with great care she would soon be well.
She did get well, but it was nearly a week before she was allowed to be moved, and Miss Anne stayed all that time in the doctor's house; and Hecla was not allowed to see Ivy. The doctor was anxious that the little one should get really over her accident, and he insisted on keeping her very quiet, and having no excitement at all.
By the end of a week, however, he consented to Ivy being carried across to "The Cottage," wrapped in a blanket, for Miss Anne was longing to be at home. Miss Storey had been very poorly all through the week, and Elisabeth and Mrs. Prue had had to nurse her.
No doubt all this was in the end good for Hecla. She had to spend much time by herself, which meant a good deal of leisure for thinking, and she was dull and lonely, even though the Vicar and Chris kindly looked in as often as they possibly could to cheer her up. But in all her life afterwards, she would never forget that week. It seemed more like a year than only seven days. She could not but be deeply impressed in her little mind with the sad consequences which may follow on one small act of disobedience—not really small, for no wrong-doing is ever really small, only it seemed small to her. And so she would not forget the great danger of giving in to sudden temptation.
At last the day was fixed for Ivy's return, and on that very same day, the doctor gave leave for Miss Storey to come downstairs for the first time, just for an hour. Hecla was wild with joy.
That Delightful Toy-shop
"OH dear, I'm so happy. Oh, I'm so happy. I don't know what to do, I'm so happy!" exclaimed Hecla, dancing about the room after breakfast. "Elisabeth, I'm so dreadfully happy!"
"Well, don't you go and be naughty, 'cause you're happy," suggested Elisabeth, as she cleared away the breakfast things. She had had to see after the child's solitary meals all this past week.
"I don't mean to be naughty; truly and really I don't. I'll try to be ever so good. Oh!" And Hecla, catching sight of the Vicar's tall figure as he strode up the garden path, flew out to the front door. "Uncle John, I'm so happy, I don't know what to do."
"That is good news, little one,"—as he stooped to kiss her.
"Ivy's coming home this afternoon, and Auntie Millicent is going to be down to tea, and we shall all be as glad as glad can be. And I'm going to take such lots of care of dear, sweet, darling little Ivy."
The Vicar stroked her head.
"And I'm going out with Elisabeth this morning, presently, and Auntie Millicent says I may go to the toy-shop. Isn't that lovely? I'm going to get a present for Ivy, all by myself. Won't that be delicious, Uncle John?"
"Very delicious, I should think. How much money have you?"
"I've got just exactly ninepence three-farthings. I wish it was a lot more. I do love Ivy."
The Vicar pulled out his purse.
"I think we'll make it a trifle more, and then you can get something bigger. There is a farthing first, and now you have tenpence. And here are two pennies, which will make a shilling. And two threepenny bits, so you have one and sixpence. And here is a sixpence, so now you have two shillings. And here is a shilling, so now you have three shillings."
"Oh, Uncle John, how beautiful! Oh, thank you! But I did mean it to be all my very own present."
"I'm giving the money to you, and you shall give it to her. Won't that do?"
"Yes—I think it will," meditated Hecla. "But I'll tell her it wasn't all properly my very own, because she might think it was, you know."
"Do as you like, little one. You can't be too honest. Only choose something that Ivy will like. She's not very well yet, and you have to be gentle with her."
Hecla nodded. "I know! Auntie Millicent told me."
An hour later, she and Elisabeth started for the toy-shop. There was only one big toy-shop in the town, and to this they bent their steps, Elisabeth as usual walking staidly, and Hecla dancing and frisking like a little colt.
"I wonder what I shall choose. I do wonder what I shall choose," she kept saying. "What do you think Ivy would like, Elisabeth? Don't you think a box of soldiers in lovely red coats would be best?"
"If it was for a boy, Miss Hecla; but Miss Ivy ain't a boy. You'd a deal better get her a doll."
"Well, I can—of course—only she's got dolls, and she hasn't got soldiers. I think boys' toys are much the nicest. Wouldn't she like a tin train?"
"If I was you, I'd choose a doll, or else a nice box of toys. You might get a box of bricks, Miss Hecla; or else a sort of farmyard; or a map of them squares, with pictures on their sides, that's got to be put together."
"But I want a lot of things; not only one thing. That's so stupid. I want it to be a real s'prise packet. Don't you know? I mean to get a ninepence-three-farthings toy, and two penny toys, and two threepenny toys, and one thing for sixpence, and one thing for a shilling. And there's an extra farthing that's got to come in somewhere. And I'm going to tie them all up in parcels, and then I shall put them into my dear red and white basket, and heaps of moss with them—we've got to get the moss, Elisabeth. And then I shall give it all to her, and the basket too. Won't she be pleased? I know where to get the moss."
"You'll have to make haste, or there won't be time."
"Of course I shall make haste."
But when she found herself in the shop, it was no such easy matter. Making haste seemed impossible. Such a wealth of delightful things lay all around; and the nice shopwoman took so much trouble, bringing boxes and games and dolls from top shelves and out of the back room, that Hecla was bewildered. She stood with glowing eyes, alike fascinated and puzzled, giving a skip of approval at each new production, but quite unable to choose.
There were exquisite dolls, and splendid carts, and lovely horses, and magnificent trains, and a mail-cart which could be wound up to go, and a mouse that would run, and games without end, and boxes of treasures past description. But most of these were beyond her means. She had a great leaning towards boys' toys, for she liked whatever she knew that Chris would approve. Yet Elisabeth's objections had weight; and Elisabeth held to it that nothing could be more appropriate than a doll.
"If I was you, Miss Hecla, I'd get one of them nice china dolls, and a chair and table for the doll to use," she said. "Miss Ivy loves dolls, and she hasn't got a china one."
"Is it for little Miss Ivy?" asked the woman. "Poor little dear! I hope she ain't any the worse for her fall in the river."
"She's ever so much better," put in Hecla. "And she is coming home to-day, and I want to get her a lot of toys to amuse her. And I've got ninepence three-farthings of my own, and I want to get something with that all by itself, so that it would be just quite from me, you know. And Uncle John gave me a farthing and twopence and two threepennies, and a sixpence and a shilling to spend too."
The woman seemed fully to understand, and also to be much interested. She brought forward a number of fresh toys, costing exactly what Hecla wanted to give. Whether their prices really were so low as she named might be doubted. Elisabeth did doubt it, but she said nothing, and Hecla jumped with delight.
After a great deal of discussing and selecting and rejecting and counting up of pennies and farthings, the money was at last all spent; and the woman placed Hecla's purchases in a row, that she might see how nice they looked. They cost precisely three shillings, not one farthing more or less.
There was a china doll, very dainty and neat, and prettily dressed for one shilling.
There was a horse for the doll to ride, which cost sixpence—at least, that was all Hecla paid for it. And the doll really could sit sideways on the horse, though rather overpoweringly big for the size of the steed.
A chair for the doll to sit on and a table for it to use came next; and the price of these together oddly came to ninepence three-farthings. It was funny, Hecla thought, but most convenient.
"So that will be truly my very own present," she said.
There was also a minute box of dolls' tea-things, for which the woman charged threepence farthing, and a tray for the tea-things costing threepence.
A penny looking-glass and a penny hairbrush for the doll completed the array.
Hecla was crimson with excitement. She thought it was the most perfectly lovely assortment of toys that she had ever seen in her life. Nothing could have been better—except a train and some red-coated soldiers; but no doubt Ivy, being so little, would prefer these.
"I'd better send them round," the woman suggested.
Hecla would not hear of such an arrangement. She could not bear to part with her treasures. "Please tie them up, and please do put a lot of paper and string," she begged. "Because I'm going to do them up all separately, and I haven't got any paper or string."
"There's plenty at home, Miss Hecla," said Elisabeth.
But the woman insisted on tying them all up herself, just as Hecla wished; and she seemed quite to enjoy the work. She put up each toy separately in soft brown paper, and fastened each with pretty red and white string; and then she enclosed all the small packets in one large sheet of stout brown paper.
"You'd best let me carry it, Miss Hecla," said Elisabeth. "If you tumble down, you'll break something or other."
This was so likely an event that Hecla consented, and they started anew.
"It's near half-past twelve," Elisabeth said.
"Mayn't we go round behind the house? There's lots of moss on the bank," begged Hecla.
As there was just time, Elisabeth consented. Quantities of soft dry moss could be found there; and Hecla carried home an armful.
Then came dinner; her last solitary meal. Elisabeth remained as usual in the room, helping her, and looking after her wants.
When Elisabeth went off to her own dinner, Hecla untied the big parcel, and arranged all the smaller packets in her pretty basket, which she had had for years, and was really fond of. She tucked moss in between the packets, and covered the whole with a layer of the same, to look nice and mysterious.
And then she had to wait as best she could for the arrival of Aunt Anne and little Ivy.
At half-past three Miss Anne came, and with her the doctor, carrying Ivy himself in his arms, warmly wrapped up, for it was a windy day, and they were still afraid of any chill for the child, as well as of any fatigue or excitement.
She had lost her bright colour and looked much thinner; but when she saw Hecla she held out both her little arms, and a great hug between the children followed. Miss Anne looked on with tears in her eyes. She had seen Hecla many times in the course of the week herself.
"Now we are going to put Ivy into this cosy armchair," Miss Anne said, when Miss Storey, who was just down for the first time, had kissed the little one, thanking God in her heart, as she did so, that the darling had been given back to them all.
"And when may I bring my presents, auntie?" whispered Hecla.
"Suppose we wait till after tea," whispered Miss Anne. "We will all have tea together here to-day."
That was grand indeed; for generally Hecla and Ivy had theirs in the dining-room with Elisabeth. Yet, much as she enjoyed the rare event, she hardly knew how to wait till it was over.
Then she was allowed to bring her basket full of treasures, and give it to Ivy. And Ivy's little white face grew pink with pleasure.
"It's my present to you, darling," eagerly explained Hecla. "Only, part of it's from Uncle John too. He gave me a lot of money to spend for you, and he gave it to me, and I'm giving it to you. And there's two things that are really, really and truly my very ownest present to you, got with my own ninepence three-farthings, you darling little pet."
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"I'M GIVING IT TO YOU, AND THERE'S TWO THINGS THAT AREREALLY MY VERY OWNEST PRESENT TO YOU."
It was a pretty sight to see them together, Ivy, with her cheeks pink and her brown eyes wide open, slowly making her way into packet after packet, and Hecla, kneeling by her side, in a state of rapturous delight.
Miss Storey and Miss Anne exchanged looks of pleasure, both of them smiling; and yet tears with both were not far off, as they thought of the little one's past danger, and her merciful preservation and recovery.
Happily, in a few days, little Ivy was herself again; and in a few weeks, she became as strong as ever, with no ill results from the accident.
Miss Storey was fairly well again, but not so strong as she had been, for at the best she was never strong. She had acted so bravely at the time, that it had been a great strain upon her; and it seemed to have left a weakness behind. She could not bear any sudden noise, and everything seemed to startle and frighten her; and she could stand very little fatigue.
Miss Anne had to keep the children as much as possible away from her. That made Miss Anne very busy, as you may imagine; the more so because Miss Storey now wanted more looking after, and depended more upon her companionship than before the accident.
Sometimes Miss Anne wondered whether it would be possible to go on very much longer like this. But she said nothing, only did her best day after day, and waited to see what might be the right plan in the end.
And Hecla was really trying to be good, trying to do what was right. That week had left its marks on her life. She knew her faults, and fought to conquer them. Often she forgot, and often she failed; but on the whole there was a steady improvement.
She and little Ivy did everything together, and were like sisters. And towards Ivy, it seemed that Hecla's carelessness was quite cured. She was so careful of the little one, so tender towards her, so full of thought for her comfort and safety, that the aunts often said thankfully one to the other, "Really, having Ivy here will be the making of our dear Hecla!"
Only Think
SOMETHING very unexpected was about to happen.
It was an ordinary day in July. The little girls woke up as usual, and dressed as usual, and had their breakfast as usual. And then as usual came lessons with Auntie Anne. And afterwards, as usual, they were sent out for a walk with Elisabeth.
All just the same as any other day. And yet something was drawing near, which nobody in the house suspected or had any idea of. Things often come like that in life; happy things or sad things, one after another, creeping step by step closer; and no one can see or hear or feel their approach till, suddenly—here they are.
What do you think it was that was coming? Can you guess? Wait, and presently you shall hear.
As they started for their walk, Ivy on one side of Elisabeth, walking demurely, and Hecla frisking on the other side, up ran Trip, the Vicarage dog.
"Come along, Trip. You dear delightful, Trip!" cried Hecla.
Trip was not so faithful in his affections as he might have been. Though Hecla, holding out hands of welcome, was his older friend, he unkindly passed her over and rushed at Ivy, fussing round the little girl and struggling to lick her face. It was a very nice face to lick, no doubt; but still he might just as well have said, "How do you do?" first to Hecla, if only as a matter of politeness.
When he had done with Ivy, he jumped on Hecla, and gave one little wet dab at the tip of her nose, and then made another dash at Ivy, Elisabeth all the while protesting, and telling the children on no account to let him lick them. It wasn't nice, she truly said.
"He may come with us, mayn't he?" cried Hecla. "Come along, Trip!"
And Ivy echoed—
"Come, Trip."
Trip fully meant to come, so these invitations were unnecessary. Chris was at school; and Trip liked companions.
They went through two or three fields, where cows were lazily munching, and dragon-flies swooped hither and thither, and birds sang and insects buzzed. It was warm and sunny and very pleasant. The trees were, of course, in full leaf now, and the sun blazed down hotly.
Hecla was in one of her question-asking moods. She had fits of it now and then; and Ivy would listen at such times, with her big brown eyes wide open, content to listen while Hecla chattered.
"Elisabeth, were you often naughty when you were a little girl?"
Elisabeth said she wouldn't wonder if she was.
"But I want to know, truly—were you? Grown-up people always won't say if they were naughty. And I do like to be told. What did you do that was naughty?"
"If I was naughty, my mother just smacked me, Miss Hecla."
"And did that make you very good directly?"
"If it didn't, it had ought to, Miss Hecla."
"I shouldn't like to be smacked. Auntie Anne doesn't smack me. Look at that big bird. Is it a rook? Why do the rooks say 'Caw' all day long?"
Elisabeth did not know. She supposed it was "their nature."
"I wish it was my nature. I don't see why we shouldn't say 'Caw, caw,' too, when we're happy! Elisabeth—what's a bob?"
"Whatever makes you want to know that, Miss Hecla?"
"I want to know heaps of things. I'd like to know everything. And I've heard people talk about a 'bob.' Somebody one day said he'd got 'two bob.' And somebody else said somebody had 'dropped a bob to the Vicar.' What did they mean?"
"It's a sort of a curtsey, I suppose, Miss Hecla."
"But it can't be that, possibly, you know. Why, you couldn't say a person had got two curtseys. It wouldn't be sense."
"It means money too." Elisabeth refrained from stating the value. "Little ladies don't talk about having two bob."
"Why don't they?"
"Because they don't, Miss Hecla."
"That's no reason at all. I'm learning how to make my curtsey quite nicely. If I was to see the King, I'd do it—so." Hecla made a profound dip. "Would he be pleased?"
"I shouldn't wonder but what he would, Miss Hecla."
Hecla made three more curtseys, and then went off on a fresh tack.
"What is it that makes people sneeze? Mrs. Prue sneezed six times this morning."
"Perhaps she'd got a cold."
"No, she said she hadn't. Not one bit of a cold. She said it was just her way. And Auntie Millicent said once—that was when Mrs. Prue was as cross as cross could be—she said it was just poor old Prue's way too. I think Mrs. Prue has a lot of 'ways.' Elisabeth! Oh, look at Trip."
A flock of geese, walking with slow and stately steps across the corner of their field, drew Trip's attention; and in a moment he was off, wildly charging the flock. Off too were the geese, at their best speed, careering along, legs aided by wings. Trip again and again all but overtook them, but the geese would make a fresh spurt and get ahead, and then the dog would urge himself to greater speed.
It was useless to call. He was not an obedient little dog. Elisabeth and Hecla shrieked after him in vain.
"Trip! Trip! Come back! Naughty Trip! Come back this instant!" they commanded again and again.
But Trip turned a deaf ear to all appeals. He was enjoying his chase, and he meant to have it out.
Would he kill or injure a goose, if he managed to get one into his grip? That was Elisabeth's fear. Hecla's dread was that the geese in their wrath might put an end to her beloved Trip.
Wisely the hunted geese thought of the pond, which lay low at one end of the large field. Cackling and protesting vehemently, they fled thither, pursued still by their relentless foe, and one and all plunged in. For the moment, Trip seemed non-plussed. He did not love water; and he ran round and round the pond, trying to get at his prey without wetting his feet. The geese swam vigorously to and fro, always avoiding that side where Trip happened to be. This lasted some little time, Elisabeth and Hecla still vainly ordering him to desist and to come away.
Then Trip made up his mind and plunged heroically in.
The game grew keener. Trip, snorting and gasping, pursued the big unwieldy birds, which in a terrific fright fled from him, to and fro, round and round the little pond. Again and again, as he overtook them, they splashed the water violently with their wings, half stifling the dog with showers of spray, and half swimming, half fluttering out of his reach. Trip, no whit daunted, though becoming more and more breathless, pursued them again; and this was repeated times without number.
"Oh dear, oh dear, I know they'll kill Trip," Hecla kept saying, almost crying. "Poor little Trip. Trip, do come away. Come, Trip. I know he'll be killed!"
"It's a deal more likely he'll kill one o' the geese, and there'll be a pretty kettle o' fish to fry," declared Elisabeth. "We can't stop longer, Miss Hecla. It's time to go home, and Miss Anne told me I was to be sure to be early, 'cause it worries Miss Storey so if we ain't."
"But we can't leave Trip. We can't possibly, Elisabeth. We must wait till he comes away. He'll get killed, if we go. Just look!—" As Trip, gasping for breath, reached the flock, and with a great fluttering and splashing, the geese once more skimmed across out of his reach. "Oh, you naughty naughty Trip. I know they'll kill him! He'll drown. Oh dear!"
"He'll take care of himself—never you fear. Miss Hecla, you've got to come. I can't stop, nor let you stop, if it was a dozen Trips. I've promised Miss Anne I wouldn't be late, and I ain't going to break my word. And you've made lots of promises that you'd be good; and if you don't come, you won't be good."
Yes, Hecla knew this; and she knew now the consequences that might spring from wrong-doing. She did not forget. But it was very, very hard. Poor dear Trip looked so exhausted, and swam so heavily, and gasped so hard for breath, that she felt sure he would soon fall into the clutches of those big noisy geese, and would sink and drown, and never rise again to the surface of the pond. And this might be her last sight of dear Trip. And Chris—what would Chris say?
But she had promised again and again. She had said she would try her very best to be good and obedient.
"Yes, I'll come," she murmured, turning her back upon the pond, and trying hard not to cry. "Please, mayn't we run very fast, and then we can send somebody to save poor little Trip?"
Elisabeth was quite willing, and they set off at full speed, each taking one of Ivy's hands to help her along.
And before they were half-way to the gate of that same field, Trip came flying cheerfully after them, none the worse for his exciting chase. So soon as he found himself alone, he left the geese, and followed his friends.
Hecla was immensely relieved, and did not know whether to scold him or to kiss him. So she did both by turns, and both had much the same effect on Trip. She was very, very glad that she had not given way to the temptation to disobey Elizabeth.
They reached "The Cottage" in good time; but the mid-day meal was not to be so punctual as usual that day. As they arrived at the front gate, a fly from the station drove up and stopped. And a voice cried from within,—
"Ivy! Ivy! My little darling!"
"It's mummie!" Ivy exclaimed, getting pink all over her face.
In a moment, two people were out of the cab, and Ivy was folded in her mother's tight embrace, while her father was kissing the top of her head, and trying to get hold of a little bit of his child.
Hecla stood looking on, and the two aunties came out, very much astonished.
But at first, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Croft could look at anybody or anything except their child, from whom they had been so many months parted.
Ivy's happy murmurs of "Mummie!" and "Daddy!" mingled with their smothered sounds of joy.
At last, they spoke to Aunt Millicent and Aunt Anne, Mrs. Croft still clasping Ivy, and the child still clinging to her.
"Yes, we have really, really come home," Mrs. Croft said.
"And you won't go away again, mummie?" Ivy entreated, as they went indoors, after a good deal of questioning, and of half answering, everybody speaking confusedly all at once.
"No, my sweet; never, never again, I hope!"
They had still to explain how it was that they had returned. It was Ivy who made them do so. Her little voice was heard very distinctly enquiring:
"Why-because have mummie and daddy got back?"
"Sweet little 'why-because!' I am so glad you have not cured her of that," Mrs. Croft said, as she hugged her child afresh.
Then she and her husband thanked Miss Storey and Miss Anne with all their hearts for taking such care of Ivy. She looked so well, they said; so rosy and strong and healthy and happy.
And then they explained "why-because" this had come about. Ivy's daddy had been ill, and the doctor had said that he ought not to stay in Africa. And they had been very much puzzled what to do, for it had been an expensive voyage out, and they did not see how they could afford to return so soon. And while they were wondering what to do, an old uncle had died suddenly; and this kind old uncle left them some money. And that had made it easy for them to give up Africa, and to come back to dear old England.
"But will Ivy have to go away from here?" asked Hecla in dismay. "I do hope she won't. I want Ivy always."
It would indeed have been a great trouble to both the children, had they been separated. Very soon, however, they found to their delight that this was not to be. Mr. and Mrs. Croft wanted to have Hecla with them—always. They meant to take a house at Nortonbury, as near as possible to the Miss Storeys, and to live there; and they wished to bring up Hecla with Ivy, because it was not good for Ivy to be an only child. They feared that their darling might be too much indulged, and spoilt.
Miss Anne was grieved at the thought of losing both the children; yet she knew that it was better so. And she perhaps felt a little relieved too. For Miss Storey was not strong enough, since the river accident, to stand children constantly about; and Miss Anne wanted to be free to devote herself more entirely to her elder sister.
Besides, if Mr. and Mrs. Croft lived near, the children would be perpetually running in and out; and that would keep the aunts cheerful.
And was it not curious? Aunt Anne knew of a nice, pretty house, just the right size, with a garden, standing empty round the next corner.
Mr. Croft went off to see it directly after dinner. And he liked the house and the garden so much, that in a few days everything was settled.
So, though Hecla would no longer be all day long with Miss Storey and Miss Anne, she would be less than five minutes off. Ivy was delighted to have her dear Hecla with her in the new home. And Mr. and Mrs. Croft were so good, and kind, and gentle with her, that very soon it almost felt to Hecla like the days when she had her own mother and father.
"Mummie, why-because does Hecla kiss you so very, very much?" Ivy one day asked.
"I suppose, pet, it is because she is a tender-hearted little girl, and likes to be loved," Mrs. Croft replied. "And she is very fond of Ivy too, I am sure—isn't she?"
"And I do love Hecla, mummie. I love her—heaps. And p'rhaps that's why-because she loves me," Ivy suggested, in her serious fashion.
THE END
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.