"Sweet are the uses of adversity."—SHAKESPEARE.
A scream that would probably have reached the nursery, which was not very far from Mrs. Vincent's room, had there been any one there to hear it! But as it was, the person who had been there—little Bee—was much nearer than the nursery at the time of Rosy's accident. The house was very silent that evening, and Nelson had not thought of bringing a light; so when it got too dark to read, even with the book pressed close against the window-panes, Bee grew rather tired of waiting there by herself, with nothing to do.
"I wonder where Rosy is," she thought, opening the door, and looking out along the dusky passages.
And just then she heard Rosy's voice, at some little distance, calling, "Nelson, Nelson."
"If she is with Nelson I won't go," thought Bee. "I'll wait till she comes back;" and she came into the empty nursery again, and wished Martha was home.
"She always makes the nursery so comfortable," thought Bee. Then it struck her that perhaps it was not very kind of her not to go and see what Rosy wanted—she had not heard any reply to Rosy's call for Nelson.
"Her voice sounded as if she was in Aunt Lillias's room," she said to herself. "What can she be wanting? perhaps I'd better go and see."
And she set off down the passage. The lamps were not yet lighted; perhaps the servants were less careful than usual, knowing that the ladies would not be home till late, but Bee knew her way about the house quite well. She was close to the door of Mrs. Vincent's room, and had already noticed that it stood slightly ajar, for a light was streaming out, when—she stood for a second half-stupefied with terror—what was it?—what could be the matter?—as Rosy's fearful scream reached her ears. Half a second, and she had rushed into the room—there lay a confused heap on the floor, for Rosy, in her fall, had pulled over the chair; but the first glance showed Bee what was wrong—Rosy was on fire!
It was a good thing she had fallen, otherwise, in her wild fright, she would probably have made things worse by rushing about; as it was, she had not had time to get up before Bee was beside her, smothering her down with some great heavy thing, and calling to her to keep still, to "squeeze herself down," so as to put out the flames. The "great thing" was the blankets and counterpane of the bed, which somehow Bee, small as she was, had managed to tear off. And, frightened as Rosy was, the danger was not, after all, so very great, for the quilted under skirt was pretty thick, and her fall had already partly crushed down the fire. It was all over more quickly than it has taken me to tell it, and Rosy at last, half choked with the heavy blankets, and half soaked with the water which Bee had poured over her to make sure, struggled to her feet, safe and uninjured, only the pretty dress hopelessly spoilt!
And when all the danger was past, and there was nothing more to do, Nelson appeared at the door, and rushed at her darling Miss Rosy, screaming and crying, while Beata stood by, her handkerchief wrapped round one of her hands, and nobody paying any attention to her. Nelson's screams soon brought the other servants; among them, they got the room cleared of the traces of the accident, and Rosy undressed and put to bed. She was crying from the fright, but she had got no injury at all; her tears, however, flowed on when she thought of what her mother would have to be told, and Bee found it difficult to comfort her.
"You saved me, Bee, dear Bee," she said, clinging to her. "And it was because I disobeyed mamma, and I might have been burnt to death. O Bee, just think of it!" and she would not let Beata leave her.
It was like this that Mrs. Vincent found them on her return late in the evening. You can fancy how miserable it was for her to be met with such a story, and to know that it was all Rosy's own fault. But it was not all miserable, for never had she known her little girl so completely sorry and ashamed, and so truly grateful to any one as she was now feeling to Beata.
And even Aunt Edith's prejudice seemed to have melted away, for she kissed Bee as she said goodnight, and called her a brave, good child.
So it was with a thankful little heart that Beata went to bed. Her hand was sore—it had got badly scorched in pressing down the blankets—but she did not think it bad enough to say anything about it except to the cook, who was a kind old woman, and wrapped it up in cotton wool, after well dredging it with flour, and making her promise that if it hurt her in the night she would call her.
It did not hurt her, and she slept soundly; but when she woke in the morning her head ached, and she wished she could stay in bed! Rosy was still sleeping—the housemaid, who came to draw the curtains, told her—and she was not to be wakened.
"After the fright she had, it is better to sleep it off," the servant said, "though, for some things, it's to be hoped she won't forget it. It should be a lesson to her. But you don't look well, Miss Bee," she went on; "is your head aching, my dear?"
"Yes," Bee allowed, "and I can't think why, for I slept very well. What day is it, Phoebe? Isn't it Sunday?"
"Yes, Miss Bee. It's Sunday."
"I don't think I can go to church. The organ would make my head worse," said Bee, sitting up in bed.
"Shall I tell any one that you're not well, Miss Bee?" asked Phoebe.
"Oh no, thank you," said Bee, "I daresay it will get better when I'm up."
It did seem a little better, but she was looking pale when Mrs. Vincent came to the nursery to see her and Rosy, who had wakened up, none the worse for her fright, but anxious to do all she could for poor Bee when she found out about her sore hand and headache,
"Why did you not tell me about your hand last night, dear Bee?" Mrs. Vincent asked.
"It didn't hurt much. It doesn't hurt much now," said Bee, "and Fraser looked at it and saw that it was not very bad, and—and—you had had so many things to trouble you, Aunt Lillias," she added, affectionately.
"Yes, dear; but, when I think how much worse they might have been, I dare not complain," Rosy's mother replied.
Bee did not go to church that day. Her headache was not very bad, but it did not seem to get well, and it was still rather bad when she woke the next morning.
And that next morning brought back to all their minds what, for the moment, had been almost forgotten—that it was within three days of the fete at Summerlands!—for there came a note from Lady Esther, giving some particulars about the hour she hoped they would all come, and rejoicing in the promise of fine weather for the children's treat.
Rosy's mother read the note aloud. Then she looked at Aunt Edith, and looked at the little girls. They were all together when the letter came.
"What is to be done?" said Miss Vincent; "I had really forgotten the fête was to be on Wednesday. Is it impossible to have a new dress made in time?"
"Quite impossible," said Mrs. Vincent, "Rosy must cheerfully, or at least patiently, bear what she has brought on herself, and be, as I am sure she is, very thankful that it was no worse."
Rosy glanced up quickly. She seemed as if she were going to say something, and the look in her face was quite gentle.
"I—I—Iwilltry to be good, mamma," she broke out at last. "And I know I might have been burnt to death if it hadn't been for Bee. And—and—I hope Bee will enjoy the fête."
But that was all she could manage. She hurried over the last words; then, bursting into tears, she rushed out of the room.
"Poor darling!" said Aunt Edith. "Lillias, are you sure we can do nothing? Couldn't one of her white dresses be done up somehow?"
"No," said Mrs. Vincent. "It would only draw attention to her if she was to go dressed differently from the others, and I should not wish that. Besides—oh no—it is much better not."
She had hardly said the words when she felt something gently pulling her, and, looking down, there was Bee beside her, trying to whisper something.
"Auntie," she said, "would you, oh!wouldyou let Rosy go instead of me, wearing my dress? It would fit her almost as well as her own. And, do you know, Iwouldn'tcare to go alone. It wouldn't beanyhappiness to me, and it would be such happiness to know that Rosy could go. And I'm afraid I've got a little cold or something, for I've still got a headache, and I'm not sure that it will be better by Wednesday."
She looked up entreatingly in Mrs. Vincent's face, and then Rosy's mother noticed how pale and ill she seemed.
"My dear little Bee," she said, "you must try to be better by Wednesday. And, you know, dear, though we are all very sorry for Rosy, it is only what she has brought on herself. I hope she has learnt a lesson—more than one lesson—but, if she were to have the pleasure of going to Summerlands, she might not remember it so well."
Beata said no more—she could not oppose Rosy's mother—but she shook her head a little sadly.
"I don't think Rosy's like that, Aunt Lillias," she said; "I don't think it would make her forget."
Beata's headache was not better the next day; and, as the day went on, it grew so much worse that Mrs. Vincent at last sent for the doctor. He said that she was ill, much in the same way that Fixie had been. Not that it was anything she could have caught from him—it was not that kind of illness at all—but it was the first spring either of them had been in England, and he thought that very likely the change of climate had caused it with them both. He was not, he said, anxious about Bee, but still he looked a little grave. She was not strong, and she should not be overworked with lessons, or have anything to trouble or distress her.
"She has not been overworked," Mrs. Vincent said.
"And she seems very sweet-tempered and gentle. A happy disposition, I should think," said the doctor, as he hastened away.
His words made Mrs. Vincent feel rather sad. It was true—Bee had a happy disposition—she had never, till lately, seen her anything but bright and cheery.
"My poor little Bee," she thought, "I was hard upon her. I did not quite understand her. In my anxiety about Rosy when her aunt and Nelson came I fear I forgot Bee. But I do trust all that is over, and that Rosy has truly learnt a lesson. And we must all join to make little Bee happy again."
She returned to Bee's room. The child was sitting up in bed, her eyes sparkling in her white face—she was very eager about something.
"Auntie," she said, "you see I cannot possibly go to-morrow. And you must go, for poor Lady Esther is counting on you to help her. Auntie, youwillforgive poor Rosy nowquite, won't you, and let her go in my dress?"
The pleading eyes, the white face, the little hot hands laid coaxingly on hers—it would not have been easy to refuse! Besides, the doctor had said she was neither to be excited nor distressed.
The tears were in Mrs. Vincent's eyes as she bent down to kiss the little girl, but she did not let her see them.
"I will speak to Rosy, dear," she said. "I will tell her how much you want her to go in your place; and I think perhaps you are right—I don't think it will make her forget."
"Thankyou, dear auntie," said Bee, as fervently as if Mrs. Vincent had promised her the most delightful treat in the world.
That afternoon Bee fell asleep, and slept quietly and peacefully for some time. When she woke she felt better, and she lay still, thinking it was nice and comfortable to be in bed when one felt tired, as she had always done lately; then her eyes wandered round her little room, and she thought how neat and pretty it looked, how pleased her mother would be to see how nice she had everything; and, just as she was thinking this, her glance fell on a little table beside her bed, which had been placed there with a little lemonade and a few grapes. There was something there that had not been on the table before she went to sleep. In a delicate little glass, thin and clear as a soap-bubble, was the most lovely rose Bee had ever seen—rich, soft,rosecolour, glowing almost crimson in the centre, and melting into a somewhat paler shade at the edge.
[Illustration: 'IT'S A ROSE FROM ROSY.']
"Oh you beauty!" exclaimed Bee, "I wonder who put you there. I would like to scent you"—Bee, like other children I know, always talked of "scenting" flowers; she said "smell" was not a pretty enough word for such pretty things—"but I am afraid of knocking over that lovely glass. It must be one of Aunt Lillias's that she has lent."
A little soft laugh came from the side of her bed, and, leaning over, Bee caught sight of a tangle of bright hair. It was Rosy. She had been watching there for Bee to wake. Up she jumped, and, carefully lifting the glass, held it close to Bee.
"It isn't mother's glass," she said; "it's your own. Itwasmother's, but I've bought it for you. Mother let me, because Ididso want to do something to please you; and she let me choose the beautifullest rose for you, Bee. I am so glad you like it; It's a rose from Rosy. I've been sitting by you such a time. And though I'm so pleased you like the rose, Ihavebeen crying a little, Bee, truly, because you are so good, and about my going to-morrow."
"Youaregoing?" said Bee, anxiously. In Rosy's changed way of thinking she became suddenly afraid that she might not wish to go.
"Yes," said Rosy, rather gravely, "I am going. Mother is quite pleased for me to go, to please you. In one way I would rather not go, for I know I don't deserve it; and I can't help thinking you wouldn't have been ill if I hadn't done that, and made you have a fright. And it seems such a shame for me to wearyourdress, when you've been quite good anddeservethe pleasure, and just when I've got to see how kind you are, and we'd have been so happy to go together. And then I've a feeling, Bee, that Ishallenjoy it when I get there, and perhaps I shall forget a little about you, and it will be so horrid of me, if I do—and that makes me, wish I wasn't going."
"But I want you to enjoy it," said Bee, simply, in her little weak voice. "It wouldn't be nice of me to want you to go if I thought you wouldn't enjoy it. And it's nice of you to tell me how you feel. But I would like you to think of methisway—every time you are having a very nice dance, or that any one says you look so nice, just think, "I wish Bee could see me," or "How nice it will be to tell Bee about it," and, that way, the more you enjoy it the more you'll think of me."
"Yes," said Rosy, "that's putting it a very nice way; or, Bee, if there are very nice things to eat, I might think of you another way. I might, perhaps, bring you back some nice biscuits or bonbons—any kind that wouldn't squash in my pocket, you know. I might ask mamma to ask Lady Esther."
"Yes," said Bee, "I'm not very hungry, but just a few very nice, rather dry ones, you know, I would like." "I could keep them for Fixie when he comes back," was the thought in her mind.
She had not heard anything about when Fixie and Martha were coming back, but she was to have a pleasant surprise the next day. It was a little lonely; for, though Rosy meant to be very, very kind, she was rather too much of a chatterbox not to tire Bee after a while.
"Mamma said I wasn't to stay very long," she said; "but don't you mind being alone so much?"
"No, I don't think so," said Bee, "and, you know, Phoebe is in the next room if I want her."
"I know what you'd like," said Rosy, and off she flew. In two minutes she was back again with something in her arms. It was Manchon! She laid him gently down at the foot of Bee's bed. "He's so 'squisitely clean, you know," she went on, "and I know you're fond of him."
"Very" said Bee, with great satisfaction.
"I like him better than I did," said Rosy, "but still I think he's a sort of a fairy. Why, it shows he is, for now that I'm so good—I mean now that I'm going to be good always—he seems to like me ever so much better. He used to snarl if ever I touched him, and to-day when I said 'I'm going to take you to Bee, Manchon,' he let me take him as good as good."
But that evening brought still better company for Bee.
She went to sleep early, and she slept well, and when she woke in the morning who do you think was standing beside her? Dear little Fixie, his white face ever so much rounder and rosier, and kind Martha, both smiling with pleasure at seeing her again, though feeling sorry, too, that she was ill.
"Zou'll soon be better, Bee, and Fixie will be so good to you, and then p'raps we'll go again to that nice place where we've been, for you to get kite well."
So Bee, after all, did not feel at all dull or lonely when Rosy came in to say good-bye, in Bee's pretty dress. And Mrs. Vincent, and even Miss Vincent, kissed her so kindly! Even Nelson, I forgot to say, had put her head in at the door to ask how she was; and when Bee answered her nicely, as she always did, she came in for a moment to tell her how sorry she was Bee could not go to the fete. "For I must say, Miss Bee," she added, "I must say as I think you've acted very pretty, very pretty, indeed, about lending your dress to dear Miss Rosy, bless her."
"And, if there's anything I can do for you—" Here Bee's breakfast coming in interrupted her, which Bee, on the whole, was not sorry for.
She did not see Rosy that evening, for it was late when they came home, and she was already asleep. But the next morning Bee woke much better, and quite able to listen to Rosy's account of it all. She had enjoyed it very much—of course notasmuch as if Bee had been there too, she said; but Lady Esther had thought it so sweet of Bee to beg for Rosy to go, and she had sent her the loveliest little basket of bonbons, tied up with pink ribbons, that ever was seen, and still better, she had told Rosy that she had serious thoughts of having a large Christmas-tree party next winter, at which all the children should be dressed out of the fairy tales.
"Wouldn't it be lovely?" said Rosy. "We were thinking perhaps you would be Red Riding Hood, and I the white cat. But we can look over all the fairy tales and think about it when you're better, can't we, Bee?"
Beata got better much more quickly than Fixie had done. The first day she was well enough to be up she begged leave to write two little letters, one to her mother and one to Colin, who had been very kind; for while she was ill he had written twice to her, which for a schoolboy was a great deal, I think. His letters were meant to be very amusing; but, as they were full of cricket and football, Bee did not find them very easy to understand. She was sitting at the nursery-table, thinking what she could say to show Colin she liked to hear about his games, even though the names puzzled her a little, when Fixie came and stood by her, looking rather melancholy.
"What's the matter?" she said.
"Zou's writing such a long time," said Fixie, "and Rosy's still at her lessons. I zought when zou was better zou'd play wif me."
"I can't play much," said Bee, "for I've still got a funny buzzy feeling in my head, and I'm rather tired."
"Yes, I know," said Fixie, with great sympathy, "mine head was like fousands of trains when I was ill. We won't play, Bee, we'll only talk."
"Well, I'll just finish my letter," said Bee. "I'll just tell Colin he must tell me all about innings and outings, and all that, when he comes home. Yes—that'll do. "Your affectionate—t-i-o-n-a-t-e—Bee." Now I'll talk to you, Fixie. What a pity we haven't got Rosy's beads to tell stories about!"
A queer look came into Fixie's face.
"Rosy's beads," he said.
"Yes, Rosy's necklace that was lost. And you didn't know where it was gone when Martha asked you—when your mother wrote a letter about it."
As she spoke, she drew their two little chairs to what had always been their favourite corner, near a window, which was low enough for them to look out into the pretty garden.
"Don't sit there," said Fixie, "I don't like there."
"Why not? Don't you remember we were sitting here the last afternoon we were in the nursery—before you went away. You liked it then, when I told you stories about the beads, before they were lost."
"Beforezemwas lost," said Fixie, his face again taking the troubled, puzzled look; "I didn't know it waszem—I mean it was somefin else of Rosy's that was lost—lace for her neck, that I'dneverseen."
Bee's heart began to beat faster with a strange hope. She had seen Fixie's face looking troubled, and she remembered Martha saying how her questioning about the necklace had upset him, and it seemed almost cruel to go on talking about it. But a feeling had come over her that there was something to find out, and now it grew stronger and stronger.
"Lace for Rosy's neck," she repeated, "no, Fixie, you must be mistaken. Lace for her neck—" and then a sudden idea struck her,—"can you mean anecklace?Don't you know that a necklace means beads?"
Fixie stared at her for a moment, growing very red. Then the redness finished up, like a thundercloud breaking into rain, by his bursting into tears, and hiding his face in Bee's lap.
"I didn't know, I didn't know," he cried, "I thought it was some lace that Martha meant. I didn't mean to tell a' untrue, Bee. I didn't like Martha asking me, 'cos it made me think of the beads I'd lost, and I thought p'raps I'd get them up again when I came home, but I can't. I've poked and poked, and I think the mouses have eatened zem."
By degrees Bee found out what the poor little fellow meant. The morning after the afternoon when Bee and he had had the necklace, and Bee had put it safely back, he had, unknown to any one, fetched it again for himself, and sat playing with it by the nursery-window, in the corner where the hole in the floor was. Out of idleness, he had amused himself by holding the string of beads at one end, and dropping them down the mysterious hole, "like fishing," he said, till, unluckily, he had dropped them in altogether; and there, no doubt, they were still lying! He was frightened at what he had done, but he meant to tell Bee, and ask her advice. But that very afternoon the doctor came, and he was separated from the other children; and, while he was ill, he seemed to have forgotten about it. When Martha questioned him at the seaside, he had no idea she was speaking of the beads; but he did not like her questions, because they made him remember what hehadlost. And then he thought he would try to get the beads out of the hole by poking with a stick when he came home; but he had found he could not manage it, and then he had taken a dislike to that part of the room.
All this was told with many sobs and tears, but Bee soothed him as well as she could; and when his mother soon after came to the nursery and heard the story, she was very kind indeed, and made him see how even little wrong-doings, like taking the beads to play with without leave, always bring unhappiness; and still more, how wise and right it is for children to tell at once when they have done wrong, instead of trying to put the wrong right themselves. That was all she said, except that, as she kissed her poor little boy, she told him to tell no one else about it, except Martha, and that she would see what could be done.
Bee and Fixie said no more about it; but on that account, I daresay, like the famous parrot, "they thought the more." And once or twice that afternoon, Fixiecouldnot help whispering to Bee, "Doyou fink mamma's going to get the beads hooked out?" or, "I hope they won't hurt the mouses that lives down in the hole.Doyou fink the mouses has eaten it, p'raps?"
Beata was sent early to bed, as she was not yet, of course, counted as quite well; and both she and Fixie slept very soundly—whether they dreamt of Rosy's beads or not I cannot tell.
But the next morning Bee felt so much better that she begged to get up quite early.
"Not till after you've had your breakfast, Miss Bee," said Martha. "But Mrs. Vincent says you may get up as soon as you like after that, and then you and Miss Rosy and Master Fixie are all to go to her room. She has something to show you."
Bee and Fixie looked at each other. They felt suretheyknew what it was! But Rosy, who had also come to Bee's room to see how she was, looked very mystified.
"I wonder what it can be," she said. "Can it be a parcel come for us? And oh, Martha, by-the-bye, what was that knocking in the nursery last night after we were in bed? I heard Robert's voice, I'm sure. What was he doing?"
"He came up to nail down something that was loose," said Martha, quietly; but that was all she would say.
They all three marched off to Mrs. Vincent's room as soon as Beata was up and dressed. She was waiting for them.
"I am so glad you are so much better this morning, Bee," she said, as she kissed them all; "and now" she went on, "look here, I have a surprise for you all." She lifted a handkerchief which she had laid over something on a little table; and the three children, as they pressed forward, could hardly believe their eyes. For there lay Rosy's necklace, as bright and pretty as ever, and there beside it lay another, just like it at the first glance, though, when it was closely examined, one could see that the patterns on the beads were different; but any way it was just as pretty.
"Two," exclaimed Fixie, "twolace-beads, whatisthe name? Has the mouses made a new one for Bee, dear Bee?"
"Yes, for dear Bee," said his mother, smiling, "it is for Bee, though it didn't come from the mouses;" and then she explained to them how "Mr. Furniture" had sent the second necklace for Bee, but that she had thought it better to keep it a while in hopes of Rosy's being found, as she knew that Bee's pleasure in the pretty beads would not have been half so great if Rosy were without hers.
How happy they all looked!
"What lotses of fairy stories we can make now!" said Fixie—"one for every bead-lace, Bee!"
"And, mamma," said Rosy, "I'll keep on being very good now. I daresay I'll be dreadfully good soon; and Bee will be always good too, now, because you know we've got our talismans."
Mrs. Vincent smiled, but she looked a little grave.
"What is it, mamma?" said Rosy. "Should I say talismen, not talismans?"
Her mother smiled more this time.
"No, it wasn't that. 'Talismans' is quite right. I was only thinking that perhaps it was not very wise of me to have put the idea into your head, Rosy dear, for I want you to learn and feel that, though any little outside help may be a good thing as a reminder, it is only your own self, your own heart, earnestly wishing to be good, that can really make you succeed; and you know where the earnest wishing comes from, and where you are always sure to get help if you ask it, don't you, Rosy?"
Rosy got a little red, and looked rather grave.
"Inearlyalways remember to say my prayers," she answered.
"Well, let the 'talisman' help you to remember, if ever you are inclined to forget. And it isn'tonlyat getting-up time and going-to-bed time that one maypray, as I have often told you, dear children. I really think, Rosy," she went on more lightly, "that it would be nice for you and Bee to wear your necklaces always. I shall like to see them, and I believe it would be almost impossible to spoil or break them."
"Only for my fairy stories," said Fixie, "I should have to walk all round Bee and Rosy to see the beads. You will let them take them off,sometimes, won't you, mamma?"
"Yes, my little man, provided you promise not to send them visits down the 'mouses' holes,'" said his mother, laughing.
This is all I can tell you for the present about Rosy and her brothers and little Bee. There is more to tell, as you can easily fancy, for, of course, Rosy did not grow "quite good" all of a sudden, though there certainly was a great difference to be seen in her from the time of her narrow escape—nor was Beata, in spite ofhertalisman, without faults and failings. Nor was either of them without sorrows and disappointments and difficulties in their lives, bright and happy though they were. If you have been pleased with what I have told you, you must let me know, and I shall try to tell you some more.
And again, dear children,—little friends, whom I love so much, though I may never have seen your faces, and though you only know me as somebody who isveryhappy, when her little stories please you—again, my darlings, I wish you the merriest of merry Christmases for 1882, and every blessing in the new year that will soon be coming!
THE END.