I CREPT DOWNSTAIRS, PAST ONE SCHOOLROOM WITH ITS CLOSED DOOR.
But I did not wait to hear. I crept downstairs, past one schoolroom with its closed door, and a muffled sound of voices as I drew quite close to it, then on again, past the downstairs class-room, and along the hall to the front door. For that was what I had made up my mind was the best, bold as it seemed. I would go right out by the front door. I knew it opened easily, for we went out that way on Sundays to church, and once or twice I had opened it. And nobody would ever dream of my passing out that way.
It was all managed quite easily, and almost beforeI had time to take in what I had done, I found myself out in the road some little distance from Green Bank, for as soon as the gate closed behind me I had set off running from a half-nervous fear that some one might be coming in pursuit of me. I ran on a little farther, in the same direction, that of the town, for Miss Ledbury's house was in the outskirts—then, out of breath, I stood still to think what I should do.
I had really not made any distinct plan. The only idea clearly in my mind was to get Mrs. Selwood's address, so that I could write to her. But as I stood there, another thought struck me. I would go home—to the house in the dull street which had never seemed dull to me! For there, I suddenly remembered, I might find one of our own servants. I recollected Lydia's telling me that cook was probably going to "engage" with the people who had taken the house. And cook would be sure to know Mrs. Selwood's address, and—perhaps—cook would be able to tell me something about father and mamma. She was a kind woman—I would not mind telling her how dreadfully frightened I was about them since Harriet Smith had repeated what she had heard.
I knew the way to our house, at least I thought I did, though afterwards I found I had taken two or three wrong turnings, which had made my journey longer. It was scarcely raining by this time, but the streets were dreadfully wet and muddy, and the sky still dark and gloomy.
At last I found myself at the well-known corner of our street—how often I had run round it with Haddie, when we had been allowed to go on some little errand by ourselves! I had not passed this way since mamma went, and the feeling that came over me was very strange. I went along till I came to our house, number 39; then, in a sort of dream, I mounted the two or three steps to the door, and rang the bell. How well I knew its sound! It seemed impossible to believe that Lydia would not open to me, and that if I hurried upstairs I should not find mamma sitting in her usual place in the drawing-room!
But of course it was not so. A strange face met me as the door drew back, and for a moment or two I felt too confused to speak, though I saw the servant was looking at me in surprise.
"Is—can I see cook?" I got out at last.
"Cook," the maid repeated. "I'm sure I can'tsay. Can't you give me your message—Miss?" adding the last word after a little hesitation.
"I'd rather see her, please. I want to ask her for Mrs. Selwood's address. Mrs. Selwood's a friend of mamma's, and I'm sure cook would know. We used to live here, and Lydia said cook was going to stay."
The servant's face cleared, but her reply was not encouraging.
"Oh," she said, "I see. But it's no use your seeing our cook, Miss. She's a stranger. The other one—Sarah Wells was her name——"
"Yes, yes," I exclaimed, "that's her."
"She's gone—weeks ago. Her father was ill, and she had to go home. I'm sorry, Miss"—she was a good-natured girl—"but it can't be helped. And I think you'd better go home quick. It's coming on to rain again, and it'll soon be dark, and you're such a little young lady to be out alone."
"Thank you," I said, and I turned away, my heart swelling with disappointment.
I walked on quickly for a little way, for I felt sure the servant was looking after me. Then I stopped short and asked myself again "what should I do?" The girl had advised me to go "home"—"home" to Green Bank, to be shut up in my room again, and betreated as a story-teller, and never have a chance of writing to Mrs. Selwood or any one! No, that I would not do. The very thought of it made me hasten my steps as if to put a greater distance between myself and Miss Ledbury's house. And I walked on some way without knowing where I was going except that it was in an opposite direction from school.
It must have been nearly six o'clock by this time, and the gloomy day made it already dusk. The shops were lighting up, and the glare of the gas on the wet pavement made me look about me. I was in one of the larger streets now, a very long one, that led right out from the centre of the town to the outskirts. I was full of a strange kind of excitement; I did not mind the rain, and indeed it was not very heavy; I did not feel lonely or frightened, and my brain seemed unusually active and awake.
"I know what I'll do," I said to myself; "I'll go to the big grocer's where they give Haddie and me those nice gingerbreads, and I'll askthemfor Mrs. Selwood's address. I remember mamma said Mrs. Selwood always bought things there. And—and—I won't write to her. I'll go to the railway and see if I've money enough to get a ticket, and I'll go toMrs. Selwood and tell her how I can't bear it any longer. I've got four shillings, and if that isn't enough I daresay the railway people wouldn't mind if I promised I'd send it them."
I marched on, feeling once more very determined and valiant. I thought I knew the way to the big grocer's quite well, but when I turned down a street which looked like the one where it was, I began to feel a little confused. There were so many shops, and the lights in the windows dazzled me, and worst of all, I could not remember the name of the grocer's. It was something like Simpson, but not Simpson. I went on, turning again more than once, always in hopes of seeing it before me, but always disappointed. And I was beginning to feel very tired; I must, I suppose, have been really tired all the time, but my excitement had kept me up.
At last I found myself in a much darker street than the others. For there were few shops in it, and most of the houses were offices of some kind. It was a wide street and rather hilly. As I stood at the top I saw it sloping down before me; the light of the tall lamps glimmered brokenly in the puddles, for it was raining again more heavily now. Suddenly, as if in a dream, some words came back tome, so clearly that I could almost have believed some one was speaking. It was mamma's voice.
"You had better put on your mackintosh, Haddie," I seemed to hear her say, and then I remembered it all—it came before me like a picture—that rainy evening not many months ago when mamma and Haddie and I had walked home so happily, we two tugging at her arms, one on each side, heedless of the rain or the darkness, or anything except that we were all together.
I stood still. Never, I think, was a child's heart more nearly breaking.
For a minute or two I seemed to feel nothing; then there came over me a sort of shiver, partly of cold, for itwasvery cold, partly of misery. I roused myself, however. With the remembrance of that other evening had come to me also the knowledge of where I was. Only a few yards down the sloping street on the left-hand side came a wide stretch of pavement, and there, in a kind of angle, stood a double door, open on both sides, leading into a small outer hall, from which again another door, glazed at the top, was the entrance to Cranston's show-rooms.
I remembered it all perfectly. Just beyond the inner entrance stood the two carved lions that Haddie and I admired so much. I wished I could see them again, and—yes—a flash of joy went through me at the thought—I could get Mrs. Selwood's address quite as well from old Mr. Cranston as from the big grocer!
As soon as the idea struck me I hurried on, seeming to gain fresh strength and energy. It was almost dark, but a gas-lamp was burning dimly above the lintel, and inside, on the glass of the inner door, were the large gilt letters "Cranston and Co."
I ran up the two or three broad shallow steps and pushed open the door, which was a swing one. It was nearly time for closing, but that I did not know. There was no one to be seen inside, not, at least, in the first room, and the door made no noise. But there stood the dear lions—I could not see them very clearly, for the place was not brightly lighted, but I crept up to them, and stroked softly the one nearest me. They seemed like real friends.
I had not courage to go into the other show-room, and all was so perfectly still that I could scarcely think any one was there. I thought I would wait a few minutes in hopes of some one coming out, of whom I could inquire if I could see Mr. Cranston. And I was now beginning to feel so tired—so very tired, and so cold.
In here, though I did not see any fire, it felt ever so much warmer than outside. There was no chair or stool, but I found a seat for myself on the stand of the farther-in lion—each of them had a heavywooden stand. It seemed very comfortable, and I soon found that by moving on a little I could get a nice rest for my head against the lion's body. A strange pleasant sense of protection and comfort came over me.
"How glad I am I came in here," I said to myself. "I don't mind if I have to wait a good while. It is so cosy and warm."
I no longer made any plans. I knew I wanted to ask for Mrs. Selwood's address, but that was all I thought of. What I should do when I had got it I did not know; where I should go for the night, for it was now quite dark, I did not trouble about in the least. I think I must have been very much in the condition I have heard described, of travellers lost in the snow—the overpowering wish to stay where I was and rest, was all I was conscious of. I did not think of going to sleep. I did not know I was sleepy.
And for some time I knew nothing.
The first thing that caught my attention was a very low murmur—so low that it might have been merely a breath of air playing in the keyhole; I seemed to have been hearing it for some time before it took shape, as it were, and grew into asoftly-whispering voice, gradually gathering into words.
"Poor little girl; so she has come at last. Well, as you say, brother, we have been expecting her for a good while, have we not?"
"Yes, indeed, but speak softly. It would be a pity to awake her. And what we have to do can be done just as well while she sleeps."
"I don't agree with you," said the first speaker. "I should much prefer her being awake. She would enjoy the ride, and she is an intelligent child and would profit by our conversation."
"As you like," replied number two. "I must be off to fetch the boy. She will perhaps be awake by the time I return."
And then—just as I was on the point of starting up and telling them Iwasawake—came a sound of stamping and rustling, and a sort of whirr and a breath of cold air, which told me the swing door had been opened. And when I sat straight up and looked about me, lo and behold, there was only one lion to be seen—the stand of his brother was empty!
"I—please Iamawake," I said rather timidly. "It was me you were talking about, wasn't it?"
"I—'it wasI'—the verb to be takes the samecase after it as before it," was the reply, much to my surprise and rather to my disgust. Who would have thought that the carved lions bothered about grammar!
"It was I, then," I repeated meekly. I did not want to give any offence to my new friend. "Please—I heard you saying something—something about going a ride. And where has the—the other Mr. Lion gone? I heard about—a boy."
"You heard correctly," my lion replied, and I knew somehow that he was smiling, or whatever lions do that matches smiling. "My brother has gone to fetchyourbrother—we planned it all some time ago—we shall meet on the sea-shore and travel together. But we should be starting. Can you climb up on to my back?"
"Oh yes," I said quite calmly, as if there was nothing the least out of the common in all this, "I'm sure I can."
"Catch hold of my mane," said the lion; "don't mind tugging, it won't hurt," and—not to my surprise, for nothing surprised me—I felt my hands full of soft silky hair, as the lion shook down his long wavy mane to help my ascent.
Nothing was easier. In another moment I wascosily settled on his back, which felt deliciously comfortable, and the mane seemed to tuck itself round me like a fleecy rug.
"Shut your eyes," said my conductor or steed, I don't know which to call him; "go to sleep if you like. I'll wake you when we meet the others."
"Thank you," I said, feeling too content and comfortable to disagree with anything he said.
Then came a feeling of being raised up, a breath of colder air, which seemed to grow warm again almost immediately, and I knew nothing more till I heard the words, "Here they are."
I opened my eyes and looked about me. It was night—overhead in the deep blue sky innumerable stars were sparkling, and down below at our feet I heard the lap-lap of rippling waves. A dark, half-shadowy figure stood at my right hand, and as I saw it more clearly I distinguished the form of the other lion, with—yes, there was some one sitting on his back.
"Haddie," I exclaimed.
"Yes, yes, Geraldine, it's me," my brother's own dear voice replied. "We're going right over the sea—did you know?—isn't it splendid? We're goingto see father and mamma. Hold out your hand so that you can feel mine."
THE BROTHER LIONS ROSE INTO THE AIR.
I did so, and my fingers clasped his, and at that moment the brother lions rose into the air, and down below, even fainter and fainter, came the murmur of the sea, while up above, the twinkling stars looked down on what surely was one of the strangest sights they had ever seen in all their long, long experience!
Then again I seemed to know nothing, though somehow, all through, I felt the clasp of Haddie's hand and knew we were close together.
A beautiful light streaming down upon us, of which I was conscious even through my closed eyelids, was the next thing I remember. It seemed warm as well as bright, and I felt as if basking in it.
"Wake up, Geraldine," said Haddie's voice.
I opened my eyes. But now I have come to a part of my story which I have never been able, and never shall be able, to put into fitting words. The scene before me was too beautiful, too magically exquisite for me even to succeed in giving the faintest idea of it. Still I must try, though knowing that I cannot but fail.
Can you picture to yourselves the loveliest day of all the perfect summer days you have ever known—no, more than that, a day like summer and spring in one—the richness of colour, the balmy fragrance of the prime of the year joined to the freshness, the indescribable hopefulness and expectation which is the charm of the spring? The beauty and delight seemed made up of everything lovely mingled together—sights, sounds, scents, feelings. There was the murmur of running streams, the singing of birds, the most delicious scent from the flowers growing in profusion and of every shade of colour.
Haddie and I looked at each other—we still held each other by the hand, but now, somehow, we were standing together on the grass, though I could not remember having got down from my perch on the lion's back.
"Where are the lions, Haddie?" I said.
Haddie seemed to understand everything better than I did.
"They're all right," he replied, "resting a little. You see we've come a long way, Geraldine, and so quick."
"And where are we?" I asked. "What is this place, Haddie? Is it fairyland or—or—heaven?"
Haddie smiled.
"It's not either," he said. "You'll find out thename yourself. But come, we must be quick, for we can't stay very long. Hold my hand tight and then we can run faster."
I seemed to know that something more beautiful than anything we had seen yet was coming. I did not ask Haddie any more questions, even though I had a feeling that he knew more than I did. He seemed quite at home in this wonderful place, quite able to guide me. And his face was shining with happiness.
We ran a good way, and very fast. But I did not feel at all tired or breathless. My feet seemed to have wings, and all the time the garden around us grew lovelier and lovelier. If Haddie had not been holding my hand so fast I should scarcely have been able to resist stopping to gather some of the lovely flowers everywhere in such profusion, or to stand still to listen to the dear little birds singing so exquisitely overhead.
"It must be fairyland," I repeated to myself more than once, in spite of what Haddie had said.
But suddenly all thought of fairyland or flowers, birds and garden, went out of my head, as Haddie stopped in his running.
"Geraldine," he half whispered, "look there."
"There" was a little arbour a few yards from where we stood, and there, seated on a rustic bench, her dear face all sunshine, was mamma!
She started up as soon as she saw us and hastened forward, her arms outstretched.
"My darlings, my darlings," she said, as Haddie and I threw ourselves upon her.
She did look so pretty; she was all in white, and she had a rose—one of the lovely roses I had been admiring as we ran—fastened to the front of her dress.
"Mamma, mamma," I exclaimed, as I hugged her, "oh, mamma, I am so happy to be with you. Is this your garden, mamma, and may we stay with you always now? Wasn't it good of the lions to bring us? I have been so unhappy, mamma—somebody said you would get ill far away. But nobody could get ill here. Oh, mamma, you will let us stay always."
She did not speak, but looking at Haddie I saw a change in his face.
"Geraldine," he said, "I told you we couldn't stay long. The lions would be scolded if we did, and you know you must say your French poetry."
And then there came over me the most agonisingfeeling of disappointment and misery. All the pent-up wretchedness of the last weeks at school woke up and overwhelmed me like waves of dark water. It is as impossible for me to put this into words as it was for me to describe my exquisite happiness, for no words ever succeed in expressing the intense and extraordinary sensations of some dreams. And of course, as you will have found out by this time, the strange adventures I have been relating were those of a dream, though I still, after all the years that have passed since then, remember them so vividly.
It was the fatal words "French poetry" that seemed to awake me—to bring back my terrible unhappiness, exaggerated by the fact of my dreaming.
"French poetry," I gasped, "oh, Haddie, how can you remind me of it?"
Haddie suddenly turned away, and I saw the face of one of the lions looking over his shoulder, with, strange to say, a white frilled cap surrounding it.
"You must try to drink this, my dear," said the lion, if the lion it was, for as I stared at him the brown face changed into a rather ruddy one—a round good-humoured face, with pleasant eyes and smile, reminding me of mamma's old nurse who had once come to see us.
I stared still more, and sat up a little, for, wonderful to relate, I was no longer in the lovely garden, no longer even in the show-room leaning against the lion: I was in bed in a strange room which I had never seen before. And leaning over me was the owner of the frilled cap, holding a glass in her hand.
"Try to drink this, my dearie," she said again, and then I knew it was not the lion but this stranger who had already spoken to me.
I felt very tired, and I sank back again upon the pillow. What did it all mean? Where was I? Where had I been? I asked myself this in a vague sleepy sort of way, but I was too tired to say it aloud, and before I could make up my mind to try I fell asleep again.
The room seemed lighter the next time I opened my eyes. It was in fact nearly the middle of the day, and a fine day—as clear as it ever was in Great Mexington. I felt much better and less tired now, almost quite well, except for a slight pain in my throat which told me I must have caught cold, as my colds generally began in my throat.
"I wonder if it was with riding so far in the night," I first said to myself, with a confused remembrance of my wonderful dream. "I didn't feel atall cold on the lion's back, and in the garden it was lovelily warm."
Then, as my waking senses quite returned, I started. It had been only a dream—oh dear, oh dear! But still,somethinghad happened—I was certainly not in my little bed in the corner of the room I shared with Emma and Harriet Smith at Green Bank. When had my dream begun, or was I still dreaming?
I raised myself a little, very softly, for now I began to remember the good-humoured face in the frilled cap, and I thought to myself that unless its owner were a dream too, perhaps she was still in the room, and I wanted to look about me first on my own account.
What there was to see was very pleasant and very real. I felt quite sure I was not dreaming now, wherever I was. It was a large old-fashioned room, with red curtains at the two windows and handsome dark wood furniture. There was a fire burning cheerfully in the grate and the windows looked very clean, even though there was a prospect of chimney-tops to be seen out of the one nearest to me, which told me I was still in a town. And then I began to distinguish sounds outside, though here in this roomit was so still. There were lots of wheels passing, some going quickly, some lumbering along with heavy slowness—it was much noisier than at Miss Ledbury's or at my own old home. Here I seemed to be in the very heart of a town. I began to recall the events of the day before more clearly. Yes, up to the time I remembered leaning against the carved lion in Mr. Cranston's show-room all had been real, I felt certain. I recollected with a little shiver the scene in the drawing-room at Green Bank, and how they had all refused to believe I was speaking the truth when I declared that the French poetry had entirely gone out of my head. And then there was the making up my mind that I could bear school no longer, and the secretly leaving the house, and at last losing my way in the streets.
I had meant to go to Mrs. Selwood's, or at least to get her address and write to her—but where was I now?—what should I do?
My head grew dizzy again with trying to think, and a faint miserable feeling came over me and I burst into tears.
I did not cry loudly. But there was some one watching in the room who would have heard even a fainter sound than that of my sobs—some one sittingbehind my bed-curtains whom I had not seen, who came forward now and leant over me, saying, in words and voice which seemed curiously familiar to me,
"Geraldine, my poor little girl."
It was Miss Fenmore. I knew her again at once. And she called me "my poor little girl"—the very words she had used when she said good-bye to me and looked so sorry before she went away for the Easter holidays, never to come back, though she did not then know it, to Green Bank.
"You remember me, dear?" she said, in the sweet tones I had loved to hear. "Don't speak if you feel too ill or if it tires you. But don't feel frightened or unhappy, though you are in a strange place—everything will be right."
I felt soothed almost at once, but my curiosity grew greater.
"When did you come?" I said. "You weren't here when I woke before. It was—somebody with a cap—first I thought it was one of the lions."
The sound of my own voice surprised me, it wasso feeble and husky, and though my throat did not hurt me much I felt that it was thick and swollen.
Miss Fenmore thought I was still only half awake or light-headed, but she was too sensible to show that she thought so.
"One of the lions?" she said, smiling. "You mean the carved lions that Myra is so fond of. No—that was a very funny fancy of yours—a lion with a cap on! It was old Hannah that you saw, the old nurse. She has been watching beside you all night. When you awoke before, I was out. I went out very early."
She spoke in a very matter-of-fact way, but rather slowly, as if she wanted to be sure of my understanding what she said. And as my mind cleared and I followed her words I grew more and more anxious to know all there was to hear.
"I don't understand," I said, "and it hurts me to speak. Is this your house, Miss Fenmore, and how do you know about the lions? And who brought me in here, and why didn't I know when I was put in this bed?"
Miss Fenmore looked at me rather anxiously when I said it hurt me to speak. But she seemed pleased, too, at my asking the questions so distinctly.
"Don't speak, dear," she said quietly, "and I will explain it all. The doctor said you were not to speak if it hurt you."
"The doctor," I repeated. Another puzzle!
"Yes," said Miss Fenmore, "the doctor who lives in this street—Dr. Fallis. He knows you quite well, and you know him, don't you? Just nod your head a little, instead of speaking."
But the doctor's name brought back too many thoughts for me to be content with only nodding my head.
"Dr. Fallis," I said. "Oh, I would so like to see him. He could tell me——" but I stopped. "Mrs. Selwood's address" I was going to say, as all the memories of the day before began to rush over me. "Why didn't I know when he came?"
"You were asleep, dear, but he is coming again," said Miss Fenmore quietly. "He was afraid you had got a sore throat by the way you breathed. You must have caught cold in the evening down in the show-room by the lions, before they found you."
And then she went on to explain it all to me. I was in Mr. Cranston's house!—up above the big show-rooms, where he and old Mrs. Cranston lived. They had found me fast asleep, leaning against oneof the lions—the old porter and the boy who went round late in the evening to see that all was right for the night, though when the rooms were shut up earlier no one had noticed me. I was so fast asleep, so utterly exhausted, that I had not awakened when the old man carried me up to the kitchen, just as the servants were about going to bed, to ask what in the world was to be done with me; nor even later, when, on Miss Fenmore's recognising me, they had undressed and settled me for the night in the comfortable old-fashioned "best bedroom," had I opened my eyes or spoken.
Old Hannah watched beside me all night, and quite early in the morning Dr. Fallis, who fortunately was the Cranstons' doctor too, had been sent for.
"He said we were to let you have your sleep out," said Miss Fenmore, "though by your breathing he was afraid you had caught cold. How is your throat now, dear?"
"It doesn't hurt very much," I said, "only it feels very shut up."
"I expect you will have to stay in bed all to-day," she replied. "Dr. Fallis will be coming soon and then we shall know."
"But—but," I began; then as the thought of it all came over me still more distinctly I hid my face in the pillow and burst into tears. "Must I go back to school?" I said. "Oh, Miss Fenmore, they will be so angry—I came away without leave, because—because I couldn't bear it, and they said I told what wasn't true—that was almost the worst of all. Fancy if they wrote and told mamma that I told lies."
"She would not believe it," said Miss Fenmore quietly; "and besides, I don't think Miss Ledbury would do such a thing, and she always writes to the parents herself, I know. And she is kind and good, Geraldine."
"P'raps she means to be," I said among my tears, "but it's Miss Aspinall and—and—Miss Broom. I think I hate her, Miss Fenmore. Oh, I shouldn't say that—I never used to hate anybody. I'm getting all wrong and naughty, I know," and I burst into fresh sobs.
Poor Miss Fenmore looked much distressed. No doubt she had been told to keep me quiet and not let me excite myself.
"Geraldine, dear," she said, "do try to be calm. If you could tell me all about it quietly, the speakingwould do you less harm than crying so. Try, dear. You need not speak loud."
I swallowed down my tears and began the story of my troubles. Once started I could not have helped telling her all, even if it had hurt my throat much more than it did. And she knew a good deal already. She was a girl of great natural quickness and full of sympathy. She seemed to understand what I had been going through far better than I could put it in words, and when at last, tired out, I left off speaking, she said all she could to comfort me. There was no need for me to trouble about going back to Green Bank just now. Dr. Fallis had said I must stay where I was for the present, and when I saw him I might tell him anything I liked.
"He will understand," she said, "and he will explain to Miss Ledbury. I have seen Miss Ledbury this morning already, and——"
"Was she dreadfully angry?" I interrupted.
"No, dear," Miss Fenmore replied. "She had been terribly frightened about you, and Miss Aspinall and some of the servants had been rushing about everywhere. But Miss Ledbury is very good, as I keep telling you, Geraldine. She is very sorry to hear how unhappy you have been, and if she hadknown how anxious you were about your father and mother she would have tried to comfort you. I wish you had told her."
"I wanted to tell her, but Miss Broom was there, and they thought I told stories," I repeated.
"Well, never mind about that now. You shall ask Dr. Fallis, and I am sure he will tell you you need not be so unhappy."
It was not till long afterwards that I knew how very distressed poor old Miss Ledbury had been, and how she had blamed herself for not having tried harder to gain my confidence. Nor did I fully understand at the time how very sensibly Miss Fenmore had behaved when Mr. and Mrs. Cranston sent her off to Green Bank to tell of my having, without intending it, taken refuge with them; she had explained things so that Miss Ledbury, and indeed Miss Aspinall, felt far more sorry for me than angry with me.
Just as Miss Fenmore mentioned his name there came a tap at the door, and in another moment I saw the kind well-known face of our old doctor looking in.
"Well, well," he began, looking at me with a rather odd smile, "and how is the little runaway? My dear child, why did you not come to me, instead of wanderingall about Great Mexington streets in the dark and the rain? Not that you could have found anywhere better for yourself than this kind house, but you might have been all night downstairs in the cold! Tell me, what made you run away like that—no, don't tell me just yet. It is all right now, but I think you have talked enough. Has she had anything to eat?" and he turned to Miss Fenmore. Then he looked at my throat and listened to my breathing, and tapped me and felt my pulse and looked at my tongue before I could speak at all.
"She must stay in bed all to-day," he said at last. "I will see her again this evening," and he went on to give Miss Fenmore a few directions about me, I fidgeting all the time to ask him about father and mamma, though feeling too shy to do so.
"Geraldine is very anxious to tell you one of the chief causes of her coming away from Green Bank as she did," said Miss Fenmore. And then she spoke of the gossip that had reached me through Harriet Smith about the terribly unhealthy climate my parents were in.
Dr. Fallis listened attentively.
"I wanted to write to Mrs. Selwood, and I thoughtMr. Cranston would tell me her address," I said, though I almost started when I heard how hoarse and husky my voice sounded. "Can you tell it me? I do so want to write to her."
"Mrs. Selwood is abroad, my dear, and not returning till next month," said Dr. Fallis; but when he saw how my face fell, he added quickly, "but I think I can tell you perhaps better than she about your parents. I know the place—Mr. Le Marchant consulted me about it before he decided on going, as he knew I had been there myself in my young days. Unhealthy? No, not if people take proper care. Your father and mother live in the best part—on high ground out of the town—there is never any fever there. And I had a most cheerful letter from your father quite lately. Put all these fears out of your head, my poor child. Please God you will have papa and mamma safe home again before long. But they must not find such a poor little white shrimp of a daughter when they come. You must get strong and well and do all that this kind young lady tells you to do. Good-bye—good-bye," and he hurried off.
I was crying again by this time, but quietly now, and my tears were not altogether because I was weak and ill. They were in great measure tears of relief—Iwas so thankful to hear what he said about father and mamma.
"Miss Fenmore," I whispered, "I wonder why they didn't take me with them, if it's a nice place. And then there wouldn't have been all these dreadful things."
"It is quite a different matter to take a child to a hot climate," she said. "Grown-up people can stand much that would be very bad for girls and boys. When I was little my father was in India, and my sister and I had to be brought up by an aunt in England."
"Did you mind?" I said eagerly. "And did your papa soon come home? And where was your mamma?"
Miss Fenmore smiled, but there was something a little sad in her smile.
"I was very happy with my aunt," she said; "she was like a mother to me. For my mother died when I was a little baby. Yes, my father has been home several times, but he is in India again now, and he won't be able to come back for good till he is quite old. So you have much happier things to look forward to, you see, Geraldine."
That was true. I felt very sorry for Miss Fenmoreas I lay thinking over what she had been telling me. Then another idea struck me.
"Is Mrs. Cranston your aunt?" I said. "Is that why you are living here?"
Miss Fenmore looked up quickly.
"No," she replied; "I thought somehow that you understood. I am here because I am Myra Raby's governess—Myra Raby, who used to come for some lessons to Green Bank."
"Oh!" I exclaimed. This explained several things. "Oh yes," I went on, "I remember her, and I know she's Mr. Cranston's grand-daughter—he was speaking of her to mamma one day. I should like to see her, Miss Fenmore. May I?"
Miss Fenmore was just going to reply when again there came a tap at the door, and in answer to her "Come in" it opened and two figures appeared.
I could see them from where I lay, and I shall never forget the pretty picture they made. Myra I knew by sight, and as I think I have said before, she was an unusually lovely child. And with her was a quite old lady, a small old lady—Myra was nearly as tall as she—with a face that even I (though children seldom notice beauty in elderly people) saw was quite charming. This was Mrs. Cranston.
I felt quite surprised. Mr. Cranston was a rather stout old man, with spectacles and a big nose. I had not thought him at all "pretty," and somehow I had fancied Mrs. Cranston must be something like him, and I gave a sigh of pleasure as the old lady came up to the side of the bed with a gentle smile on her face.
"Dr. Fallis gave us leave to come in to see you, my dear," she said. "Myra has been longing to do so all the morning."
"I've been wanting to see her too," I said, half shyly. "And—please—it's very kind of you to let me stay here in this nice room. I didn't mean to fall asleep downstairs. I only wanted to speak to Mr. Cranston."
"I'm sure Mr. Cranston would be very pleased to tell you anything he can that you want to know, my dear. But I think you mustn't trouble just now about anything except getting quite well," said the old lady. "Myra has been wanting to come to see you all the morning, but we were afraid of tiring you."
MYRA CAME FORWARD GENTLY, HER SWEET FACE LOOKING RATHER GRAVE.
Myra came forward gently, her sweet face looking rather grave. I put out my hand, and she smiled.
"May she stay with me a little?" I asked Mrs. Cranston.
"Of course she may—that's what she came for," said the grandmother heartily. "But I don't think you should talk much. Missie's voice sounds as if it hurt her to speak," she went on, turning to Miss Fenmore.
"It doesn't hurt me much," I said. "I daresay I shall be quite well to-morrow. I am so glad I'm here—I wouldn't have liked to be ill at school," and I gave a little shudder. "I'm quite happy now that Dr. Fallis says it's not true about father and mamma getting ill at that place, and I don't want to ask Mr. Cranston anything now, thank you. It was about Mrs. Selwood, but I don't mind now."
I had been sitting up a little—now I laid my head down on the pillows again with a little sigh, half of weariness, half of relief.
Mrs. Cranston looked at me rather anxiously.
"Are you very tired, my dear?" she said. "Perhaps it would be better for Myra not to stay just now."
"Oh, please let her stay," I said; "I like to see her."
So Myra sat down beside my bed and took hold of my hand, and though we did not speak to each other, I liked the feeling of her being there.
Mrs. Cranston left the room then, and Miss Fenmorefollowed her. I think the old lady had made her a little sign to do so, though I did not see it. Afterwards I found out that Mrs. Cranston had thought me looking very ill, worse than she had expected, and she wanted to hear from Miss Fenmore if it was natural to me to look so pale.
I myself, though feeling tired and disinclined to talk, was really happier than I had been for a very long time. There was a delightful sensation of being safe and at home, even though the kind people who had taken me in, like a poor little stray bird, were strangers. The very look of the old-fashioned room and the comfortable great big four-post bed made me hug myself when I thought how different it all was from the bare cold room at Green Bank, where there had never once been a fire all the weeks I was there. It reminded me of something—what was it? Oh yes, in a minute or two I remembered. It was the room I had once slept in with mamma at grandmamma's house in London, several years before, when I was quite a little girl. For dear grandmamma had died soon after we came to live at Great Mexington. But there was the same comfortable old-fashioned feeling: red curtains to the window and the bed, and a big fire and the shiny dark mahogany furniture.Oh yes, how well I remembered it, and how enormous the bed seemed, and how mamma tucked me in at night and left the door a little open in case I should feel lonely before she came to bed. It all came back to me so that I forgot where I was for the moment, till I felt a little tug given to the hand that Myra was still holding, and heard her voice say very softly,
"Are you going to sleep, Geraldine?"
This brought me back to the present.
"Oh no," I said, "I'm not sleepy. I was only thinking," and I told her what had come into my mind.
She listened with great interest.
"How unhappy you must have been when your mamma went away," she said. "I can't remember my own mamma, but mother"—she meant her stepmother—"is so kind, and granny is so sweet. I've never been lonely."
"You can't fancy what it's like," I said. "It wasn't only mamma's going away; I know Haddie—that's my brother—loves her as much as I do, but he's not very unhappy, because he likes his school. Oh, Myra, whatshallI do when I have to go back to school? I'd rather be ill always. Do you think I'll have to go back to-morrow?"
Myra looked most sympathising and concerned.
"I don't think you'll be quite well to-morrow," was the best comfort she could give me. "When I have bad colds and sore throats they always last longer than one day."
"I'd like to talk a great lot to keep my throat from getting quite well," I said, "but I suppose that would be very naughty."
"Yes," said Myra with conviction, "I'm sure it would be. You really mustn't talk, Geraldine; granny said so. Mayn't I read aloud to you? I've brought a book with me—it's an old story-book of mamma's that she had when she was a little girl. Granny keeps them here all together. This one is calledOrnaments Discovered."
"Thank you," I said. "Yes, I should like it very much."
And in her gentle little voice Myra read the quaint old story aloud to me. It was old-fashioned even then, for the book had belonged to her mother, if not in the first place to her grandmother. How very old-world it would seem to the children of to-day—I wonder if any of you know it? For I am growing quite an old woman myself, and the little history of my childhood that I am telling youwill, before long, be half a century in age, though its events seem as clear and distinct to me as if they had only happened quite recently! I came across the little red gilt-leaved book not long ago in the house of one of Myra's daughters, and with the sight of it a whole flood of memories rushed over me.
It was not a very exciting story, but I found it very interesting, and now and then my little friend stopped to talk about it, which I found very interesting too. I was quite sorry when Miss Fenmore, who had come back to the room and was sitting quietly sewing, told Myra that she thought she had read enough, and that it must be near dinner-time.
"I will come again after dinner," said Myra, and then I whispered something to her. She nodded; she quite understood me. What I said was this:
"I wish you would go downstairs and tell the carved lions that they made me very happy last night, and Iamso glad they brought me back here to you, instead of taking me to Green Bank."
"Where did they take you to in the night?" said Myra with great interest, though not at all as if she thought I was talking nonsense.
"I'll tell you all about it afterwards," I said. "Itwas beautiful. But it would take a long time to tell, and I'm rather tired."
"You are looking tired, dear," said Miss Fenmore, who heard my last words, as she gave me a cupful of beef-tea. "Try to go to sleep for a little, and then Myra can come to sit with you again."
I did go to sleep, but Myra was not allowed to see me again that day, nor the next—nor for several days after, except for a very few minutes at a time. For I did not improve as the kind people about me had hoped I would, and Dr. Fallis looked graver when he came that evening than he had done in the morning. Miss Fenmore was afraid she had let me talk too much, but after all I do not think anything would have made any great difference. I had really been falling out of health for months past, and I should probably have got ill in some other way if I had not caught cold in my wanderings. I do not very clearly remember those days of serious illness. I knew whenever I was awake that I was being tenderly cared for, and in the half-dozing, half-dreaming state in which many hours must have been passed, I fancied more than once that mamma was beside me, which made me very happy. And though never actually delirious, I had very strangethough not unpleasant dreams, especially about the carved lions; none of them, however, so clear and real as the one I related at full in the last chapter.
On the whole, that illness left more peaceful and sweet memories than memories of pain. Through it all I had the delightful feeling of being cared for and protected, and somehow it all seemed to have to do with the pair of lions downstairs in Mr. Cranston's show-room!
I don't suppose there was anything really infectious about my illness, though nowadays whenever there is any sort of sore throat people are very much on their guard. Perhaps they were not so cautious long ago. However that may have been, Myra was not banished from my room for very long. I rather think, indeed, that she used to creep in and sit like a little mouse behind the curtains before I was well enough to notice her.
But everything for a time seemed dreamy to me. The first event I can quite clearly recall was my being allowed to sit up for an hour or two, or, more correctly speaking, tolieup, for I was lifted on to the sofa and tucked in almost as if I were still in bed.
That was a very happy afternoon. It was happy for several reasons, for that morning had brought me the first letter I had had from dear mamma sinceshe had heard of my bold step in running away from school! Lying still and silent for so many hours as I had done, things had grown to look differently to me. I began to see where and how I had been wrong, and to think that if I had been more open about my troubles, more courageous—that is to say, if I had gone to Miss Ledbury and told her everything that was on my mind—I need not have been so terribly unhappy or caused trouble and distress to others.
A little of this mamma pointed out to me in her letter, which was, however, so very kind and loving, so full of sorrow that I had been so unhappy, that I felt more grateful than I knew how to express. Afterwards, when we talked it all over, years afterwards even, for we often talked of that time after I was grown up and married, and had children of my own, mamma said to me that shecouldnot blame me though she knew I had not done right, for she felt so broken-hearted at the thought of what I had suffered.
It had been a mistake, no doubt, to send me to Green Bank, but mistakes are often overruled for good. I am glad to have had the experience of it, as I think it made me more sympathising withothers. And it made me determine never to send any child of mine, or any child I had the care of, to a school where there was so little feeling ofhome, so little affection and gentleness—above all, that dreadful old-world rule of letters being read, and the want of trust and confidence in the pupils, which showed in so many ways.
A few days after I received mamma's letter I was allowed to write to her. It was slow and tiring work, for I was only able to write a few lines at a time, and that in pencil. But it was delightful to be free to say just what I wanted to say, without the terrible feeling of Miss Aspinall, or worse still Miss Broom, judging and criticising every line. I thanked mamma with my whole heart for not being angry with me, and to show her how truly I meant what I said, I promised her that when I was well again and able to go back to school I would try my very, very best to get on more happily.
But I gave a deep sigh as I wrote this, and Myra, who was sitting beside me, looked up anxiously, and asked what was the matter.
"Oh, Myra," I said, "it is just that I can't bear to think of going back to school. I'd rather never get well if only I could stay here till mamma comes home."
"Dear little Geraldine," said Myra—she often called me "little" though she wasscarcelyany taller than I—"dear little Geraldine, you mustn't say that. I don't think it's right. And, you know, when you are quite well again things won't seem so bad to you. I remember once when I was ill—I was quite a little girl then,"—Myra spoke as if she was now a very big girl indeed!—"I think it was when I had had the measles, the least thing vexed me dreadfully. I cried because somebody had given me a present of a set of wooden tea-things in a box, and the tea ran out of the cups when I filled them! Fancy crying for that!"
"I know," I said, "I've felt like that too. But this is arealtrouble, Myra—a real, very bad, dreadful trouble, though I've promised mamma to try to be good. Do you think, Myra, that when I'm back at school your grandmamma will sometimes ask me to come to see you?"
"I'm sure——" my little friend began eagerly. But she was interrupted. For curiously enough, just at that moment Mrs. Cranston opened the door and came in. She came to see me every day, and though at first I was just a tiny bit afraid of her—she seemed to me such a very old lady—I soon got tolove her dearly, and to talk to her quite as readily as to kind Miss Fenmore.
"What is my little girl sure about?" she said. "And how is my other little girl to-day? Not too tired," and she glanced at my letter. "You have not been writing too much, dearie, I hope?"
"No, thank you," I replied, "I'm not tired."
"She's only rather unhappy, granny," said Myra.
"I think that's a very big 'only,'" said Mrs. Cranston. "Can't you tell me, my dear, what you are unhappy about?"
I glanced at Myra, as if asking her to speak for me. She understood.
"Granny," she said, "poor little Geraldine is unhappy to think of going away and going back to school."
Mrs. Cranston looked at me very kindly.
"Poor dear," she said, "you have not had much pleasure with us, as you have been ill all the time."
"I don't mind," I said. "I was telling Myra, only she thought it was naughty, that I'd rather be ill always if I was with kind people, than—than—be at school where nobody cares for me."
"Well, well, my dear, the troubles we dread are often those that don't come to pass. Try to keepup your spirits and get quite well and strong, so that you may be able to enjoy yourself a little before both you and Myra leave us."
"Oh, is Myra going away?" I said. "I thought she was going to live here always," and somehow I felt as if I did not mindquiteso much to think of going away myself in that case.
"Oh no," said the old lady, "Myra has her own home where she must spend part of her time, though grandfather and I hope to have her here a good deal too. It is easy to manage now Miss Fenmore is with her always."
In my heart I thought Myra a most fortunate child—twohomes were really hers; and I—I had none. This thought made me sigh again. I don't know if Myra guessed what I was thinking of, but she came close up to me and put her arms round my neck and kissed me.
"Geraldine," she whispered, by way of giving me something pleasant to think of, perhaps, "as soon as you are able to walk about a little I want you to come downstairs with me to see the lions."
"Yes," I said in the same tone, "but you did give them my message, Myra?"
"Of course I did, and they sent you back theirlove, and they are very glad you're better, and they want you very much indeed to come to see them."
Myra and I understood each other quite well about the lions, you see.
I went on getting well steadily after that, and not many days later I went downstairs with Myra to the big show-room to see the lions. It gave me such a curious feeling to remember the last time I had been there, that rainy evening when I crept in, as nearly broken-hearted and in despair as a little girl could be. And as I stroked the lions and looked up in their dark mysterious faces, I could not get rid of the idea that they knew all about it, that somehow or other they had helped and protected me, and when I tried to express this to Myra she seemed to think the same.
After this there were not many days on which we did not come downstairs to visit our strange play-fellows, and not a few interesting games or "actings," as Myra called them, did we invent, in which the lions took their part.
We were only allowed to be in the show-rooms at certain hours of the day, when there were not likely to be any customers there. Dear old Mrs. Cranston was as particular as she possibly could be not tolet me do anything or be seen in any way which mamma could possibly have disliked.
And before long I began to join a little in Myra's lessons with Miss Fenmore—lessons which our teacher's kind and "understanding" ways made delightful. So that life was really very happy for me at this time, except of course for the longing for mamma and father and Haddie, which still came over me in fits, as it were, every now and then, and except—a still bigger "except"—for the dreaded thought of the return to school which must be coming nearer day by day.
Myra and I never spoke of it. I tried to forget about it, and she seemed to enter into my feeling without saying anything.
I had had a letter from mamma in answer to the one I wrote to her just after my illness. In it she said she was pleased with all I said, and my promise to try to get on better at Green Bank, but "in the meantime," she wrote, "what we want you to do is to getquitestrong and well, so put all troubling thoughts out of your head and be happy with your kind friends."
That letter had come a month ago, and the last mail had only brought me a tiny little note enclosedin a letter from mamma to Mrs. Cranston, with the promise of a longer one "next time." And "next time" was about due, for the mail came every fortnight, one afternoon when Myra and I were sitting together in our favourite nook in the show-room.
"I have a fancy, Myra," I said, "that something is going to happen. My lion has been so queer to-day—I see a look on his face as if he knew something."
For we had each chosen one lion as more particularly our own.
"I think they always look rather like that," said Myra dreamily. "But I suppose something must happen soon. I shall be going home next week."
"Next week," I repeated. "Oh, Myra!"
I could not speak for a moment. Then I remembered how I had made up my mind to be brave.
"Do you mind going home?" I asked. "I mean, are you sorry to go?"
"I'm always sorry to leave grandpapa and grandmamma," she said, "and the lions, and this funny old house. But I'm very happy at home, and I shall like it still better with Miss Fenmore. No, I wouldn't be unhappy—I'd be very glad to think of seeing father and mother and my little brothers again—I wouldn'tbe unhappy, except for—you know, Geraldine—for leaving you," and my little friend's voice shook.
"Dear Myra," I said. "But you mustn't mind about me. I'm going to try——" but here I had to stop to choke down something in my throat. "After all," I went on, after a moment or two, "more than a quarter of the time that father and mamma have to be away is gone. And perhaps in the summer holidays I shall see Haddie."
"I wish——" Myra was beginning, but a voice interrupted her. It was Miss Fenmore's.
"I have brought you down a letter that has just come by the second post, Geraldine, dear," she said; "a letter from South America."
"Oh, thank you," I said, eagerly seizing it.
Miss Fenmore strolled to the other side of the room, and Myra followed her, to leave me alone to read my letter. It was a pretty long one, but I read it quickly, so quickly that when I had finished it, I felt breathless—and then I turned over the pages and glanced at it again. I felt as if I could not believe what I read. It was too good, too beautifully good to be true.
"Myra," I gasped, and Myra ran back to me, lookingquite startled. I think I must have grown very pale.
"No, no," I went on, "it's nothing wrong. Read it, or ask Miss Fenmore—she reads writing quicker. Oh, Myra, isn't it beautiful?"
They soon read it, and then we all three kissed and hugged each other, and Myra began dancing about as if she had gone out of her mind.
"Geraldine, Geraldine, I can't believe it," she kept saying, and Miss Fenmore's pretty eyes were full of tears.
I wonder if any of my readers can guess what this delightful news was? It was not that mamma was coming home—no, that could not be yet. But next best to that it certainly was.
It was to tell me this—thattilldear father and she returned, my home was to be with Myra, and I was to be Miss Fenmore's pupil too. Wherever Myra was, there I was to be—principally at her father's vicarage in the country, but some part of the year with her kind grandparents at Great Mexington. It was all settled and arranged—of course I did not trouble my head about the money part of it, though afterwards mamma told me that both Mr. and Mrs. Raby and the Cranstons had been mostexceedingly kind, making out that the advantage of a companion for their little girl would be so great that all the thanking should be on their side, though, of course, they respected father too much not to let him pay a proper share of all the expense. And it really cost less than my life at Green Bank, though father was now a good deal richer, and would not have minded paying a good deal more to ensure my happiness.
There is never so much story to tell when people are happy, and things go rightly; and the next year or two of my life, except of course for the separation from my dear parents, wereveryhappy. Even though father's appointment in South America kept him and mamma out there for nearly three years instead of two, I was able to bear the disappointment in a very different way, with such kind and sympathising friends at hand to cheer me, so that there is nothing bitter or sad to look back to in that part of my childhood. Haddie spent the summer holidays with me, either at Crowley vicarage, or sometimes at the sea-side, where Miss Fenmore took care of us three. Once or twice he and I paid a visit to Mrs. Selwood, which we enjoyed pretty well, as we were together, though otherwise it was rather dull.
And oh, how happy it was when father and mamma at last came home—no words can describe it. It was notquiteunmixed pleasure—nothing ever is, the wise folk say—for there was the separation from Myra and her family. But after all, that turned out less than we feared. Miss Fenmore married soon after, and as father had now a good post in London, and we lived there, it was settled that Myra should be with us, and join in my lessons for a good part of the year, while I very often went back to Crowley with her for the summer holidays. And never without staying a few days at Great Mexington, to see Mr. and Mrs. Cranston and the lions!
Many years have passed since I went there for the last time. Myra's grandparents have long been dead—my own dear father and mother are dead too, for I am growing quite old. My grandchildren are older now than I was when I ran away from the school at Green Bank. But once, while mamma was still alive and well, she and I together strolled through the streets of the grim town, which had for a time been our home, and lived over the old days again in fancy. I remember how tightly I claspedher hand when we passed the corner where once was the old Quakeress's shop—all changed now—and walked down the street, still not very different from what it had been, where we used to live.
There was no use in going to Mr. Cranston's show-rooms—they had long been done away with. But the lions are still to be seen. They stand in the hall of Myra's pretty house in the country, where she and Haddon, her husband, have lived for many years, ever since my brother left the army and they came home for good from India.
I spend a part of every year with them, for I am alone now. They want me to live with them altogether, but I cling to a little home of my own. Our grandchildren know the lions well, and stroke their smooth sides, and gaze up into their dark faces just as Myra and I used to do. So I promised them that sometime I would write out the simple story that I have now brought to a close.