"I'm thinking all the time of Maureen," said Daisy. "Her look, her words. Oh, Henny, Henny, when Maureen looked at us and said so solemnly, 'I—hate—you!' well, I turnedsick. I thought the world had come to an end."
"I tell you what it is," said Henrietta. "I'm sick of that most unremarkable little speech; and now, do be quick; let's put on our clothes and go down to breakfast. We'll have a frolic here or my name is not Henny. Hurrah, here comes Dawson.
"'Dawson, me honey,Take care of your money,It's all botheration from bottom to top!'"
"'Dawson, me honey,Take care of your money,It's all botheration from bottom to top!'"
Dawson entered the room very slowly. She did not smile at Henny's words. She was carrying a bundle of clothes and a great jug of hot water. Shelaid the water on the wash-hand stand and then collected all the two girls' dirty travelling clothes.
"Ye'll have the goodness to puttheseon," she said, "for this is the uniform of the upper floor of the school. I'll be back in one quarter of an hour to take you both to Discipline, where Miss Joan Pinchin is waiting to start your education. Your breakfast will also be waiting for you there, coffee and bread and butter. Now, not a word, young misses, there's no good whatsoever in complaining at Felicity. What is orderedhasto be."
She left the room. The girls stared at each other.
"We'd best be quick," said Daisy at last in a breathless sort of voice. "I must say I am in a fright; aren't you?"
"Not quite yet," replied Henny, "but it is coming on. I never could have dreamed of a place like this."
"If only we had left the horse alone," sobbed Daisy.
"It was your thought, remember that," said Henrietta. "Such awful wickedness never occurred to me. Now, stop crying and dress. You will have no eyes left."
Sharp to the minute Dawson reappeared.
"The barber will call about ten," she said.
"The barber? What for?" asked Henny.
"To have your hair cut to the regulation length."
"I won't have my hair touched," said Henny, putting both hands round her fiery locks.
"We'll see about that. Come along; your coffee will be getting cold."
A minute later the girls found themselves in the Chamber of Discipline. There was a table in the centre, and at one end was a tray covered with a white cloth. It contained two large breakfast cups of excellent coffee and two plates piled with thick bread and butter.
"I say, look here, I want jam," said Henny.
"Jam is not given in Discipline," said a harsh and somewhat cracked voice, which so startled the girls that they forgot such a trivial thing as jam, for the words undoubtedly sounded from the lips of the lady who was to instruct them.
She was small, thin and wiry. Her face was an olive tint and very much wrinkled. Her hands wereat once remarkable for their thinness and their strength, and her voice had a peculiarly grating sound.
She introduced herself to the Misses Mostyn with a solemn bow and said, "For a week I am youronlyteacher. Sit down and eat your breakfast, for we are late. You won't have a minute to idle. My name is Pinchin—Miss Pinchin. I am Mrs. Faithful's devoted friend. I rule over Discipline and all those girls who go through its stringent methods. Now, hurry, hurry. Don't slop the coffee into your saucer, Henrietta.—Daisy, eat your bread and butter tidily."
"I wonder," said Henny, speaking suddenly, for Daisy was silent, "did you ever haveallyour plans spoilt just by a streak of light from a dark lantern."
"That question I refuse to answer. Now, time is up. Daisy, ring the bell for Dawson."
"But we haven't finished yet," said Henrietta.
"Then I'll give you an additional five minutes. But be quick, and no chatter, please."
At the appointed time the girls had eaten sufficient. With the food Daisy's spirits were reviving. She tugged the bell-rope so violently that it came down in her hand.
"For that show of temper," said Miss Pinchin, "you will learn, locked into your bedroom, twenty lines ofParadise Lost."
"Never heard of it," whimpered Daisy.
"If you cry, I shall make it forty. Remember, both of you girls, that you are in Discipline—not apleasant place—but uncommonly wholesome. Ah, Dawson, send a man to put up that bell-rope again. Remove the breakfast things and send Miss Adelaide Marsh in here."
"If you please, madam," said Dawson, "the young ladies' barber has just called."
Miss Pinchin's black eyes gleamed. "Ah, that will do nicely," she said. "I will take the young ladies into Penitence for the operation."
"I haven't made up the room yet, ma'am."
"I'm sorry for that, but Crew has no eyes for anything but her business."
Crew, the barber, was a woman therefore. Hateful creature! The girls might have used their eyes to some effect had it been a man, but a woman—they really felt in despair.
"Come, dears," said Miss Pinchin, "we'll soon have it over. And you'll both be so relieved from your masses of untidy hair."
"But I like my hair; I love it," said Henny. "It's the same colour as mumsie's, poor old mums whose neck was broken. Oh, I say, it is cruel to serve us like this."
"How, don't talk any more nonsense, girls. Besides, after your hair is cut, you'll only be allowed to speak in French."
"Then we must be dumb," said Daisy, "for we don't know any French."
"I myself will have the pleasure of instructing you in that elegant language. You will soon knowwhat is absolutely necessary for your wants. Now, enter your room, dears, for time is getting on."
These headstrong, naughty girls, who had done exactly what they liked at Templemore, now found themselves tongue-tied. A tall, gaunt woman was standing by the little window. In figure she was absolutely flat. Her dress was a dark and ugly shade of brown. In her hand she held a very large pair of scissors. Miss Crew looked absolutely calm and self-possessed. She got Daisy first into her clutches, and having wetted her tangled locks and reduced them to straightness, she proceeded to snip them off just above the shoulders. It was possible for Daisy to keep her hair behind her ears, but all trace of curl had vanished. The last semblance of her poor attempt at beauty had departed with the tangled curly locks.
Henrietta, whose hair was much thicker and richer, strangled a scream. She began to struggle.
"I won't. I say, Iwont!" she cried.
"Youwill," said Miss Pinchin.
Crew set to work. The same performance took place over Henny's head. For those who admire red hair, she had lovely hair. It was thick and grew in great masses far below her waist. It showed also a far greater mass of curls than did Daisy's.
The brush and the cold water, however, were ruthlessly applied. The prescribed length was carefully measured by Miss Crew and the hair was cut in astraight line just to touch the shoulders. The golden red hair fell in a mass at the girl's feet.
"The young ladies' hair is naturally very curly," said Miss Crew. "I could, if you wished, madam, apply a pomatum to these heads which would prevent any inclination to curl for some time."
"Then please do," said Miss Pinchin.
The pomatum was used with vigour.
Daisy gave a howl of agony. Henrietta sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
Miss Pinchin supplied each girl with a very large and coarse pocket-handkerchief.
"Dry your eyes and come to lessons now," she said in a cheerful tone. "You look quite respectable, I do declare. Crew, burn that hair."
"Certainly, Miss Pinchin."
When the two Mostyns and their governess entered Discipline they saw a girl seated by the centre table. She was a dark-eyed girl with an unprepossessing face. Her hair was short just like that of the Mostyn girls, and evidently the same pomatum had been used upon it, for there was not a trace of curl. She was busily employed reading her books and did not take the slightest heed of the Mostyns.
Lessons began. Miss Pinchin sat with her watch before her. She desired first Adelaide, then Henrietta, then Daisy to read a page of Green'sShorter History of Englandaloud. She wasted hardly any words in speech, but when the reading had come to an end, she told Henrietta and Daisy that in futurethey would have to readLittle Arthur's History of England. Then she turned to Adelaide.
"Adelaide, you are improving. I don't praise. I state a fact. Now, for your French, my dears."
Adelaide instantly read a page from a French book.
"Translate it," said Miss Pinchin.
Adelaide did so.
"Now, Henrietta, will you read that page?"
"I can't. I don't know any French."
"Nor can I," said Daisy.
"What a pity! You are likely to be in Discipline for some time. By the way, Adelaide, I have spoken about you to Mrs. Faithful and she thinks you may go to Contrition on Monday next, that is, if there is no falling back."
"I shall like to go to Contrition," said Adelaide. "The room is so large."
"From there," continued Miss Pinchin, "you will be promoted to that delightful chamber which we call True Repentance, and then, after a short stay in Sweet Patience, you will have the run of the school. You will play in the grounds, your punishment-dress will be removed, and you will sit in Joy, Hope, Faith, and Charity. Thus you will indeed be happy. You will know what Felicity means. You will forget your evil ways and turn over a new leaf."
"And shallwehave that chance?" burst from Henrietta.
"It is possible," replied Miss Pinchin. "Ah, here comes dinner."
The dinner was quite a good one, hot roast meat, potatoes, vegetables. In addition, a large glass of milk for each girl.
"A quarter of an hour I give you to eat your dinner in," said Miss Pinchin. "Now, pray, do not utter a word. I trust you to Adelaide's care, while I go downstairs to partake of my frugal meal."
The very instant the door was closed behind her, Henrietta and Daisy, with a sort of bound, leaped upon Adelaide.
"Oh, tell us, Addy, me honey, oh, for glory's sake, tell us what awful things are going to take place. Our hair is gone. Our clothes are gone. Our beauteous home is gone. What can be going to happen next?"
The only reply that Adelaide made was to raise her opaque, dark eyes and fix them on the faces of the two girls. Then she began with extreme rapidity to demolish her dinner. When Miss Pinchin reentered the room, however, Adelaide put into her hand a small piece of paper.
"They have spoken to me four times," she remarked. "I wrote what they said on this piece of paper. You may like to see it."
"Did you speak at all, Adelaide?"
"No, Miss Pinchin, how could I? I hope I am too well-behaved."
"You have acted rightly, but do not allow theevil weed of self-conceit to take possession of you. Girls," here she turned to the Mostyns, "I am going to take you to Penitence, and lock you in with a copy each of Milton'sParadise Lost. I have marked the passages you are to learn. I shall now take Adelaide for a brisk walk."
"But may we not go downstairs and play with the other girls?" suddenly burst from Henny's lips.
"You—Penitence girls—Discipline girls!—to dream of any intercourse with those who have left their bonds behind them. Come now, get into Penitence and learn your Milton. I will take you both for a walk after tea, for I have no wish to make you ill, and exercise and fresh air are necessary. Now, Adelaide, put on your bonnet."
Adelaide flew from the room. She put on the funniest little poke bonnet that could well be invented. It was made of coarse grey stuff the same as their dresses, but it was lined with white, and had white strings, which she tied in a neat bow under her chin.
"You are a great comfort to me, Adelaide," said Miss Pinchin, when the girl joined her teacher. "I shall miss you when you go to the Hall of Contrition. Don't you remember how naughty you were when you first came to Discipline. I greatly fear I have a harder task before me in training those Mostyns."
"You are equal to it," said Adelaide. "You are equal to anything." She put her hand inside herteacher's arm and gave it almost an affectionate squeeze.
"Let's go to the wood and gather flowers," said Adelaide.
"My dear, you forget. Flowers are not allowed in Discipline."
"I'm ever so sorry. Do forgive me."
"You will have flowers, to a small extent, in Contrition," said Miss Pinchin. "How, let us talk on holy subjects—on the straggles of the soul after righteousness. You have made a grand fight, and, like Christian of old, you are coming out of the Slough of Despond. I think highly of your future, Adelaide, and I feel that I—poor little humble I—have laid the foundation stone."
Adelaide, as was her custom, was quite silent. Miss Pinchin and she walked rapidly, although this part of the day was very hot and there was no shade anywhere. They were both scarlet and dripping with moisture when they returned to Discipline.
"This will do me good," said Adelaide. "It must get some of my wickedness out."
"It will, dear child, bless you. Now, I must attend to the Mostyns. I haven't an instant to spare."
While these things were going on, the Rector of Templemore, a truly unhappy man, was hurrying back as fast as ever he could to his home. He hardly thought at all of the Mostyns. He had left them in very good hands. Jane Faithful was well known to produce extraordinary results. But it was the thought of sending his child, his darling, he might almost say his best beloved, away from him for three long months, which tortured the Rector's brave heart.
How could he live without her? And in addition to the fact of his own loneliness he felt anxious about Maureen. He had left his dear little girl in a queer state of mind. He had left her with an expression on her sweet face which he had never seen there before.
Maureen had had a moral shock; Maureen had had a mental shock. The Rector dreaded he knew not what. Was that lovely nature to be overthrown, was that sweet soul to go down, down in future, instead of soaring up, as the lark rises to his heaven of blue? The Rector could scarcely believe that Felicity was the right place for Maureen, and yet he had promisedto propose the matter to her; and if she agreed to it, to part from his little bright darling for three long months. He felt quite aged and desperately weary.
As he drove up to Templemore on the evening of the second day of his journey, he was met by Dominic. He heard the voices of the other children chattering merrily as they were taken off to bed, but there was no sound of Maureen's voice to greet his ears.
"Father," said Dominic, "there is no use in hiding things. Maureen is gone!"
"My God," said the Rector. He pressed his hand to his heart. It gave him a stab like a knife.
"Don't take on, dad; please don't take on. She has not done anything desperate. She has simply gone away."
"Tell me everything, my son. Are you positive that the—the child is safe?"
"Yes," said Dominic; "there is no mystery about it. She is quite safe."
"Then she has gone to the Colonel," said the Rector in a relieved voice. "Good, I thought she might do that. She is wonderfully fond of 'dear Colonel,' as she calls him."
"No, no; she has not gone to Colonel Herbert. She has certainly been very queer, and although I tried to talk to her and cheer her all I could, she hardly replied and did not take the least interest in anything. Then yesterday morning she came to me with her plans. Her darling little face was as white as death, but terribly determined, and that strangelight which does not come from God, father, was still in her eyes, and it—it sort of haunted me; but she spoke gently, just as she used to speak—the harshness had left her dear voice—it was only, father, that I could not bear to look at her eyes. You know how lovely they used to be. Well, she had settled everything all by herself, and told me that she had sent Garry with Fly-away back to Colonel Herbert. She said she had written a line to him asking him to keep the horse until he heard from her again; and if he never heard, she hoped he would not sell Fly-away. Then she said to me, 'Dominic, I am not good, and I cannot stay in the house with good people. I may get right again. I don't feel like it just now; so as I have money enough, I have arranged my plans. You know old Pegeen has a sister called Grace Connor, and she has a little bit of a cabin in the wilds of Kerry. I am going to stay with Grace, who is deaf, and won't worry me at all, and if ever, ever I feel better, Dominic, you'll be sure I'll come flying home. But not now, for I'm not fit for this dear home. Take great care of Uncle Pat. I won't leave him a message, for I am not, notgoodenough; buthe'llunderstand.'
"Well, father," continued Dominic, "that's all; and Pegeen took her herself to Grace Connor, and Pegeen has returned with her eyes almost blinded from crying, for she does so love our Maureen."
The Rector of Templemore, tired as he was, went straight to the kitchen to interview Pegeen. Hefound the poor woman in the deepest distress, but more than inclined to pour out her troubles into the sympathetic ears of her dearly loved master.
"Ah! thin, worra the day, and sorra the day," she sobbed. "But there, masther dear, the wean is safe enough. Grace, own sister to meself, is poor, and mighty poor entirely, but at the very laste, she's clane. Ye could ate yer vittles off the floor, so to shpake; and Grace won't worrit the poor lamb, seeing by the affliction of the Almighty that she is as deaf as a stone."
The Rector thanked Pegeen very kindly, with that gentle courtesy which was his prerogative. He then went into the dining-room and told Dominic what he intended to do.
Owing to the Rector's increase of fortune he was now able to send all his children to first-rate schools, and although Dominic was a little old to enter Rugby, yet the whole thing had been arranged, and by the headmaster's consent he was to stay there for three years, when he hoped to get a good scholarship if possible for his father's own college, Balliol.
The boy was full of talent and loved the thought of the life which stretched before him. He was particularly manly for his age and really looked more than his sixteen years; but when the Rector went on to explain Jane Faithful's remarkable decision, Dominic O'Brien turned a little pale.
"I think we must put off Rugby until after Christmas," he said. "It won't do to leave you alone inthis house, dad. Denis and Kitty will of course go back to school. You will necessarily be alone. I cannot leave you. What is more, Iwon'tleave you."
"Good boy," said the Rector. "From what you say you seem to think that Maureen will go to Felicity."
"At the present moment I feel certain she will go," said Dominic, "but of course one cannot be sure of anything. You must let me stay with you, dad."
"Dominic, I cannot! God knows I have done enough to injure my poor children, but now that the chance has arrived, I do not intend to throw your young life away. The headmaster will not let you go to Rugby unless you join at the autumn term. It is all arranged, my lad; pray don't torture me any further."
"I wish I needn't, but I'm afraid I must. I will gladly give up Rugby. You can get me a tutor here and we'll work for a scholarship for old Balliol. I am not so ignorant as you think me, dad; but my first duty is to you."
"Suppose we ask Maureen what she thinks," replied the Rector.
"Ah, well, I'll do what she wishes. But I know what she'll say. Father, you look physically fit to drop. Let me take you to your room."
"I am going to see Maureen by the earliest train to-morrow," said the Rector. "So, perhaps, you are right, my son, and I'd better lie down and try to take what sleep I can."
Unknown to his father, Dominic slipped into Maureen's little bedroom. He even left the door between that room and his father's slightly ajar. Thus he was on the watch, for he was far too anxious to sleep at all that night. But the Rector, worn out with sorrow, slept and had horrible dreams. He was awakened from one, worse than any other, by a light hand touching him on the shoulder, and there stood Dominic with a little tray of tea and bread and butter in his hand.
"You must get up, dear old Gaffer," he said. "The phaeton will be round in less than half an hour. Pegeen has given me full directions as to the whereabouts of her sister's cottage. I am going with you—you know that, of course."
"Yes, Dominic, my boy."
The Rector sipped his tea, which was fragrant and good, ate his bread and butter, and was on the way to Kingsala in time to catch the very first train, which would leave that fashionable and quaint resort at half-past eight in the morning. Dominic secured first-class tickets for himself and his father. They had to endure the usual tiresome wait at the Half-way House, but presently the train from Bradley steamed in, the travellers took their places, and by-and-by, to their great relief, found themselves in the city of Cork.
It was considered a very noble city by Dominic's young eyes, but the Rector had been further afield. He knew what to do now, and exactly how to proceed.Dominic watched his father intently. He had a time-table in his pocket and discovered that the first train to Mallow, on the Blackwater, did not start until half-past twelve o'clock. At Mallow they would have to change and get into one of the slow-going trains which proceed to Kerry.
"Father," said the boy, "we have lots of time. You've got to eat."
"I did eat. You brought me something to my room."
"A cup of tea and a little bread and butter," replied Dominic. "Oh, dad, I'm awfully hungry. Let's go to Baker's in the Mall and have a right good meal."
The Rector certainly could go hungry himself, not having the slightest appetite, but he would not allow such a proceeding on the part of his son, so to Baker's they went, that shop of great renown, where they had coffee of the richest, and different sorts of slim cakes, cut thin like wafers and buttered hot; and then each partook of a large plate of delicate, pink Limerick ham. It must be owned that the boy enjoyed his food, and it must be owned also that the Rector at least partook of his; whether he tasted it or not is another matter. They then took an outside car and drove to the station, from which, if they so wished, they could take a train to Dublin city, but from which they could also get to Mallow, that most lovely old-world town on the borders of the countyCork. They passed the swift-flowing waters—well might they be called the Blackwater, so dark and deep, yet clear, were all their depths. They then had a tiresome wait for a train for Kerry.
If Maureen O'Brien had one thing to be thankful for at the present moment, it was the fact that Grace Connor was at once very old and very deaf. She would have done anything in the world for the child, who was put into her care by Pegeen; but the two, so strangely brought together, were prohibited from speaking to each other; and the queer silence of the place, and the rough but sure cleanliness had a soothing effect on Maureen's troubled breast. She need not ask Grace anything; she need not speak to her at all.
On the morning after her arrival, she put on a shabby little hat and prepared to go out. Seeing her about to do so, Grace called aloud in her cracked voice:
"Whist, a minute, honey asthore, ye'll be wanting your vittles. Come in when it plazes ye; the door's on the latch day and night."
Grace darted into a little sort of pantry which she possessed, and soon brought out a tiny basket filled with slices of bread and butter and a bottle of creamy milk. The girl nodded by way of thanks.She then went away. She walked far, for she wanted to get very tired. She was in a strange, new country, a country of mighty grandeur, of solemn peaks, of deep, deep dales, a country of rushing waters, of the greenest of moss and of flowers—a country unlike any that Maureen had ever dreamed of. Maureen was in no mood to go into raptures about anything then, however. She saw a peak in the distance—a peak of one of the many mountains—by no means one of the highest, but still not too high to prevent her from climbing to the top of it. This peak became her goal. She made for it, and soon, all too soon, she left the moss and the green, green grass of the emerald isle behind her, and found herself confronted by solid rock, which rose up in all directions in the shape of huge boulders.
Here there was not a scrap of vegetation, nothing but rock, hard and stony; but the highest boulder led to the top of the peak, and she would get there or die in the attempt. Up there she would be alone, alone with her trouble; perhaps God would come back to her! Perhaps the wicked, terrible angels would forsake her. Those fiery spirits of the pit might retire from this solitary grandeur; at least Maureen felt that she could fight her battle best on the top of the peak.
So she went on and on. She was naturally almost as good a climber as she was a horsewoman, and step by step, slowly but surely, she attained her object. Half-way up she felt very hot and verythirsty. She opened her bottle of milk and took a draught. This refreshed her. She went on her way again. At last—at long last—towards evening she had reached the eminence of this great peak of Desolation. She sat down on the jagged ridge of rock and gazed around her. Mountains everywhere—Great Tork with his nightcap on; Mangerton, and many others. Mountains, nothing but mountains. Her little peak, which looked so mighty from below, seemed small and insignificant now that she had reached it, but the sight that met her view was not only that of mountains—it was also that of lakes. One lake mingling with another and yet again with another, and from some of the mountains tumbled and roared great waterfalls sounding as loud as avalanches in Switzerland. In the far, far distance Maureen could just catch a glimpse of a mighty gorge, which is well known as the Gap of Dunlow.
Maureen sat very still. She was unhappy, but not quite so unhappy as she had been at Templemore. She had a queer sensation over her as though the Wicked Angels, those horrors of the Pit, who had entered into her breast were waiting for her at the bottom of the peak. But she knew also that they could not get up here, for God and His Holy Angels dwelt here. She began to wonder that God should allow one like her—so terribly full of wickedness—to sit on the top of the solitary peak.
She stretched out her arms with a strong andexceeding bitter cry. "Forgive me! Forgive me! Take the hatred out of me. Dear Lord God, merciful Saviour, take the hatred out of Maureen. Oh, I cannot—I cannot live long with hatred in my heart!"
Then it seemed to her that as she prayed and flung herself in her despair on the hard bosom of the rock, a Voice said to her—a Voice exceedingly strong and gentle—"Arise and live!"
She started to her feet in sudden alarm. Was there anyone near? Was it possible that one of God's angels had come close to her. "Arise and live!" said the Voice again. "Know well that those who sin and repent are forgiven. Their sins are blotted out for evermore. Be of good comfort. Live your life."
Then all of a sudden it seemed to Maureen that a spell of most wonderful peace visited her, that the agony of the last few days died away, never to return. Hers was indeed no ordinary nature. It was full of depths of passion, of undying love. To find that Hate had taken up his abode in such a heart as hers was indeed agony. But now the child knew that the awful thing called Hatred had left her for ever.
She wiped two or three scalding drops from her eyes and fell sound asleep on the summit of the rock. She slept for a long time, for she had not slept at all the night before, and when she came to herself she was startled and amazed at her position; also at what had taken place, and at the complete change withinher. She no longer hated those poor Mostyns; she pitied them. She felt that in the greatness of her love, it could even encompass them, and take them in. She was very stiff and tired, however, and she perceived to her perplexity that the day had completely gone, and that she was alone on the peak, in the night, with the stars shining down on her and the great black guardian forms of the other mountains surrounding her. She felt strangely, wonderfully at peace.
She must get back to Grace Connor. She looked in vain for her little basket, but it had rolled away long ago into a chasm beneath her feet. It would be extremely difficult for Maureen to find her way back from this dangerous peak even in the day-time, but at night it was impossible. She did not know a step of the road; she was also exceedingly weak and giddy for want of food. She stooped down suddenly and pressed her lips on the hard rock. "The Place where God Himself delivered me," she murmured to herself, and then she smiled, her old bright happy smile, and the old lovely light returned to her eyes.
She stretched out her arms wider
She stretched out her arms wider and sang in herglorious voice.—Page 204.
She stood up, a slim young figure, but graceful and tall withal, on this eternal summit, and she stretched out her arms wider and sang in her glorious voice:
"Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?The Blood of Jesus whispers Peace within.Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round?On Jesus' Bosom naught but calm is found."Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?Jesus we know, and He is on the Throne."
"Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?The Blood of Jesus whispers Peace within.Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round?On Jesus' Bosom naught but calm is found.
"Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?Jesus we know, and He is on the Throne."
The echoes all around took up the sweet true voice. It ceased, and there followed a stillness, then again the girl sang:
"Fight the good fight with all thy might,Christ is thy Strength, and Christ thy Right;Lay hold on life, and it shall beThy joy and crown eternally."Run the straight race through God's good grace,Lift up thine eyes, and seek His Face;Life with its way before us lies,Christ is the path, and Christ the prize."Faint not, nor fear, His Arms are near,He changeth not, and thou art dear;Only believe, and thou shalt seeThat Christ is all in all to thee."
"Fight the good fight with all thy might,Christ is thy Strength, and Christ thy Right;Lay hold on life, and it shall beThy joy and crown eternally.
"Run the straight race through God's good grace,Lift up thine eyes, and seek His Face;Life with its way before us lies,Christ is the path, and Christ the prize.
"Faint not, nor fear, His Arms are near,He changeth not, and thou art dear;Only believe, and thou shalt seeThat Christ is all in all to thee."
As the last words echoed and rebounded from peak to peak a young voice from below shouted, "Hullo, Maureen, hullo, darling! I'm coming, I'm coming! Stay where you are until I reach you, mavourneen."
A few minutes later Dominic had clasped Maureen, his Maureen of old, in his arms.
The Rector paced up and down in front of Grace Connor's little cabin. The Rector's heart was sorely burdened. The stars in their courses, the moon as she came up in the heavens, had no effect upon him. Dominic had gone in search of Maureen. It was impossible to say a word to Grace. Her deafness was of that stony sort that no words could break. She lived in a world of silence—a world of silence absolute and complete.
Grace Connor was not an unhappy old woman. The Silences around her, the Everlasting Hills which surrounded her, gave to this withered old body a strange sensation of peace. She saw immediately that the Rector was troubled, but it was impossible for her to help him. She therefore did not try. She looked at Dominic with the admiration all women had for the brave lad, and when he spoke of Maureen, hoping that his clear young voice would penetrate through the unbroken stillness, she understood him sufficiently to point outwards, and to smile in a vague and yet comforting manner. Then she busied herself, preparing all she could in the way ofrefreshments for the Rector, the young maid, and the boy.
Pegeen had provided her with eatables and with money to buy more. In her early days Grace had also been quite a famous cook, so now she prepared eggs and bacon and she made coffee in her ancient coffee pot, coffee of the very best description. She laid her little table with a snowy but coarse cloth, and put the coffee on the hob to keep hot, and then she waited with folded hands. She was accustomed to waiting, she had waited for so many long years now. She saw the Rector pace backwards and forwards outside the cabin. She herself personally was not at all troubled. She was sure the young maid would soon come back, but she could not convey this certainty which dwelt in her mind to Mr. O'Brien, for it was only very occasionally she spoke. In fact she hadalmostlost the power of speech in that stony silence in which she dwelt. She stood and contemplated her own work, her spotless kitchen, nothing forgotten, for the welfare of the hungry wanderers. They would soon be here; she was certain on that point.
But the Rector was not certain. His troubles affected him in a most intense way. A kind of black sorrow had descended on him, the like of which he had never even imagined. As the night grew darker the feelings in his breast became more intense. Suddenly, as they reached a certain pitch of untold agony, the deaf old woman came up and touched him on the sleeve. Her eyes were very bright, and her face full of unfathomable peace.
"Masther," she said, "pray! 'Our Father,' masther."
In an instant the Rector was on his knees, tears were streaming from his eyes. He prayed aloud the prayer of all prayers, and it seemed as though Grace understood him, for she joined her words to his in a kind of rapture. Her cracked old voice sounding the note of hope through life's despair.
The moment the prayer had come to an end, the old woman went back into the cottage and began busily preparing the supper. To judge by her movements, she seemed not to have a moment to lose; time was hurrying her on, forcing her forward; she broke the new-laid eggs into the frying pan and put the bacon with them. She knew her cooking would be good of the good; and while she was so busy the Rector walked a little farther and saw clearly through the summer night two figures coming to meet him—a boy and a girl. The boy's strong young hand and arm were round the girl's waist. They were walking very quickly. Suddenly the girl saw the Rector, made one quick bound away from her companion, and in a flash of time, was at the Rector's side. Her arms were round his neck and her eyes, sweet as of old, but now also triumphant, were looking into his.
"Uncle Pat—Uncle Pat—I left the evil things at the bottom of the Peak of Desolation, and the dear beloved God has come back to me, and his angels have kissed Maureen, and Maureen is happy—ohsohappy again. Uncle Pat, do you know I am desperately hungry!"
"My child!" said the Rector. He could scarcely breathe for a minute, from a sense of exhaustion and relief; then Grace's face appeared at the door of the cabin.
"Supper," she muttered; and she disappeared within.
Was there ever in all the wide world a meal enjoyed like that meal, for all three were faint with exhaustion, and the old smile was in Maureen's eyes—the old smile, but altered. It was a smile of triumph now as well as joy. She had gone through her severe battle, and come out rejoicing.
That night the Rector and the two children slept as best they could in Grace's cabin. She herself disappeared; nobody knew where she went; she left them the little cabin to themselves. She went out, leaving everything in spotless order.
"Breakfast—marning—seven," she remarked, and then she vanished.
Maureen was herself, yet not her old self, but at least she was her old self in her tender care for others. She insisted on Uncle Pat and Dominic lying down side by side on the deaf old woman's bed, and she herself put a pillow under her head and lay on the floor in the kitchen. Thus the short remainder of the night passed.
Early in the morning a breakfast very similar tosupper was prepared by Grace with the help of Maureen. Grace gazed very hard at the child.
"Ye've got a differ on ye," and she pointed to her own two eyes.
Maureen nodded.
"It war the mountains," said Grace.
Maureen nodded again.
Immediately after breakfast, the Rector paid the old woman a handsome sum for her services, and he, Maureen, and Dominic went back to Templemore. Maureen was quiet and pale, but the happy light still filled her eyes, and nothing else mattered. Nothing else truly, although the Rector knew he had a task before him. He had got his darling back; she was safe. The awful shock to her reason was averted, but, yes, according to his promise, he must lose her or give her the opportunity of leaving him.
When they got to Templemore, Maureen rushed into the kitchen and hugged Pegeen.
"Look in my eyes, Pegeen," she said.
"Glory be to the Vargin," said Pegeen, "I thought mayhap it might be so, and now ye'll look afther the masther, blessed man."
"Of course," replied the child.
As she went from the kitchen to the dining-room, she sang a few lines of that glorious song, too well known to be repeated—"My heart is like a singing-bird."
She saw Dominic and his father anxiously talkingtogether. She went and stood in front of them, her whole face lit up with sweetness.
"Oh, Dominic," said the Rector, "I feel as if I couldn't do it."
"Father dear, you must—you know you must."
"Well, then, leave us alone, lad. I can do it best when Maureen and I are alone."
Maureen looked in astonishment at the man and the boy, then she drew a chair close to her Uncle's side.
"Must I—mustI talk of the dreadful past?" she asked.
"No, my sweet, my own. It is of the future I have to converse with you."
"Something is troubling you, Uncle Pat."
"A good bit, mavourneen."
"Well," said Maureen, "had we not better have it out? It will be off your mind then, and rest assured of one thing, that nothing can make Maureen unhappy now."
"You blessed darling. ButIfear still, Maureen, I am a selfish old man, and I—I don't want to part with you."
Maureen did turn a trifle paler than usual.
"Part with me?" she said.
"Yes, that's the trouble. Now listen! Give me your dear little hand to hold."
Maureen immediately put both of her hands into the Rector's.
"Now speak, Uncle Pat."
"Well, my darling, it's this. I took the Mostyns away from here after their evil behaviour. I did not tell you where I was taking them, but I knew of a certain school in the midland counties of England, which is kept by a relation of mine. Her name is Jane Faithful, and she has as a rule a little over forty girls in her school. It is a school where naughty and troublesome girls have been sent from time to time, and from time to time have returned to those who belonged to them, completely altered—in short, penitent. I don't know what her system is, but I imagine that at least at first it is somewhat severe. I took the girls to her school and told her their whole story, then she made a strange request. She said she had often naughty girls in her school, but none to compare with the Mostyns for badness, for cruelty and downright wickedness. She said she wouldnotundertake these girls unlessyou—YOU, Maureen—went to her for three months. She would treat you, my child, as an honoured guest and take every care of you; and I—I was broken-hearted, but I told her that if you consented I would not say nay. Maureen, I would let you go. This is an awful trouble to me, my colleen."
"Why, Uncle Pat," cried Maureen. "Isn't it just perfectly glorious. How I have my chance. I can fold my love round those poor girls. They shall get inside my heart of hearts. Oh, Uncle Pat, this is indeed a sign that God has forgiven me. Uncle Pat, darling, I am more than glad to go. How couldI do otherwise? Havinghated—oh,howI hated—do I not now equally love? Write to that lady at once, Uncle Pat, to say I'm coming, and three months will pass swiftly, and who knows but I may bring them back to you, changed and altered in all respects."
"Maureen, I haven't a word to say. Of course you must go, dearest. This is the will of God."
"Shall I go to-morrow?" asked Maureen. "We might send a wire to-night."
"So soon, child of my love?"
"Yes, Uncle Pat; for they want me even more than you do; and, what's more, you are not to come with me."
"I must. You are not to take that long journey alone."
"Dom will take me. Dom is a splendid traveller, but now there is a great deal to do. May I find Dom? I want to speak to him."
Dominic, who was lingering restlessly about, not far from the bed of periwinkles, was quickly by Maureen's side.
"So the father has told you, Maureen."
"Yes, and of course I'm going, Dom, but he, he must not travel any more. He's just played out. I want you to take me to that school, Dom, dear old boy; but first I want to write a note to 'dear Colonel,' and we can send it by one of the grooms. He must wait for an answer. Then I wish to send a wireto-night to Mrs. Jane Faithful, to tell her I am going."
"You are in a great hurry to leave us, Maureen."
The girl looked at her cousin rather sadly.
"After all, evenyoudon't quite understand," she said. "How can I leavethemin misery a day longer if I can help it."
"But you——" began the boy.
Maureen's little hand closed his lips.
"Don't say the word—don't—don't. Only I will tell you now that by the exceeding greatness of myhatredso also is the depth and passion of my love."
"You are like no one else, Maureen," said Dominic.
He went away soberly and gravely. He had not ventured to tell Maureen, in her present mood, that he was obliged on account of this arrangement to give up Rugby for good, that those glorious years of schoolboy life in one of the greatest public schools were to be denied him. He knew well, only too well, that it was impossible for his father to be left alone. Well, it could not be helped.
But Maureen was looking at him with an intense light in her eyes.
"Boykins, what's troubling ye, avick?"
"Oh, nothing, darling, nothing."
"Boy, there is. Out with it to Maureen this minute."
"It's only this. I'm just so beastly selfish. I did so want to go to Rugby, and the Headmaster sayshe will not take me unless I join the school at the autumn term, which is close at hand now. I felt somehow as though it wassucha golden chance. I can't help saying it, Maureen; I did look forward to it. But I ask you, dearest and best, can I leave the old man alone with his trouble—alone, quite alone—with only servants to see after him?"
"To be sure, you can't; it would be impossible," said Maureen. "Look here, Dom, somehow I feel in riotous spirits. I won't write that letter to 'dear Colonel.' I'll go to see him instead."
"I don't pretend to understand you, Maureen."
"You must have patience, boykins. Can I have any kind of trap? Otherwise I'll walk."
"Yes, I think I can get you a trap," said Dominic.
"Then say nothing to your father but get it quickly."
Soon Maureen, accompanied by one of the grooms, was seated in a shabby little two-wheeled cart and was herself driving a rough colt over the country roads towards Rathclaren.
Now if there was a miserable man to be found in a beautiful place at that moment, it was "dear Colonel." Maureen's letter, the return of the horse, and the groom, had completely upset him. He refused his food, he could not eat, he dared not make inquiries, for the little letter seemed, somehow, very sacred, but his heart was broken up with longing for the child and with undefined fears for her safety. As to Fly-away, never was a small, high-spiritedArab so petted and fussed over. The Colonel could not make enough of him. His white oats were the whitest in the country, his hot mash the most tempting, his loose box was the perfection of a loose box, and as to Garry the groom, he had a royal time in the kitchen, telling the other servants over and over again of the mysteries of that awful night when "herself, the little wicked 'un she was, tried to pison Fly-away, and would have succeeded but for a sthreak of light coming up through the boards."
"Mayhap it was the Vargin sent the light," said the cook.
"No, no, woman, I'm not superstitious. It was the dark lantern that caused the light. My word, she is a cunnin' wan."
The kitchen greatly enjoyed the adventure, and Garry, handsome and gay, was more fascinating than ever, more welcome than ever, with his merry eyes and cheery laugh. But then came the horrible news that Miss Maureen had gone away, no one knew where, and the Colonel was off his feedentirely, and his valet was certain that the Colonel never slept o' nights, but that he was on the fret the whole day and night. "And ef the round of the sun took forty-eight hours he'd still be on the fret," said Terence, the valet. "This sort o' thing will kill the Colonel. My word! I don't know what to make of it."
"Ate your mate and stop talking horrors," said the cook. "I declare what widthis, and widthat,and Garry and the hoss coming back as they did, I feel sort o' creepy. I'm not going to losemynight's rest, me good man, so ye'd best drop the dismals, for they don't suit me complaint at all, at all."
It was while the servants were talking in this manner in the hall and Mrs. MacGill was wondering in what sort of manner she could tempt the Colonel's appetite, that the sound of wheels was heard outside. The next minute Garry gave a sort of screech, and Maureen said, "Mind this little horse, Garry. I want to see the Colonel."
"He is in his study, missie asthore. Heaven be praised to see your swate face. Oh, but it's I that am mighty glad."
Maureen held out her little hand, grasped Garry's for a moment, and then said in her old cheerful voice, "I must see Fly-away, by-and-by." The next moment she had burst into the Colonel's study without knocking.
She had dressed herself neatly and prettily. The shabby clothes in which she had gone away were discarded. The day was a hot one, and she was all in white with a little white hat trimmed with soft white ribbons. Nothing could be simpler than her dress—no face more charming than hers.
The Colonel gave a sort of gasp.
"Maureen," he said, "Maureen!"
She ran to him and flung her arms round his neck.
"Dear,dearColonel, I've come back. Everythingis all right. All things are beautiful in this beautiful world. Some day perhaps when I am fit to tell it, I will relate my story to my own Colonel, but for the present I would rather ask you to trust Maureen."
"My blessed child, I always trust you; but your letter gave me great pain."
"Ah,thatletter," said Maureen, and she gave a little shudder. "Colonel, I love you very, very much, and I want you to keep Garry and Fly-away for three months, then I rather expect I'll want them both back again. But I want you to do something more than that for me. Will you? Promise!"
"You blessed child, I never promise in the dark."
"Well, it shan't be in the dark; it shall be in the light. You know that broth of a boy Dominic is going to Rugby. It's a bit late for him to go, and if he misses this term, the Headmaster won't have him, but he'll have to miss this term and Rugby altogether unlessyoucome to the rescue."
"Good gracious, Maureen, what have I to do with it?"
"Well it's like this. We can't leave Uncle Pat alone; he's not accustomed to it, and he has gone through a frightful lot lately, so I want you, 'dear Colonel,' out of all your wealth (and you know you areveryrich) to put a good curate into Templemore, and take Uncle Pat with you, when the weather gets cold enough, to the Riviera, and until then to have him here, if you both like, or to take him at onceto parts of Europe which he has never seen and would like to, beyond the beyonds! I want you to be with him while I am away. Will you do thisgreatthing for your own little Maureen?"
"Well, to be sure, child, it is a great thing, and I am a bit tired of travelling, and I like my own comforts and my own home, but I'd do more than that for your sweet face. Bless you, my little girl. If there's a great hurry over this business, we'll have the motor car out and go straight to the Rectory this evening. Upon my word, I'm hungry. You know the ways of this house, Maureen. Ring the bell, my best darling."
When Terence appeared with such startling swiftness that there was circumstantial evidence that he must have had his ear to the keyhole, the Colonel looked him up and down very shrewdly.
"Under thecircumstances, I forgive you, Terence," he said; "but clearly understand,don'tdo it again. Now, pray listen. Miss Maureen and I want dinner quite simple atonce, and in half an hour from now I desire Laurence, my chauffeur, to have the motor car at the front entrance. Now hurry, please, for there is not a moment to lose."
"Cert'ly, Colonel," was the valet's response. He fled to the kitchen.
"Now, of all the wonders," he said, "that blessed man our Colonel has got and gone and started anappertite. It's dinner fortwo, and not a holy minute's delay. It's not by yer lave! but the thing hasto be—Dinner—'sharp, and look alive' war his orders; and what's more—him what never goes out towards evening, which I take it to be the werry glory o' the day—the motor car is to be at the front door all ready for a drive for himself and Missie—bless her heart."
"For Heaven's sake, don't stand gapin' there!" cried cook. "Give a body a chance, wull ye, ye omorthorn. You and yer creepy stories indade, and for sure! How let me prepare a male fit to ate for the nicest gintleman in the whole of ould Ireland."
So Maureen and the Colonel ate together, and the Colonel drank two glasses of soft delicious wine, and he insisted on Maureen having a tiny glass to keep him company; then they were off and away for Templemore.
There are certain people born into the world, apparently quiet and unassuming, really modest and without any apparent self-confidence, who yet manage to rule all those with whom they come in contact. There are not many of these gracious souls, but they dawn now and then on the world and little Maureen O'Brien happened to be one of these lovely and most gracious personalities. Her agony, untold, unspeakable, when she forgot herself and gave way to what she, poor little love, thought sin of the deepest dye, has been fully described. Afterwards she saw the Face of her loving Father again, her Heavenly Father. The Good Angels came back to her, the Bad Angels departed, and she was as busy as the busiest honey-bee in making arrangements for all possible wants of those people whom she considered her own.
It was unspeakably strange how a little girl like Maureen could influence a great manly boy like Dominic, but it was much stranger how she could compel the Rector and the Colonel to follow her will. She did it with such extreme gentleness that she contrived to make both these men feel that itwas their own desire, that theythemselvespersonally had longed for this arrangement. "Dear Colonel" cheered up and clapped his hands as he discussed their foreign tour with the Rector. The Rector declared that it was the unspoken dream of his life to see these lovely places. The Colonel happened to know the very young man who could come to Templemore aslocum tenens; in fact the matter was arranged from end to end before these two elderly men parted that night; and Maureen stood by, smiling gently at both, and never uttering a syllable. It was to betheiridea; itwastheir idea. This is the fashion of the Maureens of the world.
"Dominic would of course go to Rugby; why, whatever should prevent the lad?" cried the Colonel, "when I have been panting for the Italian lakes, and to go from there on to the Riviera, and only waiting because I couldn't get a friend like yourself to come with me, old man."
"And I," replied the Rector, "have dreamed of those places full of glory, but I never thought to see them."
"You'll see them now with a vengeance," said the Colonel; "and we have no time to spare. Tom Fagan—first rate chap, Tom—can take on the duties of your parish at once. You may as well come back with me to Rathclaren when I call for you to-morrow after Maureen has gone."
"Ah, my little Maureen," said the Rector.
He looked at the child with his eyes full ofsympathy, but she saw well enough, for the time at least, that she was no longer first with him. The Grand Tour came first. The dream of his life, about to be realised at long last,wasfirst for the time being. So little Maureen went off with a light heart on the following morning.
Pegeen, it is true, cried a good deal, but the Rector did not cry. His eyes were bright with renewed health. Burke also looked very mournful; but they both promised the little girl to do their utmost for Mr. Fagan, God bless him, "and they would kape the ould house like a new pin, God blessit!"
So Maureen went away. Her heart was indeed like a feather. Dominic was very near chortling in his joy; Dominic had read well enough how cleverly, how marvellously Maureen had managed.
"Upon my word," he said, "I don't know myself, little mate; I can be a Rugby boy with an easy mind after all."
"Of course you can, Dom, and be sure you write to me. Dear Colonel has promised to write from every place they stop at—if it is only a picture-card—and Uncle says he will write on Sundays. Oh, Dom,don'tthey look happy,dearold men."
"They're 'chortling,' if you like," replied Dominic.
So the boy and girl started on their journey. They crossed from Rosslair to Fishguard, and then took train to London. Dominic was very anxious tospend one night in London, but Maureen would not allow this.
"No," she said, "no.Theyare crying for me very hard. We'll go straight on."
"Who in the world are crying for you, asthore?"
"Why, those two poor weans. It is lovely to be wanted," said Maureen.
"I thought you——" began Dominic.
"Don't say the words, Dom. For a short and most awful time there was a wicked Spirit in me, but he died at the bottom of the Peak of Desolation, and in his place there entered"—Maureen's eyes, lovely indeed now, were fixed on her companion—"the Angel of all Charity, of all Forgiveness, of Love, Love Divine. Don't let's talk any more, Dom. I'm sleepy."
She curled up close to her cousin-brother, and with her head on his shoulder dropped asleep.
How it so happened that things were not going on at all well in Felicity. Hitherto, Jane Faithful, by the aid of Miss Pinchin and some other choice teachers, had managed her little flock with, on the whole, marked success. But the Mostyns were different from any other girls who had ever come to Felicity. The Mostyns were hopelessly rebellious. The Mostyns, after the first couple of days, began to break rules and defy punishment. Miss Pinchin, clever and stern as she was, became almost afraid of the girl who had all but poisoned the horse, whileHenrietta spent her entire nights in screaming, shrieking, and crying.
Daisy at last became dull and stupid, but Henrietta was decidedly reckless. She managed to get out of her small window and to sit on the extremely narrow ledge and dangle her feet in the air and shout to each girl who passed, "Hullo! who are you?I'mHenny-penny, and I'm in prison for nothing at all."
Then there came a day when Daisy refused to get up. She said it was not worth while. Her face had a terribly dull and vacant expression. Henny in despair pulled her out of bed, but she dropped in a dead, senseless lump on the floor. She had really fainted. Then Henny got out again on to the window ledge in her nightdress and, poised on this dangerous spot, shrieked the information to all who could hear that Daisy 'waskilt entirely,' and that Faithful had better send for a doctor or she would hang by the neck until she died.
This terrible information brought Dawson with Miss Pinchin, and last, but by no means least, Jane Faithful, on the scene. The girl, Daisy, was lying in a dead heap on the floor.
"I'd have put her back in bed," said Henny, "but she's too heavy. One of ye cruel ones catch her by the legs, and the other lift her round the shoulders. She's dead as sure as I'm alive. Nice sort of school this to send respectable girls to!"
"Oh, my dears, my dears," said poor Mrs.Faithful. She was in many ways a severe woman, but she had a truly kind heart. She bent over the white, unconscious girl and asked Miss Pinchin in a decidedly angry voice what she could have done to bring the girl to that pass.
"I can't manage her," replied Miss Pinchin. "I will own it to you, dearest friend. Daisy Mostyn and her sister are the first two occupants of this happy school whom I have failed to train. Henrietta is a trifle easier to manage than her sister, but Daisy will not eat nor speak. I have tried severity; I have tried everything."
"Have you triedkindness?" asked Mrs. Faithful.
"Kindness!" said Miss Pinchin. "Kindness in the Hall of Discipline?"
"Ah," said Jane Faithful, "even there. It's an ennobling influence. You have indeed failed, Joan Pinchin. Henrietta, get dressed at once and come with me."
"No; I don't intend to leave my sister," said Henrietta.
"Well, stay where you are and I will have your breakfast sent up to you, but I must see immediately about getting a doctor for this poor little girl. I trusted her to you, Joan Pinchin. I never sawsucha change in any face."
"She's dying, if you want to know," said Henrietta. "She's going pop, like poor mumsie did. You won't catchmeleaving her; only I would like to seeyou, old Faithful, whipping that horrid Pinchin."
"Don't talk in such an intemperate way, Henrietta. Joan, come with me. Dawson, I will send Annie Anderson to look after these children, and you will have the goodness to put on your bonnet and cloak without a moment's delay and fetch Dr. Halsted."
"Oh my word!" gasped Dawson; but Mrs. Faithful was one to be obeyed.
Joan Pinchin and Dawson left the room, and almost at the same moment a rosy-cheeked girl, with blue eyes, and golden hair twined round her head, entered the Chamber of Penitence. Her hair, her eyes, her complexion, made her look all sunshine. She was dressed in the garb of a nurse, very simply and neatly.
"Oh, poor, poor little one," she said. "Miss Henrietta, you must get your clothes on, or you'll catch your death of cold."
"But that's what I want," said Henrietta. "I'm sick of life!"
"Oh my dear, you oughtn't to say that. Think of our dear, dear Mrs. Faithful."
"Upon my word, she's not dear tome," said Henrietta. "But I rather take to you; and it was perfectly lovely to hear her pounding it into old Pinchin, and that abominable Dawson. Why, Dawson simplydrippedtears as she went away. What is your name, Goldilocks?"
"I'm called Nurse Annie, dear."
"Do you think my sister will die?"
"I hope not, dear; butyoucertainly will, unless you put on some more clothes than your nightdress."
"Well," said Henny-penny after a pause, "I suppose I may as well rig myself out. I feel somehow as though there was going to be a bit of fun again—onlywhatan ugly uniform they do wear in this school, Goldilocks! I had glorious hair, much handsomer than yours. It was the colour of the sunset, and they cut it all off, and pomatumed it."
"What a pity!" said Nurse Annie; "but it will grow again, my dear."
"Did you really say 'what a pity!'? Then Iquitelike you. I'll dress like a flash of greased lightning. It doesn't matter about washing, does it? For I know I'll be crying most of the day."
"Now, my dear, you won't be so silly, for it will be bad for your sister."
"Oh, Daisy, she's as good as gone," said Henrietta. "She was taken sudden, like poor mumsie. She was a nice little thing, and theimpof mischief. Pinchin and Dawson and the barber killed her. Whatever you may say about the woman called Faithful, she had a hand in that pie."
"Dress yourself now and stop talking," said Nurse Annie. "There is plenty of cold water in that jug and you reallymustwash, for your face is such a show."
"To be sure now, is it, at all, at all? I don't like being a holy show. People like me best when I ampretty. Mumsie used to say I was a very handsome girl."
"You are quite decent-looking now," said the nurse, "if only you wouldn't talk so much, and would begin your washing and dressing before the doctor arrives. As to your sister, she is no more dead than I am. See, her eyes are wide open; she is looking at you. She only fainted, poor little dear."
"Oh, get out of my way; let me hug her," said Henny. "Daisy—Dysy—give me your answer do!"
"Young lady, you are not to go near your sister. She is much too weak."
Daisy certainly gave a very weak, wondering smile.
"Where am I?" she said. "Who is this? Oh, I'm not good, so it can't be heaven. Where am I?"
"Have this wee sip of brandy and water, my dear," said Nurse Annie. She combed out the girl's stiff locks, stiff from the effects of the odious pomatum.
Henrietta started for a minute, then she dashed cold water out of a large enamel jug into a large enamel basin, and proceeded to duck her head and face in.
"The horrid stuff won't come off," she said.