"You silly, silly child! A heroine! What do you mean?"
"I want to be the sort of girl who would do great things—who would——"
But Mrs. Mitford interrupted her with a little scream.
"You want to be an oddity," she said, "an eccentric horror. Don't come to me and expect my approbation if you are anything of that sort."
Just at that moment the room door was opened, and who should come in but Mr. Mitford. His wife gave a start when she saw him.
"I found I could get away earlier than I expected," was his remark. "I fancied Chris would be with you, and I thought we could have a talk. You both look very charming."
Christian sat close to her mother.
"What a contrast you both are!—you so dark andpiquant, and Christian so tall and fair and blonde. You are very like your grandmother, Chris, and she was a very beautiful and noble woman."
Mrs. Mitford sighed. The color deepened in her cheeks.
"I believe," she said, with a laugh, "that Christian will resemble her grandmother in more ways than one. You know what an eccentric woman she was."
"She was a very good woman, you mean," said Mr. Mitford.
"Yes, Patrick; but eccentric—very eccentric. Do you remember when she insisted on giving up her own dinner to send it to the invalid who lived on the other side of the street? It was ridiculous of her."
"Do tell me!" said Christian suddenly. "Did granny give her dinner to a sick person at the opposite side of the street?"
Mr. Mitford laughed. His dark eyes fixed themselves on Christian's animated face. He stepped up to her, and putting his hand under her chin, looked down at the speaking, bright features.
"You are like her," he said, with a sigh, "the same eyes, the same determined chin, the same expression. Well, my child, I can wish you nothing better than to be as good as your grandmother."
"But tell me about the dinner, father."
Mr. Mitford laughed; then his face grew grave.
"We kept a most perfect cook, for your grandmother was singularly particular with regard to her food. She had a very small appetite, but she always wanted the very best prepared for her, and she could not worry herself about ordering her own food; she liked it to come as a surprise. Now, Adams suited your grandmother's palate to perfection. Day by day the most delicious little dinners were served up. Well, one evening, I don't exactly know how she discovered it, but your grandmother happened toknow that there was a poor lady in the opposite house who refused to eat anything. She was poor, and the house she lived in was nothing like as large and expensive as ours. Your grandmother feared that Mrs. Stirling had not a cook to her taste, so that evening she sent her own special dinner to her. When she found she liked it she sent it again every night."
"But why couldn't she have more dinner cooked for the sick woman?" interrupted Christian.
"Ah, that was the point. Adams would only prepare this very special and choice dinner for your grandmother. She could not be worried to do it for anyone else. Had your grandmother told her that the special meals were to go to Mrs. Stirling they would not have been worth eating, so she gave her own dinner and went hungry. The thing lasted for three weeks."
"And then?" asked Christian.
"Mrs. Stirling died. The people said afterwards that your grandmother's dinners kept her alive for ten days, and that she enjoyed them so much that she used to think about them all day long until they came. The thing was just like your dear old grandmother; she was an oddity, but most unselfish."
"It was a splendid thing to do," said Christian. "It was exactly the very thing I mean to do. I always thought granny looked nice—I mean from her picture—but now I am certain about it. She is a great heroine, and I mean to copy her."
"There, Patrick!" cried his wife; "what mischief you have done by telling Christian that absurd story! There always was a vein of oddity in Christian. I hope you will speak seriously to her, and tell her that during our abs—— I mean henceforward we wish her to attend to her accomplishments, that when she is grown up, and—we have time, we will take her out and be proud of her."
Mr. Mitford continued to stand near Christian, and once again he looked into her face; then he said, with a sigh:
"A girl such as your mother has described would be quite acceptable to me. But come, Chris, what have you got in your head?"
"Only that I want to be a heroine," she said.
She stood up as she spoke. Her face looked tired.
"I want to do something big; I want people to remember me when I am dead. I'd like to have a great big obelisk put up over me, and words written on it. And I'd like it to be pointed to, and people to say, 'The woman in memory of whom that obelisk was erected was a benefactress.' That is what I'd like to be, but mother wants me to be——"
"Yes," said her father, who was frowning as well as smiling, and looking with intense earnestness at the child, "and what does mother want you to be?"
"A musician, and to be able to dance; a linguist, and a fine singer. Oh! she wants common, common things——"
"They're admirable things," said the father sternly. "I agree with your mother. But why, my dear child, should not a benefactress be able to sing and dance, and make the world brighter all round? Don't get confused in your mind, Christian. You can be as accomplished as anyone in the world and yet be a noble woman."
Christian looked puzzled. "I didn't think of that," she said. "I do so want to do something—to be a heroine—and I care so little about being just accomplished."
"You had better go to bed now, Christian," said her mother, beginning to yawn. "Always do your duty; that is the main thing. Here is a sovereign for you, pet. You can go out to-morrow and buy something."
Christian looked at it. Her face grew scarlet. Suddenly she said:
"But may I keep it? If I don't really want to spend it, may I keep it?"
"Of course you may, if you wish; but what a funny child!"
Mr. Mitford kissed his daughter with much more consideration than he was wont to give to her. Mrs. Mitford gave her a passionate hug.
"Good-night, darling," she said.
When she left the room Christian's parents looked at each other.
"Upon my word," said Mr. Mitford, "Christian astonished me to-night."
"I do trust she won't grow up odd!" was Mrs. Mitford's answer.
"My dear," said her husband, "don't you see that the child is a budding genius? I always thought so, but to-night I am sure of it. I wish I hadn't accepted that appointment, Mary. It is very sad to be parted from that young creature, the only child we have, for six long years."
Mrs. Mitford began to cry.
"Don't, Mary," said her husband in a distressed voice. "It is worse for me to see you mope even than to see Christian moping."
"What I feel so awful," said Mrs. Mitford, "is her not knowing—her thinking that we are to go on as usual. Poor Christian!"
"It is best," said her husband in a decided voice. "I could not stand her tears; I am afraid I am a sad coward, but it's a fact. Of course, she will get over it."
"Get over it," said Mrs. Mitford, with a laugh. "Of course she will. She'll just fret for a bit at first. But that is a splendid school, isn't it?"
"Yes; I went to see it. I liked everything about it. Miss Peacock is a woman in a thousand."
"She will be very happy," said Mrs. Mitford. "Shewants companions, and Miss Neil will be nice to her when she takes her there. She won't have time to fret. Time flies when you are young. She'll be too busy to fret; don't you think so, Patrick?"
"I hope so," he answered; "but I don't believe she is an ordinary child. There, Mary! don't let us talk about her now any more. We must settle other matters to-night."
He pulled some papers out of his pocket, and soon husband and wife were absorbed in abstruse calculations.
Meanwhile Christian put her treasured sovereign into the box which contained all her money.
"Certainly fortune seems to favor me," thought the child. "I shall have eight sovereigns now. Won't Rosy and I have a time!"
She sat down near the fire and began to think. Presently nurse came in.
"Tut, tut, Miss Christian!" she said; "you aint to be dreaming there any longer. You're to go to bed."
"Nursey, I love you," said Christian suddenly.
She ran to the old woman and put her arms round her neck.
"Nursey, did you ever hear that wonderful story about my granny?"
"What story, darling?"
"About her giving her nice, lovely dinner to the dying woman."
"It was like her," said nurse.
"Did you know my granny, nurse?"
"Know her?" exclaimed nurse. "Rather! There weren't her like anywhere to be found. She was always too good for——"
Nurse drew herself up abruptly. She had meant to say, "Too good for the present Mrs. Mitford," but she restrained herself.
"There wasn't her like in God's world," she continued. "Dear, it were a sorrowful day when she died."
"Was she very old?" asked Christian.
"No, lovey, not specially—a little past sixty."
"That sounds very old," exclaimed Christian.
"It aint when you come up to it," said nurse. "I'm sixty-five, and I don't count myself such an old woman. It's wonderful what a different view you take of sixty when you are, so to speak, nigh to it."
Christian did not find this an interesting subject. She said after a moment:
"Was granny like me—in appearance, I mean?"
"Well, now, darling, sometimes it has come over me that you have got her build; but you being young and she old, it's difficult to say. Still, I own that you have got her build."
"Father thinks that perhaps I have got her spirit."
"God be thanked if that is so, Miss Christian. It was her wish that you should be called Christian. It was her own name; she inherited it from the Quakers. Her grandfather was a Quaker, and a very strict one; and her mother was called Christian, and then you were, darling. She thought a sight of the name. She said the one thing that fretted her in not having a daughter of her own was not being able to call her Christian."
"Was she fond of me when I came?" asked Christian.
"Yes; she'd often take you in her arms and kiss you, and say that she hoped the spirit of her grandfather, Quaker Joseph Bunn, would descend upon you. But there! you aint to be stopping up any more, so up to bed you go."
Christian went to bed. She felt very thoughtful. Her conscience did not prick her at the thought of running away. She was still firmly convinced that even her father,who had seemed much nicer than usual to-night, would not mind when once she was out of sight.
"'Out of sight, out of mind' with father and mother," thought the little girl. "And I could never, never live in a strict-discipline school."
Nevertheless Christian knew as she dropped asleep that her grandmother would not have acted as she was going to do. Having always held herself in strict discipline, she would not run away from it. She would obey; she would subdue herself.
"Then I can't be like granny," thought Christian, turning restlessly from side to side on her pillow, "for I want my own way; and I won't go to school, for the school mother has described is a sort of prison."
With an effort she turned her thoughts from her granny and her own secret desire to resemble her, and she thought, until sleep visited her, of Rosy. For the very next day Rosy was to come, and Rosy was to tell her all she had discovered; and they were finally to make their plans, for the time when Christian would run away from Russell Square was close at hand.
When Rosy arrived on the following evening she looked very much excited; her eyes were bright, and there was a lot of color in her cheeks. Beside her Christian looked pale and scarcely pretty at all.
The little girl sat down on a stool near the fire in the nursery and warmed her hands, chatted loud and long to nurse, and laughed continually.
"One would think," said nurse after a pause, "that you did not love Miss Christian one little bit. I never saw anyone in such riotous spirits, and I must say it aint becoming."
"Oh, don't I love Christian?" said Rosy. "Don't you go and draw wrong conclusions, great-aunt. I love her better nor anybody else—there!"
"Well, child, that's all right. Here comes Miss Christian. Now listen, Rosy. You are not to stay long; you are to go away in about half-an-hour, for my young lady looks very peaky."
Christian sat by the fire. Nurse gathered up her work and prepared to go into the schoolroom. She knew the children would like to be alone, and she had promised to help Miss Thompson in her constant search after Christian's possessions.
"A more untidy child I never saw," said Miss Thompson when the old woman entered the room. "But there! I do pity her. I think it is perfectly awful the way the poor child is kept in the dark. It is that that worries me."
"Well," said nurse, "there's sense in it too. She won't have time to fret; it will be one sharp blow and then the worst will be over. Miss Christian has got fancies and all kinds of romances about her, and she'd conjure up horrors like anything. Children who conjure up ought to be kept from brooding; that's what I say."
Meanwhile the two girls in the cozy nursery were sitting side by side.
"I have eight sovereigns," began Christian. "I've got another since I saw you last. Mother gave it to me."
"Oh, golloptious!" said Rosy.
"Do you think eight sovereigns will go a long, long way? Do you think they will be enough till we have made our fortunes by being tambourine and dancing girls?" exclaimed Christian.
"To be sure they will!" answered Rosy. "Now, Christian, you listen. I have it planned splendid. You'll have to do it this way, and this alone. My friend that I told you of aint much to look at, but she's clever. My word! I never came across anyone with such brains. I spoke to her last night. She is apprenticed to a dressmaker next door to mother, and she's sick of it."
"But my eight pounds won't support three people," said Christian, speaking hastily, and with a strong dislike to Rosy's friend rising up at once in her heart.
"You needn't fear that," said Rosy. "Judith aint going to have anything to do with us; she couldn't if she wished, for she's apprenticed to a dressmaker, and her mother would be mad if she even thought of such a thing. But what she will do is this. She'll meet us and take us to some nice lodgings, where we can stay all by ourselves for a couple of days. If you say the word to-night, Miss Christian, she'll hire the little room for us. I said you wouldn't mind it being humble, and she said she knew one in a very respectable house—of course nowhere nearhere—a little room at the top, where there'd be a cozy bed for us. Think of you and me sleeping so warm side by side. And we could have a fire if we wanted it, and we could cook red herrings and make our own tea."
"It would be fun," said Christian, her eyes gleaming. "Children have done that before when they were poor, haven't they? It would be like the old story-books about children who lived in London and nearly starved but came out all right in the end."
"Yes, yes," said Rosy; "but you listen. She'll take the room to-morrow if you say the word, and it will be all ready for us when we get there on Tuesday."
"Oh," said Christian—"Tuesday! But oughtn't we to run away on Monday?"
"No; that won't do at all. I told Judith, and she said you'd be found out. What you must do is this. You must get to the station. You must walk up to the book-stall. You say to that Miss Neil that you want a picture-book——"
"Which I don't," said Christian. "I hate picture-books."
"Well, any sort; it don't matter. Then you watch your chance and mix up with the crowd and come out, and stand outside and wait for me."
"But how will you know what station to go to?"
Rosy laughed. "You'll say that I am very clever when I tell you," she answered. "Do you know that I picked up a letter that your mother had dropped, and it was from that fine school of yours—oh! I wouldn't like to be imprisoned there—and all directions were given. You were to go from Paddington Station; so I'll be there, and so will Judith, and we'll take you away before Miss Neil finds out anything. Don't you see what a splendid plan it is? Your father and mother will be off two hours before you, and they won't be fretted at all. By the time the newsreaches them that you are lost, you may be able to write a letter and tell 'em that you are earning your own living in London and doing fine."
Christian's cheeks were now almost as red as Rosy's.
"It does sound too splendid," she said. "I wonder if I'll have strength to do it."
"Why, Miss Christian, what do you mean?"
"Well, you know, Rosy, it isn't good of me; it's downright bad of me."
"Oh, I didn't know," said Rosy, "that we was to think of the virtues. I thought you wasn't a bit that sort of goody-goody kind."
"Nor am I," said Christian, reddening. "But since I saw you I have heard about my grandmother, and she—she was wonderfully good. And she had spirit, too, Rosy—far more spirit than either you or I have. But she never thought of pleasing herself; that was the amazing thing about her."
"Well, no one can call you selfish, Miss Christian."
"But when I run away from the strict-discipline school I do please myself, don't I?" answered Christian.
Rosy had no answer for that; but presently her little face puckered up and she began to cry.
"I was that troubled," she began, bringing out the words through her sobs; "and Judith Ford—I promised her five shillings; so I did. I knew you'd pay it for getting her to hire the room and for going to Paddington with me. And I thought I wouldn't be scolded any more, nor have my finger pricked by the horrid needlework, nor anything of that sort; and now——"
"Well?" said Christian.
"You are backing out of it; I can see that. You aint half nor quarter as anxious about it as you were when last we met."
"You needn't be frightened," said Christian coldly."I asked you to help me, and I mean to go through with it; but as to its not being painful—I know it will be necessary, but it is horribly painful. I can scarcely bear to look my mother and father in the face."
"Well!" said Rosy, "I could look mother straight enough in the face. I didn't sauce her half as much to-day, for thinking that I'd be away from her and the horrid needlework in less than a week. Oh, I am happy! And we'll get a little monkey and tambourines, and we'll practise like anything in our dear, snug little room; and we'll start walking along the streets and getting pence from the passers-by by the end of next week."
Christian's eyes once again sparkled. The scheme was fascinating. She found herself, as it were, between two positions. At one side was the school, strict—very strict—far away from London, where she would be received and, as it were, locked up in prison for years and years and years; no holidays to look forward to, for holidays were to be spent at school; no friends that she loved to greet her or speak to her. She was slow in making friends, and Rosy was dearer to her than any other girl. Certainly the other prospect was more alluring. It did not occur to her that the small room would be anything but spotlessly clean, with snowy sheets to the bed, and pretty, bright furniture, and a dear little fire in the grate; and shehadalways longed to taste red herrings. She thought that the food of the poor would be nice as a change—at least for a time. Then there would be the life in the open air, and the other tambourine-girls looking on and envying and wondering. And the monkey should certainly be called Jacko, for there was no other name so sweet for him. And she would love him and teach him no end of tricks, and he would sleep with her at night.
"Yes, Rosy, I will do it," she said. "I am sorry Iseemed to hesitate. You can't quite understand everything about me; but I'll do it safe enough."
"That's right," said Rosy. "And now, do you think, Miss Christian, that you could let me have five shillings?"
"What for?" asked Christian.
"Well, it's for this: Judith can't hire us a room unless she pays in advance. She has one now in her mind's eye—a beauty—like a bird's nest, she said—the cosiest spot on earth. She wouldn't like to lose it. She must get it to-morrow, and we'll take possession of it on Tuesday, but we must pay a week in advance."
"I have only got my sovereigns," said Christian. "It will seem rather strange my changing one."
"All right," said Rosy; "only I don't suppose I dare come again. Can't you get it for me anyhow? Great-aunt has always a lot of change, I know."
Christian considered, and then she went into the schoolroom. Her purse containing her treasure was in her own private desk, and that desk stood on a little round table near one of the windows. It was always kept locked, and Christian kept the key fastened on to her watch-chain. She unlocked the desk now and took out the purse. The night before she had deposited the new sovereign with its seven companions. She looked sadly at her little store. It seemed a pity to break it. But, after all, Rosy's request was reasonable; Judith Ford could not be expected to get a room for them without money.
Both nurse and Miss Thompson were in the room, and they looked attentively at Christian as she entered.
"Well, Miss Christian," said nurse, "has Rosy made herself scarce? Quite time for her to do it, little puss!"
"Yes, Christian, you really must go to bed now," said Miss Thompson.
Christian colored. "I want to change this," she said, and she laid the sovereign on the table.
"Whatever for, my pet?" said nurse.
"It is for Rosy; I want——"
"No; nothing of the kind," said nurse—"nothing of the kind! I'm not going to have my great-niece taking presents from you, Miss Christian; and money, too, forsooth! Just like the brass of that little thing! But I'll soon——"
"Nursey, nursey," cried Christian, almost in tears, "you don't know; you can't understand. Please—please let me have some change; I want to give Rosy five shillings. It isn't as a present; it is for something she is to do for me."
"Of course you can have the change, Christian," said Miss Thompson; and she went to her desk, and presently laid half a sovereign and four half-crowns on the table. She took up the sovereign, and Christian ran into the nursery with the money.
"Here it is," she said, thrusting two half-crowns into Rosy's hands; "and I had great work to get it. Nursey thought I wanted to give you a present."
"I'll have something to say to my great-aunt if she doesn't change her manners," was Rosy's response. "Thank you, Miss Christian; you couldn't, I suppose, let me have another half-crown as well?"
"What for?" said Christian, who felt that her money was already beginning to melt with wonderful rapidity.
"Well, you see, miss, it is to pay for Judith's time, and for me and her to go to Paddington in time to meet you. This sort of thing can't be done without a little outlay, Miss Christian. Afterwards, when we are settled down, we'll be as economical as you like."
"There, take it," said Christian.
She thrust the money into Rosy's hand and dashed from the room. She did not even wait to bid her friend good-night; she felt at that moment that she almost disliked her.
Monday night had arrived. The long days of waiting and suspense were nearly over. Christian looked paler than ever. She no longer asked questions or tried to draw people into betraying themselves. She often sat for half an hour at a time staring straight before her. Nurse was frightened when she looked at her; even Miss Thompson did not care to meet her gaze.
Shortly after tea on Monday evening Miss Thompson ran downstairs and burst suddenly into Mrs. Mitford's presence. Mrs. Mitford was engaged with her own packing, which had to be done in the most judicious way. She had given the child to understand that she and her father were going to the south of France for a time.
"Wearegoing there," she said to the governess. "Don't look at me so reproachfully. You know we are going to Marseilles, and surely that is the south of France."
"Well," said Miss Thompson, "I must speak. I don't like it, Mrs. Mitford; I don't like it at all. I'm glad the time of deception is over. Sometimes, do you know, I think Christian guesses."
"Christian guesses!" cried her mother. "How could she? I hope you have been careful. I told you all her things were to be packed in the north spare-room. She is taking almost everything new with her. She needn't have known anything. You have told; you have betrayed your trust."
"No, I have not," said Miss Thompson quietly. "I have been as careful as a woman could be. But Christian is a sharp child, and she can put two and two together. I suppose, Mrs. Mitford, you will soon tell her now?"
"She is coming down to see me after dinner this evening. Her father will be present. We will tell her then," said Mrs. Mitford.
The governess was turning to leave the room. Once again she came back.
"I know you won't do it," she said, "and yet I long to ask you to. I do so wish you would let me take her to school instead of——"
"Really!" said Mrs. Mitford.
She was a very imperious little woman; she hated anyone even to suggest that her way was not the right way.
"Really!" she repeated. "I am sorry, but I cannot have my plans interfered with. My friend Miss Neil will take Christian to the school."
Tears sprang to Miss Thompson's eyes.
"It is only that she loves me, and she does not care for Miss Neil."
"Very silly of her!" said the mother. "She will have to see a good deal of Miss Neil while we are away. You would like me to write that recommendation for you to-night, Miss Thompson? Well, I have nothing but good to say of you. I hope you will get a comfortable situation before long."
"Thank you," said Miss Thompson a little coldly.
She left the room and returned to the schoolroom, where Christian was pretending to read a new story-book her father had given her that morning. It was rather old-fashioned. She did not exactly care for it; she thought there were too many characters, and that the plot was not brisk enough. Nevertheless she went on reading it. Itwould probably interest her later on; she knew that her mind was not with the written words that night.
"Do you know that you are to go down to see your father and mother after dinner?" said Miss Thompson.
"Yes, of course I do," said Christian.
She turned very white and dropped her book.
"You are not well, dear; you don't look at all well."
"I am quite well, thank you, Miss Thompson."
"What dress will you wear, Christian?"
"I don't think it matters much."
"They would like to see you looking nice. Your pink frock is new; will you put it on?"
"If you like."
It was between eight and nine that evening when Christian, beautifully dressed as usual, and looking tall and straight, and with a certain curious defiance about her, and yet with an inward trembling, passionate love vibrating through her frame, entered the presence of her father and mother. Of course she knew what was coming. They did not guess that, but the very fact, although it reduced her to despair, kept her also calm. There was no uncertainty about the moment that lay before her.
Mr. Mitford felt extremely nervous. He was fond of Christian—fonder than he cared to own. He was a very busy man, and seldom had more than a minute or two to devote to his wife and child, but he felt that Christian and he could be great friends if they had enough time to get better acquainted with each other.
Mrs. Mitford was certain that she would burst into passionate tears, and thus disgrace herself forever in her husband's eyes. Therefore, when Christian entered with her bold, firm step, she could not help looking at the child with admiration.
"She will be a beauty by and by," thought the mother; "she is remarkable-looking now."
The father, as he glanced at her, thought, "She is my mother over again; it is a sin to leave her."
Filled with a sudden tenderness, he moved up an inch or two on the sofa in order to make room for Christian to sit by his side.
"We have sent for you, Christian," said her mother; "we have—— You tell, won't you, Patrick?"
He was silent, looking straight across the room at his wife; his very lips were trembling. Christian pitied him so much that she almost prompted him. She very nearly said, "Go on about the school—the strict-discipline school, you know."
Mrs. Mitford in the interval rushed into the breach, and continued:
"You know, Christian, that we are going to the south of France to-morrow."
Christian did not answer. She gave a brief nod; her lips were firmly pressed together; her eyes were bright. She was saying to herself, "I won't cry. I won't let tears come; I won't—I won't—I won't!"
"Yes," said Mr. Mitford, "we are going to Marseilles; and on a longer journey."
Christian looked up at him. He took her hand. Once the ice was broken he continued more fluently:
"I am appointed Consul-General of Teheran in Persia. It is a very honorable position, and——"
Christian stirred restlessly. Mrs. Mitford looked at her.
"Why doesn't she speak?" she thought. "I quite expected her to say, 'And you will take me with you?'—to say those words very earnestly, and be passionate and troublesome about it."
But Christian did not say anything. She did not even express surprise.
"We go to-morrow morning," continued Mr. Mitford—"your mother and I. Christian, child, why don't you speak?"
"I am listening, father," she said gravely.
"You are a good child," said her father, flinging his arm round her waist and squeezing her to him.
But she detached herself suddenly.
"I'd ever so much rather you didn't pet me while you are telling me."
"Oh, very well!" said Mrs. Mitford in a displeased tone. "I have always thought it, and I must say it: I don't think you have a scrap of heart, Christian. You are the only girl I have ever heard of who would submit to her parents leaving her for six years without even a murmur."
"You didn't say the number of years, mother," answered Christian.
"Stop, Mary," said her husband; "you must allow me to speak to the child. I am very pleased with you, Christian, for having control of your feelings. I don't for a moment think that you are heartless. Far from it," he added, putting his hand under her chin and looking into the deep eyes that could scarcely meet his gaze—"far from it," he continued, and he patted her on the shoulder. "You are a good girl, just like your grandmother, and you have got pluck and endurance. Now, do you know what we are going to do with you? You are our little girl, and very, very dear to us."
"Of course, Christian, you are our only child," said her mother. "We shall be very proud of you when we come back; you will be accomplished then. You will remember what I wish: you are to be a great musician and a great singer, and your French is to be——"
"My dear," said her husband, "had you not better let me explain to Christian what her position will be during our absence?"
"All right, Patrick; only I did think that the child would like her mother to talk to her."
"So I do, mother," said Christian.
She had a sudden wild impulse to rush up to that pretty little figure and fling herself into its arms; but she knew that her mother would not understand her. She had a sort of feeling that her father would, but she was not sure of him; so she sat still and held herself up for all she was worth, and thought at intervals under her breath, "I won't let the tears come—I won't!"
"We have considered this," said Mr. Mitford. "The thing has come suddenly, and there has been very little time. We could not take you with us, for the country is not suited for young people. No girl who is not grown up could go there. We shall be away for a long time, and during that time, Christian, you must be going on with your education in the best sense of the word. Threefold must that education be—don't forget that—body, soul, and spirit. When we return you will be—— How old are you now, Christian?"
"Thirteen," said Christian.
"Yes, dear, thirteen in August," interrupted Mrs. Mitford. "Can you not recall that hot August morning when we first saw our little Christian?"
"Yes, dear," replied her husband. "Well, Christian, you are thirteen. In six years you will be nineteen—a grown-up woman, ready to take up life seriously—a woman like your grandmother."
"You may as well turn Christian into a Quakeress at once," said the mother.
"The religious part of the question we need not discuss," said Mr. Mitford. "In six years' time Christian will be grown up. We shall return with pride and pleasure to embrace our dear daughter. Now, Christian, we have found a school for you—not an ordinary school byany means. The lady who is the Principal is Miss Peacock. She is a splendid woman; her character is superb. She is a great favorite with the girls who live under her roof. There are only forty girls, so it is a comparatively small school. The house is a beautiful old mansion, and the end of the garden is washed by the waves of the wide Atlantic. The school is in Cornwall, in one of the most healthy spots possible. In the summer you will have boating and yachting, in the winter riding. The climate, compared with that of London, is temperate, and you, who are fond of flowers, will have them in plenty. Each holiday Miss Peacock has promised to take you somewhere."
Christian's eyes grew bright.
"You will love her, for she is worthy of love. You are to be treated with singular indulgence."
"What about the strict-discipline school?" said Christian to herself.
"You are to have your own pretty room, and you are to be allowed to write your letters without having them looked over—that is, to your parents. There are some charming girls at the school, and they are all prepared to love you and be good to you when you arrive. My own dear girl, you will be there by this time to-morrow night. You will leave here early in the morning, and—— Don't cry, child; you really have been very brave."
"Do let me just for a minute," said Christian, flinging her arms round her father's neck.
Her reserve was broken; she sobbed as though her heart would break.
"Come and kiss me too, Christian," said her mother.
Mrs. Mitford was crying also. Christian sobbed more and more uncontrollably. Mr. Mitford got up and left the room.
"I couldn't expect her to keep up all the time," hethought. "She was very brave at first, but those tears are terrible. Mary at least might have controlled herself. Mary is pretty, adored by society, but, compared to Christian, heartless. Poor girl, what a face was hers! I could have stood those tears, but that face of tragedy hurt me. Poor Christian! I could almost wish I had not taken that brilliant appointment. But there! it may lead to many things, and when a man has a child he ought not to be selfish. I do what I do for Christian, after all. Poor darling! somehow I never seemed to quite understand her or to appreciate her until to-night."
Rosy, who was in some ways so very much wiser than Christian herself, had assured the young girl that her parents would not be at all frightened by her running away.
"They won't know anything about it," argued Rosy, "until they get a letter from your own self; and when you tell them, and they see it in your handwriting, that you are well and happy, they will be as pleased as Punch. I know it," continued Rosy, with emphasis, "for when I am real happy, even if it aint the very thing mother might have liked beforehand, she can't help getting a sort of delighted look on her face. It's the way of mothers, even if they are harsh ones; so think what it will mean to your father and mother, Christian, who love you like anything."
Christian was so much interested, and her mind was so fully made up, that she listened to Rosy's specious words, and even composed in her own mind the little letter she would presently write; a passionate letter, full of love, but at the same time with a beseeching tone running through its depths; the letter in which she would assure her father and mother that she would be the straightest, most upright, most unselfish, noble sort of tambourine-girl in the world.
After her father had left the room Christian lay still on the sofa, her arms around her mother's neck and her headburied against Mrs. Mitford's soft white neck. She had ceased to sob. She had almost ceased to feel.
By and by Mrs. Mitford roused the child.
"The years will pass quickly; your father and I will think of you, and the years will go by with lightning speed. Soon we shall be together again."
"Oh, no, mother," answered Christian; "it will be a long time—a long time!"
"You think so, dearest, but you are mistaken. Now, go to bed, darling; I daren't allow you to trouble yourself any longer. You must sleep, Christian, for my sake, or we shall both be ill to-morrow when we most want to be fresh and bright."
"Suppose, mother, I were to write you; when would you get the letter?"
"You had better write straight to Bombay. Your father and I will spend some weeks there before we proceed to Persia. You can write when you are settled at school. Here is the address."
Mrs. Mitford opened her desk, took out an envelope carefully addressed and stamped, and put it into the young girl's hand.
"Now, good-night, dearest. You will soon sleep sound. The worst will be over before long."
Christian left the room without another word. She scarcely kissed her mother as she parted from her. All of a sudden her conscience began to prick her. She dared not listen to it, however; there were others involved in the mad game she was playing. Whatever happened, she must go on with it. She got quickly into bed, covered her face with the clothes, and pretended to sleep. She was alone in the dark; even nurse had left her.
The house quieted down. Mr. and Mrs. Mitford were to leave at seven in the morning. Christian would not leave until nine, her train not going from Paddingtonuntil a few minutes to ten. Just before she dropped asleep she resolved, whatever happened, to be up in time to rush down to kiss her father and mother; but, what with her distress and the fatigue which her excitement had caused her, she slept heavily until nurse called her. She started up then with a cry. All that was to take place flashed upon her. There would be no nurse to-morrow morning; only a little room in the slums, and Rosy her companion. Well, even that was better than a strict-discipline school.
"Nursey," she cried, "what is the time?"
"Twenty minutes to eight, deary. You will have to leave soon after nine. I didn't want to wake you a minute before the time."
"But have they gone—have they gone?"
"Of course, darling; they left at seven. They came up, both of them, and kissed you. It went hard to see them, particularly my master. Ah! he's a good man, but maybe stern and a bit absent-minded; but he is a good man when all is said and told."
Christian did not say a word. The knowledge that her father and mother were really gone lay on her spirits as a crushing weight. Then she began quite wonderfully to cheer up. The worst was over. The pain of leaving the old house, the wonderful dream-attic where the happiest time of her childhood had been spent, nurse, the servants, Miss Thompson, was all as nothing.
She got up and dressed. She thought with a smile, how to-morrow she would be wearing very different clothes. She was not at all nervous; she was sure that Rosy's and her great plan would succeed.
Breakfast was over in a short space of time. Christian's private money had been put into a little bag under her skirt. Nurse had made the bag for her; it had astring attached to it, and nurse had shown the young girl how she ought to tie it round her waist.
"You are to get more money from time to time," said nurse; "and once a year I am to come down to Cornwall to see you. The place is called Penwerne, and is near to the town of Tregellick. They say the house is that beautiful! But there, darling, do eat something!"
Christian ate and drank. She then bade the servants good-by; she hugged Miss Thompson, but her last most fervent embrace was for nurse. Nurse cried, but Christian did not shed a tear. She had said good-by to her attic the night before, and had determined not to visit it again.
At last she was seated in the cab. Nurse and Miss Thompson promised to write to her, and Miss Neil, looking stiff and somewhat severe, desired the cabman to proceed, and they were off. The house in Russell Square seemed to vanish like a dream; they turned a corner and went rapidly in the direction of Paddington.
Christian scarcely spoke. There was a cold sensation round her heart; she wondered if Miss Neil would give her a chance to escape. She was soon relieved on that score.
"As soon as we get to the station, Christian," said her companion, "I will have your luggage registered. You have still a great deal of luggage, although one large box was sent off last week. I will see it registered, and you will stand by me. But we must get our tickets first."
Christian longed to ask a question or two, but her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. She was so terribly afraid of betraying herself that she was silent.
They reached the great station, and Miss Neil, accompanied by her young charge, approached the ticket-office. A string of people were waiting their turn. Miss Neil bought a single first-class ticket for Christian and areturn for herself. A porter was standing by with Christian's voluminous luggage piled up on his truck. Miss Neil and he entered into an animated conversation. They moved a little aside. Christian watched them, standing stock-still herself as though she were turned into stone.
Suddenly a wild desire to be going quietly down to Cornwall took possession of her. She considered for a minute how easy it would be for her to abandon her scheme, to stay by Miss Neil's side, to enter the carriage which she had selected, to be conscious of the fact that the luggage was in the luggage-van. There was nothing against her carrying out this sudden wish—nothing at all—except Rosy's disappointment and Judith Ford's annoyance. Christian would be going to the school selected by her father and mother, and all would be well.
"I could send Rosy a letter through nurse," thought the young girl, "and I would send her a whole sovereign in a postal order. She could give some of it to Judith, and there would be an end of the matter. I think I will give it up," was her next thought. "Now that it is so near, it seems too awful to go through."
But just then Miss Neil turned and spoke sharply to her:
"Don't stay back there, Christian; come to my side. And pray, don't stand on one foot in that ugly way. Do hold yourself erect; I hate the manner in which girls hold themselves nowadays. Thank goodness, when you are at Penwerne you will be taught that and other matters! Yes, it is a good thing you are going to that severe school. What did you say?" she continued, turning to the porter. "Over weight? But we have first-class tickets. One pound to pay? Preposterous!"
"Well, madam, I assure you——" began the man.
He and Miss Neil entered into a sharp dispute, whileChristian glided away. She would carry out her scheme; Miss Neil herself had decided it.
Two minutes later she was in the affectionate embrace of Rosy Latimer, while Judith Ford, a rough-looking girl with a freckled face and high cheek-bones, stood near. She wore a showy hat with a lot of cheap red velvet on it. Her jacket was too small for her, and her gloves had holes in them. Christian scarcely glanced at Judith Ford.
"Come, quick!" said Rosy. "Oh, aint you a darling? Aint we going to have a good time? Oh, Christian! you don't know what Judith has done for us."
"Don't you tell," cried Judith. "You always do let the cat out of the bag. We'll let Christian see for herself."
"Christian," thought the young girl, "Christian. Have I come to be called that by a girl of the Judith Ford type?"
The three girls ran down a side street, and a moment later Judith beckoned to the driver of a decrepit-looking cab with a broken-down horse to draw up to the edge of the pavement. They jumped in, and off they went. Christian tried to shut away from her imagination the sound of Miss Neil's excited, terrified voice when she missed her. She tried to shut away from her mental vision the thought of Miss Neil at all; she would forget her now. She would also forget the school at Penwerne, and the cozy first-class carriage. She would even cease to remember her parents, who must now be crossing from Dover to Calais. She would forget everything but the great, marvelous, wonderful adventure itself. Oh, how often during the last few days had she pictured it! Now she was living through it in reality. It was a big, big story—a wild, thrilling thing—she was about to live through it. She had been an imaginary heroine so often; now she would be a real one. Oh, yes, she was safe;Miss Neil could not possibly find her. She was safe, and it was—yes, delicious.
But as this last thought came to her Judith's very sharp voice sounded on her ears, and Judith's emphatic nudge poked itself into her side.
"Why don't you talk?" cried Judith. "Be you the sulky sort, as hugs their grief to 'em and hasn't a word to say to their kind friends? Oh, won't we have a time to-night! You've got the chink all right, haven't you?"
"The what?" asked Christian.
Judith burst into a loud laugh.
"The chink," she cried. "Why, Rosy, is she such a softy as not to know what chink means? We'll teach her a few things, you and me; won't we, Rosy?"
"Miss Christian knows a lot of things," said Rosy. Her voice sounded quite refined in Christian's ears. "She knows ever so much that we don't know. We've got to treat her with respect," continued Rosy.
"Not a bit of it!" exclaimed Judith, with another loud laugh. "We're all in the same boat now."
Christian looked at her with a growing terror.
"And here we be," continued that young person. "Now then, cabby, look spry. There aint no luggage, so you must let us off cheap. How much is the fare, cabby? Don't you try to humbug me. I know a thing or two; as much as you do."
Judith began to haggle loudly. The cabman answered; Judith overtopped his voice with her screaming one. Poor Christian felt that the most strict-discipline school on earth would be paradise compared to her present surroundings. But, after all, Rosy had tact. She came up to her little companion and whispered in her ear:
"Judith aint going to stay, so don't you think it. She's just showing off, and no more. I've seen the room, and it's quite nice; and if we don't like it we can change, forwe have plenty of money. Don't fret, Miss Christian; I can't abear to see that sort of look on your face."
"Come along now," said Judith, having settled her dispute with the cabman. "I lead; you follow. I'm leader in this game."
She entered a hideous, dirty, tumble-down house. Christian held her skirts tightly round her; she could not bear that they should touch the filthy walls. She scarcely liked to tread on the black and broken stairs.
They went up flight after flight, and at last entered a small attic at the top of the house. Compared to the stairs, it was fairly comfortable, but poor Christian had never imagined that anyone could live in a room of this sort.
"I was thinking," said Rosy, who was watching her little companion earnestly, "that you and me, Miss Christian might go out presently and buy a few things. You see, Judith," she added, turning to the other girl, "Miss Christian has been accustomed to a very different life."
"It will do her a sight of good to know how the poor live," was Judith's remark. "But as to buying things, you and she had better lie low for a day or two, for they're sure to make no end of a fuss, and have the police after her, and all the rest. It wouldn't do to have the police after us," continued Judith, fixing her malicious eyes full on Christian's white face, "for running away is a crime punished by law. You gets locked up for running away, and a pretty long sight of prison too, to say nought of the disgrace. You wouldn't like that, would you, miss?"
"It isn't true," said Christian. "I don't believe it."
"Oh, don't you, miss? Well, I'm sorry for you. There's a woman in the next room—a very nice friendly woman; her name is Mrs. Carter; she helped me to tidy up the room this morning. We'll ask her."
Before Christian could prevent her, Judith bounded intothe adjoining room, and came out accompanied by a tall woman with a head of tousled hair, curl-papers all round her forehead, a broken bodice, and a red skirt. This woman had heard from Judith all about the proposed plan, and thought it a very fine joke indeed.
"This young lady is Miss Christian Mitford—the Honorable Miss Christian Mitford," said Judith, laughing. "You'll have to drop your curtsy to her, Mrs. Carter."
"I aint a-going to drop no curtsies to anybody who lives in this house," said Mrs. Carter.
Christian walked to the window and turned her back on the other inmates of the room. Oh, she was punished! was it true what that awful girl said, that if she were caught now the law of the land would put her in prison? She wished the ground would open and swallow her up. Oh, where was the delight and excitement of the adventure that had looked so fair before it began?
"You just tell her plain out what's the truth, Mrs. Carter," said Judith.
"About what, my dear?" said Mrs. Carter.
"Aint it the case, ma'am, that if you run away from your lawful guardians, you being, so to speak, a minor—that means under age, miss," she added, nodding to Christian—"aint it the case that you are locked up?"
Mrs. Carter looked hard at Judith. She then glanced at Christian. Christian was well dressed; beyond doubt she was rich. She must frighten her and then soothe her, for get money out of her she should, and would and could.
"Miss," she said, "I'm sorry for yer. My heart bleeds for yer, miss. Whoever made yer get into this scrape? It's true, miss; it's true. It happened to my first cousin. She was well born, miss—not like me. Her parents were most genteel. When a child she ran away from school, and for two years she was in a reformatory, miss—a prison-school. She was indeed, miss. She never cometo any good; and she's in prison again now, miss, serving her time for burglarious action."
Christian had not the slightest idea what burglarious action was, but it had an awful sound. Her heart stood still with agony. It was scarcely likely that both Mrs. Carter and Judith were wrong. Mrs. Carter had her facts so glib, and she had such a wicked knowing look.
"I'm sorry for yer, miss, but the only thing for yer is to keep tight in here; and if the police come you can hide under my bed, miss, and you're kindly welcome. And if there's anything I can do for you young ladies in the way of hot water for making a drop of tea, or anything of that sort, you have but to tell me; for it's neighborly we'll be, miss, and you won't regret it so much when you know, so to speak, the in and out of our lives. We may be poor, but we have our good p'ints, and our moments of 'joyment too."
"You clear out now," said Judith, pushing Mrs. Carter towards the door. She shut it, and then came up to Christian.
"You'd best give me a little of the chink," she said, "and I'll go out and buy food for us all. I can show my nose as much as ever I like, for I haint run away; but you and Rose must keep tight, for if you show yourselves it's the reformatory school you'll get into. It's the reformatory school; that's the punishment for you."
With trembling fingers Christian lifted her skirt and produced the little bag which contained her precious savings. There were still seven pounds ten shillings in the bag, for she had given away the last half-crown of her first ten shillings to Judith in order to settle with the irate cabman. It was in reality only a one-and-sixpenny ride, but Judith, as she pocketed the shilling, assured Christian that it cost half-a-crown and was cheap at that. Christian knew too little about the ways of the poor to make any remark, but she did feel certain that her money would not go far if it was required at so rapid a rate.
"Here," she said, opening her bag and producing half-a-sovereign; "I ought to get a lot of change out of that."
"So yer will," said Judith, snatching it from her; "and I'll bring in all sorts of things. What do you think we'll want, Rosy? You'd best make a list."
"Oh! I wish I could go with you," said Rose, whose eyes glistened at the sight of the gold.
"But you can't," said Christian, "I should die if I were left alone in this awful, awful place."
"Awful, is it?" said Judith. "My word, you be hard to please! I 'ates the ways of your haristocrats, always with their noses in the air, sniffing at everything, pleased at nothing. The sight of trouble I had to get this sweet little room! And I'm sure it's as pretty a placeas can be found. And if that aint a nice, clean bed for the two of yer to sleep in, I don't know where you'll find a better. And there's a fireplace and a table. And oh, my word! here's a cupboard in the wall. What more could the most particular desire? And here's a chest of drawers. Jolly, I call it! And two chairs—one for me, and one atween the two of you. If this room aint spry and cozy, the only thing I can say is that I hope you'll never find yourself worse lodged. Now then, Rosy, tell us what you want."
Rosy began to count on her fingers. She had arranged everything beforehand in her own acute little mind. She knew exactly the food they would require, the matches and the chips of wood for lighting the fire and the coal to fill the grate. She ordered matches and wood and coal now, also red herrings, a little loaf of the best fresh bread, some butter, some tea, sugar and milk.
"You must see about the coal the first thing," said Rosy; "we can't do any cooking until it has come. And, Judith, we must have a saucepan and a kettle and a little frying-pan, and some cups and saucers, and spoons and knives, and a pinch of salt, and wood to light the fire, and half a dozen eggs. Can you remember all those things?"
"That I can," said Judith; "but if you think there will be much change out of ten shillings you're uncommonly mistaken."
"But there ought to be," said Rose, her cheeks growing crimson. "Mother 'ud get all them things and have summat to spare out of five shillings. Look you, Judith, there aint to be any larks with Miss Christian's money. You're to bring back five shillings change, or I'll go out and buy the things myself, whether I'm caught or not."
The smirky, impudent look left Judith's face.
"We needn't stay here at all," continued Rosy. "Miss Christian might so happen to get tired of this here joke.She might so happen to want to go back to her own people, and we will go back, both of us, even if they are angry, if you play any pranks. Now you understand."
Judith nodded. "It's a nice opinion you have of me, Rose Latimer," she said. "What pranks would a poor girl like me be up to? You needn't fret about me and my morals, Rose Latimer, for I'm as straight as a die, I can tell yer."
She ran downstairs, utterly regardless of the dirty walls and the broken stairs. She flew along, leaping over obstacles, and clearing two or three stairs at a time in her headlong flight.
When her steps had died away Rosy looked at Christian. Christian's back was to her; she was standing by the window. She had not removed her hat and jacket. In her heart was a dull weight—the weight of absolute despair. Even Rosy, as she watched Christian and seemed to guess by a sort of instinct what she was feeling, began to find the adventure less adventurous, and even began to see a certain amount of good in the dressmaker's room where she usually sat, cozy and warm, machining long seams and turning out yards and yards of flouncings. Yes, even the dressmaker's room was better than this attic, with Christian, as Rosy expressed it, in a sulk.
"Miss Christian," said the little girl.
Christian made no reply. She drew a step or two nearer the window, and stared out with the most forlorn feeling in her heart. The only view she could obtain from the very small dormer-window of the attic was of some of the neighboring roofs, black with smoke and smuts. They were hideous in the extreme. Christian had never before known what real, absolute ugliness meant. She shuddered, and yet, with a certain fascination, drew nearer. A cat, meant by nature to be white, but of a dull uniform gray, stepped gingerly over the roofs towards her.He met a brother cat, and they saluted each other in the customary manner. Christian turned away with a shudder.
"Miss Christian," said Rosy again.
"What is it, Rose?"
"You are miserable," said Rosy, "and you blame me."
"Well, I never thought it would be like this. I never imagined anything so awful. And is it true that as we ran away we—we'd——"
"Nonsense, Miss Christian! I don't believe it's true for a single minute. It's only Judith's way to frighten you, miss."
"But Mrs. Carter said the same."
"Yes, Miss Christian, I know it; but she was put up to it by Judith."
"I thought you said you liked Judith—that you thought her a nice girl."
"I never seed her afore in the light I do to-day, miss, and that's the truth."
"Rose, I'm frightfully miserable."
"Well, I aint too happy," said Rose.
"Can't we get away from here? I'm frightened."
"We might creep out of a night, for certain, but in the daytime they're a-watchin us."
"Who? Who are watching us?" said Christian. She went up to Rose and clasped her hand in an access of terror.
"Well, that Mrs. Carter; and most like there are others in the house, and they all know you have money. I tell you what, Miss Christian, there's only one thing to do."
"What is that? Oh, what? Oh, I am frightened! I never thought I should be so terrified."
"It's a clear case when one ought to be terrified," said Rose, and she sank down on one of the chairs and staredstraight in front of her. "Yes," she repeated, "it's clear it means terrifying; there aint a doubt of that."
"What is to be done?" said Christian. "Oh, if mother could see me now! Oh, father, father! Rosy, I'd rather be in the most awful strict-discipline school in the whole world than here."
"You think so because you aint at the school," was Rosy's astute reply. "Now, Miss Christian, let me think; don't speak for a minute. It were I who got you into this, so it must be me to get you out; that's but fair."
"It is—it is; but can you?"
"Let me think, miss. Judith will be back in half an hour. I'll think for a bit and then speak."
To Christian those few minutes seemed like eternity. At last Rosy stood up. She crossed the room, went to the door and examined it.
"There aint never a lock," she said. "That's bad. But we can put the chest of drawers agen' the door to-night, so that no one can come in without us hearing 'em. And if we are really frightened we can push the bed up agen' the chest, and squeeze it in between the door and the wall; then we'll be as snug and safe as any girls could be. Then we must take the first chance that offers to get away; we must. Judith aint what I thought her. We mustn't tell her—not on any account. We must steal away when she aint here. The folks here won't let us go if they think we want to, so we must pretend."
"Pretend?" said Christian, in amazement.
"For sure, miss; there aint no other way. We must pretend we are delighted—you to be free of the school, me to be your companion. We must have a right good time to-night and turn Judith's head with our merriment. We must laugh and sing and pretend to enjoy ourselves. We must have a sort of feast, and we must talk a lot about buying the tambourines; and Judith must see about hiringa proper tambourine-girl's dress for you and another for me. It will mean maybe five shillings more, but that can't be helped. We must catch 'em by guile, Miss Christian—Mrs. Carter and the rest. They must hear me talking to you about the awful prison life you has escaped, and you must say out very loud that you never did enjoy yourself so much before. We must take 'em in. You leave it to me, miss. You follow up when I speak. When I give you a look you will know what I mean. That's it, miss. Then to-morrow we'll creep away. If anybody meets us we'll say we are going out to buy things. We'll leave the cups and saucers and things behind us, and we'll never come back—never. That's what we must do. It's the only way, for I don't believe that we can be locked up for running away. But I do think the folks in this house will keep us from ever getting home again; or, at any rate, from getting home until they have got all the money they can from us."
Rosy spoke with great confidence. Christian felt cheered by her words.
"It will be horribly difficult," said Christian; "and I hate deceiving. I never did deceive anyone yet in my life."
"It's a case of play-acting," said Rose stoutly; "and if you aint been play-acting all your born days, I don't know who has. Haven't you been Joan of Arc one day, and Charlotte Corday another and poor me Marat in his bath, waiting for you to stab me—and William Tell and the characters in the Bible? There aint no fear that you can't act. You've just got to act once more."
"But what?"
"Why, a girl who loves the slums, and dotes on her freedom, and is determined that nothing shall make her a slave. Now you know what to do. Oh, here comes Judith! I'd know Judith's step in a thousand."