"Take it," she said, "and say nothing."
Florence covered the note with her prayer-book; and, thoroughly relieved, and suddenly in excellent spirits, Maud left the church.
But her good spirits were not of long duration. Outside the church Star stepped back and spoke to her.
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"Do what?" asked Maud, considerably startled.
"Of course, I saw you knock down that prayer-book on purpose. Why did you give that girl—Miss Dixie, I think you call her—a note?"
"I didn't," said Maud at once.
"You did. I shall tell Jane Price."
"Oh, what a horror you are!—a tell-tale and all the rest. Besides, it isn't true."
"It is true," said Star; "I saw you do it. What is the matter, Maud? There is a sort of conspiracy going on in our school. We are all fearfully unhappy, and I can't conceal things any longer. I can't and I won't."
"Oh, please—please don't tell Jane. Indeed—indeed I didn't do anything."
"Maud, if you deny it again I will tell Jane, and this instant."
"Well, I'll say nothing."
"You must come to me to-day to my boudoir. I shall ask to have it to myself, and only you and Susan shall come. I'll get to the bottom of this thing. Now, you understand."
Maud put on a wry face.
"I won't talk to you any more at present; I despise you," said Star.
She ran on and joined Jane Price.
"What's the matter with you, Star? You don't look too happy."
"Nor would you be if you had a weight on your mind which was reducing you to abject misery," was Star's response.
"Are you really so fond of Christian?"
"Who wouldn't be fond of a girl who was made ill atthe school all because she had been unkindly treated—a girl who is quite uncommon in herself? I can't make out what is the matter, Jane. I am thoroughly wretched."
"You look it, Star. I never saw your face so perplexed. What were you saying to Maud?"
"Giving her a bit of my mind. I don't like her."
"I like her better than Susan," whispered Jane in response. "Well, here we are," she added as they arrived at the well-known gates, "and I have kept my word: no one has spoken to anyone, or done a single thing that Miss Peacock would disapprove of."
"Oh, haven't they?" said Star to herself; but she was silent.
Just before they all went in to dinner Susan ran up to Maud. She took her friend's hand and spoke eagerly.
"Have you done it?" she whispered.
"Yes; but I don't think I have mended matters."
"What do you mean?"
"Star saw me do it."
"Maud! Well, you really are the most awkward, most incapable—Oh, you are a terrible girl!"
"I denied it, but she stuck to it. I just got her not to tell Jane Price, but she means to have it out with us both this afternoon. We are to meet her in the fourth class boudoir, and she means to be there alone. I never saw Star so determined. I expect we shall have a fight."
"It seems to me I don't care about anything," said Susan. "I think I'll run away. Father couldn't turn me out if I went home; only I haven't got enough money. Have you any you could lend me, Maud?"
"To run away and leave me behind?" said Maud. "Indeed, that I haven't. Don't be a goose, Susy; we have got to face this thing and pull ourselves through somehow. I tell you what."
"Yes?"
"Let us confide in Star; let us tell her just everything. It's about the best thing to do. She's the sort of girl who'd be desperate and cruel if she were kept in the dark; but if she knew, why, she mightn't."
"And you want me to tell—me—that I opened her purse and took the bill out, and laid the blame on Christian. You think she'll bear it."
"I don't know," said Maud. "It seems to me she'll find out whether you tell her or not. Oh, by the way, what is the news of Christian?"
"The doctor says the crisis will come to-night. Jessie is in a fearful state of anxiety. We have none of us seen Miss Peacock for a minute to-day. You never knew anything like the gloom of the chapel. I cried all the time. The other girls quite pitied me. Mr. Dalzell preached a sermon about schoolgirls and their temptations. I think Jessie and Miss Peacock must have been sneaking and telling him things he ought not to know. The girls looked at me a lot. I cried harder than ever. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched creature I am!"
"We are all wretched, it seems to me," said Maud. "The sooner we got out of this depression the better." Susan made no reply.
The great gong was not allowed to be sounded that day, but Jessie came to say that dinner was ready, and the girls marched into the hall.
Sunday can be the most delightful or the most wretched day in the world. When the heart is at peace, when the sun shines brightly, and things are going well, how sweet are the golden hours; how joyful and tuneful does the church bell sound; how soothing and stimulating to the highest part of our nature are the hymns and the church services! There is rest all round, and we feel it through and through our natures.
But there are other Sundays, again, which are just as miserable. There is the terrible ache in the heart; there is gloom over everything, and the cessation of customary occupations but increases this tenfold.
Christian, although a comparative stranger in the school, was now the one object of interest. She was thought of so much that there was little or no time to remember anybody else, and but for Star both Susan and Maud would have been allowed to have been as miserable and as naughty as they liked without anyone remarking them.
But Star, as she expressed it afterwards, felt almost vindictive that day. All that had gone before, and the wretched consequence of her own act of folly and unkindness in believing that Christian was guilty of the most disgraceful conduct, now caused her sensitive conscience to accuse her loudly. The best way to relieve herself was to put Christian right. She could only do this by forcing Susan and also Maud to confess. Star knewvery well that a special and very daring rebellion was to take place in the front attic on the following Wednesday. Its nature she had not the slightest idea of. She herself, as she said, would no longer be a Penwernian. She would not attend the secret meeting. But that did not prevent her from being intensely unhappy about it. It was on account of that that Christian had broken the rules. Christian had been sent to Tregellick and had spent her money at Dawson's shop, and she had brought in food, and paid a bill there. Susan and Maud and Mary Hillary and Janet Bouverie had incited her to this act of rebellion. They were the real culprits; Christian was little more than a tool. Ill as Christian now was the conspiracy had not ceased to exist. There was no doubt whatever on that point. Star did not intend to make any more fuss—she was too broken-down for that—only she saw Maud with her own eyes knock down the prayer-book in church. It had not been done by accident; Star's quick eyes had detected Maud in the act. The prayer-book had been deliberately dropped on the floor. This aroused the little girl's suspicions. She saw Maud stoop down, and she herself was obliged to leave the pew. She looked back. Maud had risen, and she was bending towards a vulgar, showy-looking girl, in the pew just in front of her, the very name of whom Star did not know; and she gave the girl something—something in the nature of a letter. There was no doubt of it.
"It is the clew to the mystery," thought Star. "Now I will be firm. Now I intend to be what they call cruel. It is the clew to the mystery. I will find out. Christian lies at death's door; she is dependent, perhaps, on me to save her life."
After dinner Star sped very quickly upstairs. She went on tiptoe. When she reached the neighborhoodof the White Corridor she took off her shoes. Then she glided along towards the door of the sickroom. It was very slightly ajar. Star peeped in. It so happened that Miss Peacock, who had been up all night, and was now worn out with anxiety, lay sound asleep in the arm-chair by the fire. Jessie was downstairs having her dinner. Neither was the nurse present. Star could look in at Christian. And it so happened that Christian looked back at Star; and although her face was white as death, and there were startling great shadows under her eyes, and although that same little face was not only white but strangely pinched, she recognized Star, and it seemed to Star that her eyes brightened and her lips moved in a sort of voiceless appeal.
This was enough for the little girl. Silently, without making the least vestige of noise, she glided across the floor and up to the sick girl's bed.
"Darling!" said Star.
Now, in all the world there could never be a more thrilling voice than Star Lestrange could assume when she chose. And the love now in her voice, and the pity, and the longing to make reparation penetrated straight down to the heart of the girl who was slowly but surely drifting out on a nameless tide.
It seemed to Christian, as she floated and floated on that deep, deep sea, that a hand took her and passed round her and drew her back and back. She looked up at Star, and the faintest of faint smiles awoke in her eyes.
"I mean to put everything right," said Star again; and then she said "Darling!" once more, and then like a feather she brushed Christian's forehead with her lips, and then she left the room.
Christian lay motionless when Star had left her. What had happened? Was there, after all, anything to be very sorry about? Why did she drift and drift? The noiseas of great waves was in her ears, and her heart beat with heavy throbs. What was the matter? After all, was it pleasant to drift out away from all the people on the shore who beckoned to her to return? Was not her father there? And did not his eyes, and his lips, and his whole strong presence say, "Come back to me—come back"? And mother? Mother was beside him, and mother also said, "Come back." And, oh, there were other friends, and they seemed to love the girl who was drifting away, and they all said, "Come back, Christian." But Christian said feebly—oh! so feebly that her words could scarcely be heard even by them—"I go out; it is better to go out." And then another voice said, "Darling!"
That voice, so piercing and strong, had a clarion note in it; and it seemed to Christian that she stopped drifting, and that she turned, and strong arms were stretched out, and she came back, but so slowly—so slowly.
Little knowing what she had done, and that she had in reality saved Christian's life, Star Lestrange ran downstairs. Her cheeks were burning; her heart was on fire. She went straight to the boudoir.
"Girls," she said to one or two of her friends, "may I have this room to myself for an hour if necessary?"
"Of course, Star, dear," they answered. They loved her, and would do anything for her.
One of the girls wanted to question her, but she refrained.
"Go away, then," said Star; "there's no time to be lost."
"How is Christian now?" asked a girl.
"Don't ask me," answered Star.
She entered the pretty little boudoir, placed a couple of chairs near the fire, and then waited.
"They will come; I know they'll come," she thought. "I will force them to come. I'll think of them until they must come.'"
She had never been so determined in the whole course of her life before. The fire in her eyes seemed to get brighter. After a time she heard footsteps—lingering footsteps. Then the curtain was pushed back and the face of Susan Marsh looked in. And Susan followed her own face into the room, and Maud came behind her.
"There's a door," said Star briefly; "you had best shut it."
Maud shut the door.
"Now then," said Star, "I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and I have got to be cruel if necessary. I don't mind about either of you, even if it means that you are expelled. I want to save Christian, and to put her into a position of honor, and I want you two to tell me just the very truth."
Susan gave a slow laugh. "You are rather ridiculous, Star," she said. "What do you accuse me of?"
"I accuse you," said Star briefly, "of having taken my purse when Christian was asleep, and of having opened it and taken out the little bill which Dawson gave Christian when she paid for the goods."
"And why, pray," said Susan, "do you accuse me of this crime?"
"Because I know you have done it," said Star.
"You are quite mistaken; I did not do it."
"Maud, do you know anything of this?" said Star.
"I know nothing," said Maud.
She did know, but she and Susan between them had resolved on no account to tell.
"Very well," said Star. "I thought perhaps you'd tell me. I thought it quite the best thing to do. We won't talk any more of this at present."
Susan looked at her now in some astonishment. This was a course of proceeding that she had not expected.
"I have another thing to talk of," continued Star. "You, Maud Thompson, went to church to-day, and you knocked down a prayer-book on purpose. I saw you take it and fling it on the floor, and then you gave a note to a girl—a showy-looking, black-eyed girl—who sat in the seat before you. You did it, because I saw you."
"I did not do it," said Maud.
"All right, then; I shall go and speak to the girl herself."
"Star!"
There was an amazed cry from both girls.
"I shall go and speak to the girl herself," repeated Star.
"You can't," said Maud, with a laugh, which in spite of herself was extremely nervous, "for you don't know her name."
"I shall find it out. I am going to her now; don't keep me."
Star brushed past the two and left the room. She was carried along on a wave of keen excitement. It did not matter to her any longer what anybody thought of her conduct. Susan, left behind, looked wildly at Maud for a minute.
"I must stop this at any cost," she said. "She mustn't—she daren't—she shan't go!"
Out of the boudoir flew Susan. In the passage she met Miss Forest.
"Oh, Miss Forest, dear, do you mind if we all go for a walk? I mean outside the grounds."
"What do you mean, Susan? Certainly not. There are no teachers to take you to-day. If you wish to walk, walk in the grounds. Now, don't worry me."
"Do you mean to say positively that no girl is to go outside the grounds to-day?"
"I do say it."
"No girl? Are there no exceptions?"
"None. What nonsense you talk! Any girl who goes outside the grounds to-day will be severely punished."
"Of what nature will the punishment be, dear Miss Forest?" asked Susan. "Please tell me, for sometimes I think a little punishment is worth enduring for the sake of the pleasure."
"Really," said Miss Forest, her eyes flashing, "the insubordination in this school must be put a stop to with a firm hand. You, I verily believe, are the ringleader, Susan Marsh. Notwithstanding our anxiety and the serious illness of Christian Mitford, I take it upon myself to say that the girls who disobeys and leaves the school this afternoon will be put into solitary confinement and not allowed to speak to her schoolfellows for at least twenty-four hours."
"Thank you," said Susan. She dropped a little mock courtesy and ran away.
Just at that moment Star, in her hat and jacket, appeared. Susan, who had gone down the whole length of the corridor, now stopped to watch what would happen. Miss Forest, terribly aroused, turned to Star.
"Where are you going?" she said.
"For a walk."
"In the grounds?"
"No," said Star. "Please—I wanted to ask your permission—please, I want to go into the town."
"You can't go, Stella. I have just said that no girl is to leave the grounds to-day."
"Oh, please, this is so important!"
"I can't help it. You girls think you are so wise, andyou are nothing of the sort. Walk in the grounds, and please don't argue the point. The girl who ventures outside without permission shall have twenty-four hours of solitary confinement. There now! I am determined; I can't stand this spirit of insurrection any longer."
Star said nothing. She moved slowly down the corridor. At the corner she saw Susan.
"Ah! Yah!" said Susan. "I thought I'd take the wind out of your sails."
"You have done nothing of the sort," replied Star.
She continued to walk steadily along the corridor. Presently she reached the end. At the end was a door. She opened it and went out. It led into the garden. Star walked quickly. Susan came and planted herself at the door. Maud stood by Susan's side. They saw Star walk along the garden path, then stop short and turn abruptly to her left.
"She's going to defy Miss Forest. Who will believe her now?" said Susan. "Come, let us watch her, Maud; let us watch her."
They scampered down the path until they came to the place where Star had turned off. They now saw Star open the wicket-gate near the lodge and disappear on to the high-road.
"Ah, now we've caught her!" said Susan. "Now she's in for it."
Meanwhile Star, with the flame of fire which Christian's face had awakened in her heart still blazing brightly, pursued her way.
Wrong! Of course she had not done wrong. She had done the only right thing in all the world.
"I must bring it home to them," she thought. "The thing must be explained. There is a serpent in our midst. I must get the obnoxious creature out of the school."
She walked faster and faster. Presently she reached Tregellick. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she did not know the name of the girl to whom Maud had given the letter, so she could not get the information out of her. But, of course, the little sextoness could tell her the name.
As Star entered the straggling High Street of the small town she heard the bell in the gray church-tower begin to sound again. There was about to be a service. Star felt that she must go to church. This, of course, was also strictly against rules, for the girls were not allowed to go to church in the town unbidden or unaccompanied by an escort.
"As it is all disobedience, I may as well disobey thoroughly and find out what I want to find out," thought Star.
She entered the church. Just as she did so the bell stopped. The sextoness motioned to her to go up to her own pew, but Star shook her head.
"Put me in a pew close to the door; and I want to speak to you afterwards," she said to the woman.
The woman obeyed. She knew Star well by appearance, but she wondered to see a Penwerne Manor girl out alone.
The afternoon service was short. Star watched the worshipers with intentness. How relieved she was when she saw the black-haired, dark-eyed girl take possession of her pew! She came in on this occasion unaccompanied by the stout woman who had sat with her in the morning.
By and by the service came to an end. It is to be feared that Star did not much attend to her prayers. The worshipers filed out. Star fixed her eyes on the face of Florence Dixie. Florence was attracted by Star, although she did not know the reason, but she wassurprised to see her, a Penwerne Manor girl, out alone. She longed to stop and speak to her, but of course she did not dare. Star, however, had made up her mind.
Quick as thought she followed the black-eyed girl out of church. The girl looked back when she heard footsteps coming after her. When she saw Star she stopped.
"What is the matter?" she said.
"I want to know your name," said Star in a polite voice. "I hope you won't think me very rude, but I should be greatly obliged to you if you would tell me your name."
"My name!" said the girl, with a slight laugh. "Well, I'm not ashamed of my name; it's Florence Dixie."
Star now came up to her side.
"Where do you live?" she asked. "I am so awfully obliged to you for telling me your name; but where do you live?"
"You must be a very ignorant girl," replied Florence, "not to know where I live and who I am. Father is the only lawyer in the place. His house is the big brown house that you see yonder at the top of the High Street. May I ask your name, Miss—Miss——"
"My name is Lestrange," said Stella. "I live at the Manor; I am one of the schoolgirls."
"Oh, of course, Miss Lestrange; I know you by appearance quite well. You often come to church. I was surprised to see you there this afternoon alone."
"Yes; I came out this afternoon alone. I am tired," said Star.
Quickly a thought flashed into Florence's brain; what a tremendous triumph it would be for her to bring this charming, aristocratic-looking young lady home to tea.
"I wonder now," she said, dropping her voice and suiting her pace to that of Star, "if you'd honor us, Miss—Miss Lestrange. We are having tea at home just now—high tea. And my brothers, Rufus and Jasper—they're such pleasant boys—they're always at home to tea on Sundays. You say you are tired. It's a good long walk back to the Manor; would you honor us by having a cup of tea with us?"
"I should be very much obliged," said Star.
At another time such a request would have horrified her, but it seemed to her now the only means to a desirable end.
"I am glad; mother will be so pleased," said Florence. "We all think a great deal of Miss Peacock and her wonderful school, Miss—Lestrange."
Florence always made a slight pause between "Miss" and "Lestrange," and at another time Star would have used her ventriloquist voice and have said just above Florence's startled ear, "A little faster, please;" but she was not in the mood to be funny at this moment, and walked in silence by her companion's side.
"I know I must get her to tell me just by guile," thought the little girl; "and it's so difficult, and it seems to get more difficult each minute."
Presently they reached the house. Florence pulled the bell, and the door was opened by a rough-looking, red-headed boy, who shouted when he saw Florence; and then, as he beheld Star's beautiful, refined little face, his own features subsided into a startled grin.
"I have brought home a young lady from the Manor," said Florence in her most affected and mincing way. "Are they all at tea, Rufus?"
"Of course we are, Flo. And mother's ever so cross, I can tell you. You had better take the lady upstairs."
"Well, perhaps," said Florence dubiously, looking at Star.
"Oh, please don't!" said Star; "I can't wait a minute. I can't really. I'll just have a cup of tea, as you were so very obliging as to ask me, and then perhaps afterwards you would walk a little of the way home with me."
"Oh, as to that, I'm sure I'll be delighted," said Florence. "You don't know how I have been longing to know you."
Just then the dining room door opened and Mrs. Dixie put her head out.
"Florence, you naughty girl——" she began, but then she saw Star and changed her manner. "Oh, my dear child! you are late. And who is your nice little friend? Welcome, my dear—welcome."
"Mother," said Florence, "this is Miss Lestrange, one of the young ladies from the Manor. She was at church, and I have invited her home to have a cup of tea."
"Honored, I'm sure," said Mrs. Dixie. "Come this way, miss."
She threw the dining room door open and ushered Star into a noisy scene. Mr. Dixie was certainly not a refined-looking man. He was sitting far back in a deep arm-chair, with one rough, spoilt-looking little girl on his knee, and another perched upon the arm of the chair.
"Now, dad," said one of his small daughters, "I'm going to pull your right whisker."
"And I'm going to pull your left," said the other.
When Star came in she saw Mr. Dixie having his fiery whiskers violently pulled by the firm, somewhat dirty hands of the small girls.
"Oh, I say! let me alone and behave yourselves," he said, dropping them to the ground.
They both set up shrieks of indignation, and Star was motioned to a chair at the table.
"Here, Robert," said Mrs. Dixie; "this is one of Miss Peacock's young ladies. Rufus, do clear a place; brush away those crumbs, and then go out to Maria and tell her to bring in fresh tea."
"She's out, mother," said Rufus, not attempting to stir and not removing the crumbs.
"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!" said Mrs. Dixie. "We look upon it as such an honor having you here, miss. We think an immensity of any of the Manor young ladies."
"Miss Peacock is one of the finest, proudest, grandest women I have ever met," said Mr. Dixie. "Have a seat, miss. Here, Rufus; go out and bring in some more tea."
"I say Maria is out," said Rufus. "Who's to make the tea?"
"Make it yourself, and be quick about it."
Rufus caught up the family teapot and disappeared from the room, banging the door after him.
"How is it, dear," said Mr. Dixie, turning to his spouse, "that we always have ditch-water instead of tea on Sunday evenings?"
"Don't blame me, Robert," said the good lady. "It isn't to be wondered at. When eight spoilt children each want the strongest and the best, what can be left for a stranger? Florence, you might have told us that you were going to honor us with Miss Lestrange's company."
Poor Star! she had been trying to do her best, but it seemed to her that she was getting deeper and deeper into hot water each moment. What madness had seized her when she had hinted to Florence Dixie that she would like to go home with her? Already shehad broken a rule of the school—a rule just expressed when they were all in trouble, and Miss Peacock was specially to be cared for and loved and honored. Oh, if she might only go home again!
After a great deal of squabbling and difficulty, and a great many words passing between one Dixie and another, a cup of tea which had been made in the kitchen was brought in and placed before Star. Scalding hot as it was, she drank it off, and then rose hastily to say good-by.
"I am very much obliged to you," she said to Mrs. Dixie.
Mr. Dixie accompanied her to the door; and Florence, feeling intensely important, went with her into the street.
"I'll walk all the way back with you if you like, Miss Lestrange."
But Star by no means wished for this.
"Surely you would not be allowed to be out so late," she said.
"Oh, mother wouldn't mind. I mean, under ordinary circumstances she'd mind very much; but I can assure you she is exceedingly proud that I should know you. I know one or two of the girls as it is——"
Here Florence paused and bit her lips. She knew that she ought not to have admitted that.
"I know one girl you happen to know," said Star, looking at her intently. "Her name is Maud Thompson. She handed you a note to-day after church."
"Oh, no, indeed she didn't!" said Florence, instantly on the defensive, and determined, as she said afterwards to Maud, to guard her at any expense.
"I saw her do it. I thought perhaps—— Oh, I must confide in you a little bit. I came to church on purpose. I wanted to see you on purpose. Please don't say whatisn't true. We are in great trouble at the Manor just now."
"Are you?" said Florence. "And do you mean to tell me? I can't tell you how I love exciting stories. I have always pined to go to a first-class school. Over and over again I've said to father, 'If only you would send me to Miss Peacock's!' But father thinks Miss Peacock too much of a fine lady; he says she's affected."
"No, she isn't," said Star. "She is a lady, that is all."
"What a nice way you have of talking, Miss Lestrange! And you are so pretty, too! Oh, I am interested in you and your school! I don't mind a bit what father says. He is just eaten up with jealousy; that's a fact. If Miss Peacock would employ him as her lawyer, father would think her the most delightful woman in the world. As it is, of course, he is jealous. He'd give his eyes to have me admitted into the school. He said so once; he said he'd pay double fees if Miss Peacock would have me. Oh, I should so love it! All the other girls would be mad with jealousy. Now, there are the Manners girls. You don't know them, do you, Miss Lestrange?"
"No."
"Well, they're not really in our class of life at all. I sometimes think it rather trying that I should be expected to know them. They are the daughters of that greengrocer who owns the huge shop just round the corner. Oh, and here they are coming to meet us! They'll want me to introduce you. Do you mind?"
Star said she did not mind. In her heart of hearts she felt that she could scarcely know a more vulgar or common girl than Florence.
"If you will only tell them the truth, that I came to church because I wished to speak to you, I don't mind what else you do," said Star.
The Manners girls came up slowly. They were thin, with straw-colored hair, very pale complexions, and small, weak-looking eyes. They were showily dressed, and in some ways looked even more commonplace than Florence. When they saw her they made a rush towards her. Then the younger one drew back a little, and it was the elder Miss Manners who came trippingly up to the two little girls.
"I have come in person to answer you, Florence. As you have got the note—I mean the one Miss Thompson gave you——"
"Oh, hush, hush!" said Florence. She could not have grown any paler than she did at that moment.
Star moved a step or two away from her.
"You told me just now——" she began.
"I did—I did! Don't speak to me for a minute, Miss Lestrange. I must walk on with you just to explain myself."
"Can I endure it?" thought Star. "And yet I must, for I must find out what has really happened."
"Of course I got the note," said Florence the minute they were alone; "but I was not going to tell, for poor Maudie didn't wish it. Now you know, however, you will take her back a message. Will you say to her that I am going to speak to the Mannerses, and if we can we will comply with her wishes? You may tell her at the same time that we don't like people who blow both hot and cold. The sort of friends we appreciate are those who say a thing and do it whatever the consequences. You will tell her. Oh, I know you despise me. Some day you will understand that a girl of my sort hasn't a chance with a girl of your sort. But, all the same, there's some good in me. I like you just awfully, for instance. I think you are sweetly pretty; and you have got such—oh,suchan air about you! You might beanyone. I know I'll dream of you to-night; I quite love you. You are fifty times nicer than Susan Marsh—although the Mannerses and I thought a lot of her—or than Maud Thompson, or than—— Oh, dear me! Miss Lestrange, I do wish you could get me into your school. You don't know how fine you'd polish me up; you'd show me that I ought always to speak the truth and everything else. Can't you try?"
Florence's bold face looked wonderfully soft at that moment, and there were actually tears in her black eyes. Star wondered she could speak to her, and yet when she looked again she felt touched by the expression on Florence's face.
"I am sorry for you, but I can't promise to—to help you to get into the school. All the same, I am sorry. You could not, I suppose, let me have that note. I wouldn't read it; I'd just give it back to Maud Thompson."
"My dear child," replied Florence, her manner instantly altering, and a hard, flippant tone coming into her voice, "I have not told you anything about the note. You asked me if I had got one, and I said 'No.' The Manners girls gave me away, and I was forced to confess that I had told a little white lie. White liesareallowable, aren't they?"
"They are not," said Star stoutly.
"Well, anyhow, they are amongst my set. As to the note itself, it was of such small consequence that I tore it up. Well, good-by. Glad to see you another day when you come to church and want a cup of tea."
Star looked back for a moment to where the Manners girls were standing; then she put wings to her feet and ran the rest of the way back to Penwerne Manor.
"What did she want? How is it you have got so chummy with her?" said Ethel Manners, turning toFlorence. "You did look upset when we met you! And didn't you blaze up as crimson as anything when we spoke of the note! Did we do wrong to speak of it?"
"You were just horribly nasty, Ethel," said Florence. "You might have known that when I was walking with a strange girl you two ought not to intrude. You don't know your places, and that's a fact."
"We're every bit as good as you are, Florry," said Emma. "It was only yesterday father said that your father and he used to chum together at the same school, but that he had pennies in his pocket and your father had none. Don't be a goose, Florry. Let's walk arm-in-arm. Wouldn't you like to come in and have a bit of supper? Aunt Phœbe said if we met you we might ask you. And there are sweetbreads for supper, and fried liver and bacon. You know how fond you are of those things."
"So I am," said Florence; "and I had such a wretched tea. It's awfully uncomfortable at home on Sunday; the kids make such a row all over the house. Our servant is out, and there's no one to look after anything."
"Well," said Emma, "Aunt Phœbe looks after things for us, and she loves something hot for supper. She's going to make pancakes, too; and we can have toasted cheese afterwards if we like."
"Oh, yes, and we can make coffee," said Ethel. "We are going to have a real jolly time. Will you come?—for if you don't, we'll ask Mary Ann Pomfret."
Mary Ann Pomfret was the one girl in the whole of Tregellick whom Florence detested.
"You can please yourself," she said. "I won't come near you if you have Mary, but I'd love to come to you alone. Your place always seems so comfy on Sundays."
"Then let's walk arm-in-arm," said Emma; and sheran round to Florence's left side, and Ethel took hold of her other arm, and in this fashion they walked up the High Street.
"I call it specially mean," said Ethel, "after we have made those lovely cakes and prepared all those things to give Susan and the other girls a right good time. There can be no earthly excuse in their not having us. Just because a girl—and a new girl—happens to be a bit ill."
"But they say she is very ill," said Florence. "She was prayed for in church twice to-day. What do you mean to do, Ethel?"
"Go, of course," said Ethel.
"Do you really mean it?"
"Certainly I do. I'm going. Aren't you, Emma?"
"I'll do whatever you do, Ethel," replied the younger sister.
"Then I have a good mind to join you," said Florence. "You know, to tell the truth, I'm not specially taken with Susan Marsh. I don't think she's a bit better than we are, only she just puts on airs because she's a Manor girl. Perhaps Maud Thompson is a wee bit better. But what a beautiful girl that was I walked with to-day—Miss Lestrange! She must be quite the beauty of the school. Hasn't she eyes like stars? And such a refined, sweet little face! She's very pretty; and oh, she's fetching!"
"She's a perfect beauty," said Emma.
"I don't say she's as good-looking as all that;" said Ethel; "but she is handsome, and has what I call an air about her."
"She's very different from Susan Marsh," said Florence. "I could be good to please a girl like that. I am sure she would hate our going to the school on Wednesday."
"Did she say anything about it?"
"Not a word; only she was awfully bothered about that note. I can't imagine why she should come sneaking round after it, as it were; but she did, and she looked so piteous when she asked me to give it back to her, and I had it snug in my pocket all the time. But of course I couldn't give it to her; it would be hard on poor Maud."
"So it would," said Ethel. "Well, here we are at home now. Aunt Phœbe will soon begin to fry the supper. I do feel starving!"
Ethel let herself and her companions into the house with a latchkey. They passed the great shop where the vegetables were sold, and the huge appleroom where the fruits were kept from Saturday night to Monday morning. Up the narrow stairs they went, until at last they found themselves in a broad, low, cheerful sort of room—a nondescript room, with a thick red felt carpet on the floor, and heavy red curtains to the windows, and a laughing, cheerful, blazing fire in the grate. Florence gave a sigh of relief.
"It is peaceful here," she said. "I wish we had a room of this sort at home."
After the girls had eaten their supper, they put their heads together and had a long and earnest consultation as to what they were to do with regard to the girls at Penwerne Manor. There was little doubt that they were all intensely disappointed. The Manor had seemed to them, ever since they could remember anything, as a sort of earthly paradise; the girls who walked in twos up and down the sheltered, cloister-like enclosures, the girls who came to church at Tregellick Sunday after Sunday, the girls who occasionally rode over the neighboring moors, the girls who went to the seashore in the summer and enjoyed themselves bathing or in littleboats in the harbor, were all girls of a superior degree to those commonplace children in the town of Tregellick. They adored them; they envied them. The chance of getting into their midst was a golden and dazzling prospect, and they were intensely loath to give it up. It was Emma at last who seemed to come to a satisfactory decision.
"I tell you what," she said; "Susan has bound herself to receive us. We have put money into this thing; we have arranged to bring a good deal of the feast ourselves. Susan owes me seven and six——"
"And me five shillings," said Florence.
"And she has borrowed my best sash," said Ethel. "She said she would be very careful of it, and let me have it back at the first opportunity."
"I wonder you lent it to her," said Emma.
"She had such a coaxing way, and she said she wanted it so badly. In short, she made it a sort of condition with regard to giving us this pleasure."
"Oh, never mind that sort of thing now," said Florence impatiently. "I'll have to go back home very shortly or Rufus will be coming thundering round, making no end of a fuss. What shall we do, girls? That is the question. This is Sunday night; Wednesday is no way off at all. Are we to go and enjoy ourselves, or are we to meekly sit down and give up our bit of fun?"
"What do you think?" said Emma.
"I think we ought to go. I shouldn't hesitate a moment, only that poor Miss Lestrange looked so pleading, and she seems really fond of the sick girl. And if father found out by any chance that we'd been kicking up a rumpus in a house where a girl was dangerously ill, why, he'd never forgive me."
It was at that moment that Emma Manners came to the rescue with her dazzling suggestion.
"Well, don't let us go," she said. "Let us invite Susan Marsh, Maud Thompson, and the dear Miss Lestrange to have supper with us. Wouldn't that be jolly, girls? Let us give up all idea of the attic, and invite them to have supper with us here, and keep it a secret from everybody. We could have a gay time."
"But I couldn't come," said Florence. "How could I manage it?"
"Easily, for we'll ask you here to spend the night. Bless you! there'd be nothing secret about our supper. Father would be as pleased as Punch; and Aunt Phœbe will preparesucha meal! Then we'll be able to reflect all the remainder of our days on the delightful fact that we invited three of the Manor girls to supper, and were, in short, hail fellows well met."
"It does seem rather brilliant, and a good way out of the difficulty," said Florence. "Of course, it isn't as thrilling as creeping up by the garden wall, and getting down by a ladder at the other side, and then sneaking up by a ladder again just under the attic window, and creeping in, and finding the girls waiting for us and delighted to welcome us; but it is better than no fun at all."
"What I say is this," continued Emma: "when we have succeeded in bringing these girls here, Miss Peacock may be inclined to relax her rule, and to allow us to join the Penwerne Manor girls at their lessons."
"Don't you imagine that for a single instant," said Florence. "When I talked to-day to Star—oh, bless you! I don't call her Star to her face—she said we hadn't a chance. No, there's no chance of that; but it would be fun to know them. Now I must be off. How is the note to get there?"
"They always send to father's shop for vegetables," said Emma. "We'll give a note to Joseph, and tell him to bribe their man, Edwards, to give it into Susan'shands somehow to-morrow. Now then, who'll write the note?"
"You'd better write it," said Florence; "you've got a better scribble than I have."
Emma, feeling very conceited and important, seated herself by a table and wrote the following words:
"Dear Susan Marsh, Maud Thompson, and Star Lestrange" ["Don't I feel grand, talking to them by their Christian names?" thought the girl as she finished this portion of her letter, bending forward and squiggling her tongue into her cheek as she proceeded]:"We are awfully sorry we can't have our fun, but sickness has to be respected. We'll agree to say nothing about it if you three will come and have supper with us on Wednesday night. You can easily manage, and we'll manage to get you home without any trouble. You see, the ladder that you were placing for us will do for yourselves, and you can get in by the attic window and creep to bed. Anyhow, that's your affair. Our affair is that you have got to come or my father and Florence's father will make a shindy, and then there will be—oh, yes, I can't help being vulgar—the fat in the fire. You will come, all three of you, and have supper with us here; and won't we give you a right jolly feast! Your affectionate friend,Emma Manners."P. S.—If you come, we'll do everything in our power to help you three girls to hide up the fact that you were out once in a while in the middle of the night."
"Dear Susan Marsh, Maud Thompson, and Star Lestrange" ["Don't I feel grand, talking to them by their Christian names?" thought the girl as she finished this portion of her letter, bending forward and squiggling her tongue into her cheek as she proceeded]:
"We are awfully sorry we can't have our fun, but sickness has to be respected. We'll agree to say nothing about it if you three will come and have supper with us on Wednesday night. You can easily manage, and we'll manage to get you home without any trouble. You see, the ladder that you were placing for us will do for yourselves, and you can get in by the attic window and creep to bed. Anyhow, that's your affair. Our affair is that you have got to come or my father and Florence's father will make a shindy, and then there will be—oh, yes, I can't help being vulgar—the fat in the fire. You will come, all three of you, and have supper with us here; and won't we give you a right jolly feast! Your affectionate friend,
Emma Manners.
"P. S.—If you come, we'll do everything in our power to help you three girls to hide up the fact that you were out once in a while in the middle of the night."
Emma's letter was much commented on and approved of by her companions. Finally, Florence went back to her own house, feeling that, on the whole, supper at the Mannerses' might be as amusing and instructive and fascinating as even the stolen feast in the front attic.
When Star reached home that evening she found the whole place in a sort of hush. Christian was asleep, and on that sleep all her future hung. If she awakened with her fever gone she would be extremely weak, but with great care she might be pulled through. The doctor himself sat by her bedside, his hand on her feeble, fluttering pulse. Miss Peacock also was in the room, and the professional nurse and Jessie occupied another of the white rooms just beyond. There was intense emotion all over the house. No one thought at that moment of anyone but the girl who lay, as it were, in the shadow of death. She was loved then as she had not been loved during her days of health. Each girl, as she sat with her companion, had something to say with regard to Christian Mitford. One girl noticed how expressive were her eyes, and another said that she looked a perfect lady. Her class-mates were unanimous, too, in remarks with regard to her talents: she was so forward in all her studies; she was so imaginative; she wrote such brilliant little papers. Then her voice had such a magical quality in it; it stirred the heart; particularly when she read.
Some of the teachers who were resident in the house also stood and talked of the sick girl. "She would have done us credit," said Miss Forest. Professor French said he never heard a girl of her age read Paradise Lost as she did. He was very much impressedwith her; he said she had the dramatic quality to a remarkable degree. "Well, well, it does seem sad!"
The teachers were evidently under the impression that Christian would not get well; but the girls—at least the greater number of them—could not bring themselves to believe this possible. Most of the girls had never seen death; consequently it seemed to them that to die one must be ill much longer, must suffer much more acute pain. They spoke in their ignorance, but all the same they acknowledged to a frightened fluttering at their hearts; and when one by one they stole upstairs to bed, they crept past Christian's room as though they might meet her ghost on the landing.
By and by Susan herself went up to bed. Star had not said a word to Susan since her return. Susan had not dared to question as to what had befallen Star when she went out. The act of disobedience was of no moment just then to the girls. Star was glad of this. She was so troubled and terrified about Christian that she forgot that she had been disobedient; she only regretted the time she had been absent from the house.
Susan as she went upstairs touched Maud on the shoulder.
"I can't sleep alone to-night," she said; "I should be frightened. Come and sleep with me, Maud."
Maud got up quietly. "As you like," she said.
"Oh, dear girls!" said Jessie as they were passing the refectory, "I know you are feeling it very much, all of you, but you mustn't break down; that would be the worst thing in all the world. I have got a lot of beautiful hot cocoa in jugs waiting for you. Come in and have a cup each."
"We may as well," said Susan, who seldom or never lost her appetite. She and Maud drank off a cup apieceof the nourishing, delicious drink, and Susan took up a thick piece of bread and butter. A few other girls followed her example, but the greater number shook their heads sorrowfully.
Jessie stood by the fire; her eyes were red and sunken, and her eyelids much swollen.
"Is she very, very bad?" said Susan at last.
Jessie gave her head a dismal shake.
"The doctor says she gets weaker and weaker."
"Is there no hope, then?" asked Maud, with terror in her voice.
"Oh, Maud! I don't know; I can't tell. All I know is that she can scarcely be worse and live; but the doctor does say that while there is life there is hope. That's about all."
"Oh, dear!" said Maud. She clutched Susan's hand.
They were just leaving the room when Jessie called them back.
"We are all going to pray that God may spare her," said Jessie. "There are to be prayers at midnight in the chapel. Any girl who likes to come will be welcome. Miss Peacock will be there, and she has asked Mr. Dalzell to come and pray with us."
"I don't think I'd care to go," said Susan; "that sort of thing frightens me very much."
Jessie said no more, and as Susan and Maud stole upstairs they saw other girls standing about in knots.
"Did you hear about the prayers in the chapel?" asked one.
"Yes," said Maud.
"Are you going?" asked a girl of Susan.
"No; not for all the world," said Susan. "It would terrify me into my grave."
She went upstairs, and Maud followed her. When they reached Susan's room Susan turned the key in the lock.
"Now then, thank goodness we're safe!" she said. "We'll get into bed and cover our heads up with the bedclothes, and pray that we may sleep all night. I'm horribly frightened. Aren't you, Maudie?"
"I think I'm more sorry than frightened," said Maud. "I wish we hadn't been so dreadful to her."
"Maud," said Susan, raising her voice to a pitch of agony, "you dare talk of that to-night? Why, it will drive me mad."
"But why did we do it, Susan? But for that she wouldn't be so ill."
"I don't believe you. Her illness has nothing to do with us. Oh, do let us get into bed! It is so dreadful to be up whenthatmay be coming into the house."
"Death, you mean?" said Maud. "I never saw death."
"I did," said Susan, "when my mother died. But that was a long time ago; I can scarcely remember it."
"I don't want to see anyone who is dead," said Maud.
"Of course, you needn't see her—I mean if she does die. I wish father would send for us both. I have a good mind to write to him to-morrow. This is horrible; it makes me forget even that dreadful Wednesday. Thank goodness, Florence did get that note! But we won't worry about that now. Isn't it a comfort that the precious immaculate Star should have put her foot in it? She did, didn't she, when she went deliberately and broke Miss Peacock's command—and just when Miss Peacock was in such trouble?"
"Oh, yes," said Maud; "but I don't like thinking of people getting into trouble to-night. I feel sort of repentant. Don't you Susan?"
"Not I."
"You are hard, Susan. Do you mean to say you are not sorry that we have been so cruel to Christian?"
"I'm determined not to think of it," said Susan. "There now, I'm in bed," she continued, springing under the bedclothes as she spoke. "Let's be quick and put out the lights, and let's be quite still and go to sleep."
Meanwhile the rest of the girls, whose whole hearts were full of Christian and her serious illness, congregated in the chapel at the hour of midnight. The service was short, but very impressive. It consisted of nothing more than an earnest—most earnest—prayer from Mr. Dalzell that God would spare the young life now hovering on the brink of eternity; that He would do this for the sake of her parents, for the sake of her mistresses, and for the sake of her schoolfellows; also for her own sake.
"But perhaps," said Mr. Dalzell as he rose from his knees—"perhaps, my dear girls, it may be the will of God not to spare the life of Christian Mitford. It may be possible that her death may be just the most beautiful thing for her. I understand that the crisis will come to-night. The doctor says that she cannot continue in her present condition many hours longer. We shall know, therefore, the best or the worst in the morning; and even if it should be God's will to take that bright young spirit to Himself, you will remember, my dear girls, that there is goodness in His severity, and a Father's heart; and, beneath the terrible sorrow, a Hand of Love. Girls, it is your first experience—your very first—that so loving a Hand may have to deal the blow; but nevertheless I hope you will trust in the Heavenly Father."
Star was sobbing bitterly, as were also several of the other girls.
"Go to your rooms now," said Miss Peacock. "Your attitude to-night will be one long prayer that God's will may be done, and also that His judgment may be tempered with mercy."
Early on the following morning a little figure in white might have been seen gliding from room to room all along the corridors where the Penwerne Manor girls slept. Softly door after door was opened and the little woman went in. She stood by the beds where the girls slept, and touched each young sleeper lightly on the shoulder. In many cases the girls were not asleep at all, but in others fatigue and sorrow had made them sleep soundly. To each and all Jessie had the same message to give:
"Christian is better. The crisis is past. The doctor now hopes that she will live."
The untold relief of her words brought a look of rapture to some faces, and sudden tears, which joy brought forth, to others.
Little Jessie went last to Star's room. She knew that in the whole of that house no one felt more keen anxiety than Star Lestrange. Jessie felt that she could stay with Star for a minute or two when she had given her message to the rest of the school.
When she opened the door Star was up. She turned quite a haggard face towards the little woman.
"Why, Star, my dear," said Jessie, "haven't you been to bed all night?"
"No," replied Star; "I couldn't sleep. I sat by the window, and then I knelt by the window, and then—and then—— Oh, Jessie, is she dead? Tell me the worst; don't keep me in suspense. Is she dead, Jessie?"
"No, Star. I have good news for you. Oh, my child, don't give way!"
For Star had suddenly flung herself face downwards on her little bed, and with arms outstretched over the bedclothes, had given way to a burst of uncontrollable tears.
"She will live," said Star, amongst her choking sobs. "Oh! tell me what the doctor says."
"She is better. She slept until three this morning; then she awoke with the fever gone, looking very calm, but, oh, so weak! We gave her nourishment by spoonfuls, and she fell asleep again. The doctor has gone home for a couple of hours; he will be back soon after ten o'clock. Of course, her state is terribly precarious; but now Dr. Tarbut thinks there is every reason to hope."
"Yes, she will live now," said Star. She rose suddenly to her feet. "Thank you, Jessie," she said.
She ran up to the little woman, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her passionately.
"I love you, Jessie. You know it, don't you?"
"I do, Star. And if you could only guess how I love you!"
"You love us all. You are a sort of guardian angel in the school. Sometimes I think you are even nicer and more beloved than our dear Miss Peacock. How is she this morning?"
"She looks bad, but she is keeping up wonderfully. The relief of this change for the better in Christian is doing her more good than any medicine."
"Can I do anything to help, Jessie?"
"I was going to speak to you about that, Star. There will naturally be a sort of reaction in the school to-day. The girls suffered severely yesterday, and Miss Peacock is the last person in the world to forget that fact. She says that there will only be morning lessons, and eventhese are to be of a very light and easy character. In the afternoon you are all to go for drives. Miss Peacock has ordered wagonettes to be sent round for the purpose. Then she wishes you to go to bed early to-night. To-morrow, of course, the ordinary routine will prevail."
"That is just like Miss Peacock," replied Star.
Her face did not brighten as she thought of the programme. Again she laid her hand on Jessie's shoulder.
"What can I do to help?"
"We don't have monitresses in this school," said Jessie, "but if you would act as one in your own class and amongst the girls of the third division——"
"Oh, amongst those girls!" said Star.
"Do you object, dear?"
"I object to nothing, Jessie; but you know the girls who are in the third class—Susan, Maud, Janet, Mary. I don't like them. I have quarreled with them now, too."
"But you will not think of yourself to-day, Star."
"Indeed—indeed I will not. Don't stay now; you have plenty to do. Trust me to strain every nerve to help you and dear Miss Peacock."
"I will tell her so, Star. I will give her your message. I can scarcely tell you how she trusts you. She said this morning, 'Get Star Lestrange to help. You know how fond she is of the Sixth Form girls.' She says that you can be more useful than any of the others to-day. You will do your best, won't you, Star?"
Jessie left the room, and Star flung herself again on her knees. She uttered a brief, passionate, earnest prayer; a cry of pure thanksgiving rose from her heart. Then, finishing her toilet, she ran downstairs.
The relief in the school was intense; each girl looked softened and inclined to be amiable. The knowledge,too, that they were to go for a long drive was highly appreciated. Depressed spirits were lifted again on the wings of hope; in short, the girls became themselves once more.
Lessons went on without any special interruption or any special event occurring. No music was permitted, but the ordinary work proceeded with ordinary satisfaction. The doctor's carriage, however, caused a flutter in the breasts of many of the girls. Star looked at the girls of her own class, and also at the girls of the third class. Suddenly she rose.
"He is going now," she said; "but I mean to be very bold. I mean to go into the entrance-hall and question him."
There was an attempt at clapping hands under the tables; but at the word "Hush!" from Miss Forest the girls refrained.
"Star, where are you going?" said her teacher.
"I want to ask Dr. Tarbut how Christian is," was Star's response.
Miss Forest's face showed that she longed to hear as much as the girls did. She made no remark, and Star ran into the hall.
"How is she?" asked the little girl.
The doctor was just putting on his overcoat. He turned kindly towards her.
"Why, Miss——"
"My name is Star—Star Lestrange," said the child.
"And you are anxious?"
"We are all anxious," said Star. "Please let me know the very, very truth."
"It is this, Miss Star," said the doctor, and he put his hand on her shoulder. "This is the very, very truth. Your friend is doingfirst-rate. Now, remember she must not be startled; she must be kept absolutely quiet.You must all recollect that there is a sick girl in the house, and you must on no account do anything to disturb her rest. She will be sleeping on and off the whole of the day, and very likely to-morrow, and for several days to come; and if no one disturbs her, I have not the slightest doubt that she will be quite well in a short time. But don't forget my message to you and the other girls: no noise, please."
"I'd cut my tongue out before I'd make any noise," said Star; and then she flashed a grateful, beautiful glance into the doctor's face, and ran back to her fellows.
Her news gave intense relief, and when the hour of recess came Christian was certainly the heroine, for no one else was talked about.
Morning lessons had come to an end; there was to be a hasty lunch, and then the girls were to start on their drive. The day was a most beautiful one for the time of the year, and they were all in good spirits.
Just as they were assembling in the hall, waiting for the wagonettes to come up, one of the servants, a housemaid who had been only a very short time at the Manor, darted into their midst and thrust a note into Susan Marsh's hand. The teachers were not present.
Susan grabbed the note, turned white, and thrust it into her pocket. Star had seen the transaction. She had not intended to drive in the same wagonette with Susan; she was looking forward to a peaceful time with Louisa Twining and some of her own special friends; but now she changed her mind.
The wagonettes came up, and Star pushed herself to the front.
"I am monitress," she said. "Will you, So-and-so, and So-and-so"—she mentioned a few names—"get into that wagonette?"
The wagonette was quickly filled. It drove a little way down the avenue to wait for the others. The next wagonette came up and also received its load of girls, and finally the fourth and last arrived at the door.
"Come along, Susan," said Star.
"What! are you going to drive with us?" said Susan.
"Yes," answered Star.
Susan got in, looking sulky. Soon the wagonette was filled. Star jumped in last, banged-to the door, and told the driver to start.
They reached their destination, a beautiful ruin about eight miles away, examined it to their hearts' content, had tea in a cottage near, where such things were supplied to visitors, and finally were about to start home, when Star went up to Susan and touched her on the arm.
"Read your note," she said brusquely.
"My note?"
"Don't be silly, Susan; I saw Ellen give it to you. Read it; I want to know the contents."
"What possible affair is it of yours?"
"I mean to make it my affair," said Star. "You had best be quick about it. You know I disobeyed yesterday."
"You did, and a fine row you'll get into. Oh, you immaculate girl, whom Miss Peacock thinks so much of! I can open her eyes."
"I can explain things to Miss Peacock," said Star; "but that is neither here nor there. I am prepared to suffer if I have done wrong. But, Susan, my wrong-doing won't put yours right. You are in a very serious position at this moment, and you had best let me help you."
"Help me?" said Susan. "Do you mean to?"
"I will tell you presently. Read your letter."
"I—I won't."
"Very well. Perhaps you will when I have spoken a little longer. Yesterday evening I went home to tea with Florence Dixie."
"You did? Well, I never!"
"I had tea with her, and she walked back with me part of the way. I asked her to tell me if you had sent her a note. She denied it."
"Of course she did, for I never sent her any note."
"Just wait a while, Susan, before you tell any more lies. Well, she and I were talking together, when those interesting friends of yours, the Mannerses, came up. They immediately spoke to Florence about the note that she had received. I can bring them forward as witnesses if necessary. That's about all for the present. Maud did deliver a note to Florence Dixie, and I can bring witnesses to prove it."
Susan turned very white. "Really, Star," she said, "I can't imagine why I have put up with your interference." But though she said the words in a defiant tone, she was a good deal shaken and very much alarmed. "You surely don't want to make mischief now," she said—"now, whensheis better."
"Susan," said Star very earnestly, "do you know why I was so awfully wretched last night?"