'And Dick, though pale as any ghost,Had only said to me,"We're all right now, old lad."'Author of 'John Halifax.'
Miss Neale was rather in a hurry to get home that afternoon, so she and Celestina did not linger at the tea-table as they sometimes did. By half-past four they had gone, for on Miss Neale's account tea had been ordered half an hour earlier than usual.
Rosalys disappeared—mamma wanted her, she said. So Bridget was left alone, for Rough had begun school some time ago. He rode over every morning, and got home again about six.
'I wonder if papa is in,' thought Biddy idly, for a moment or two half inclined to see if she might pay him a visit in the study. But then she remembered that he had been out all day, and that he was notexpected home till dinner-time. There were not many very poor people at Seacove, but there were a great many young men and boys always about the wharf, and some fishermen and their families living half-way between the little town and a fishing village called Portscale, some way along the coast. At Portscale there was a beautiful old church, and a vicar younger and much more active than Dr. Bunton. Mr. Vane and he had made friends at once, and to-day they had arranged to visit some of these outlying neighbours together, for even though Mr. Vane was not at all strong and had come to Seacove for a rest, he was far too good and energetic not to do all he possibly could.
Biddy felt very cross when she remembered that her father was out. She strolled to the window; it was still bright and sunny—a sudden thought struck her. She hurried upstairs to the room where her hat and jacket were lying as she had just taken them off—her boots were still on her feet, and in less time than it takes me to tell, for Biddycouldbe quick if she chose, a sturdy little figure might have been seen trotting down the sandy path which led to the shore.
'If they leave me alone I'm forced to amuse myself and do things alone,' she said to herself, as a sort of excuse to her own conscience, whichwastrying, poor thing, to make itself heard, reminding her too that there were plenty of things she could have done comfortably at home in the nursery, where Jane Dodson was not bad company when allowed to talk in her own slow way. There were to-morrow's lessons in the first place—pleasant, easy lessons to do alone, and not too much of them; and there was the kettle-holder she was making for grandmamma's birthday! But no, Biddy refused to listen. She was determined to carry out the wild scheme she had got in her head—'Itwillbe nice to put Celestina down,' she said to herself.
A very few minutes' quick walking, or running rather, for Biddy could run too when she chose, brought her to the end, or the beginning, whichever you like to call it, of the long rough road, so to speak, of stones, stretching far out to sea. Biddy had gone some way along it two or three times when out with the others; it was a very interesting place to walk along, as the outgoing tide left dear little pools, which held all sorts of treasures in the way of seaweed and tiny crabs and jellyfish, besides which, the scrambling over the pools and picking one's way wasvery exciting, especially when there was a merry party of three or four together. Biddy found it amusing enough even by herself, for some little time, that is to say. But after a while she got rather tired of not being able to walk straight on, and once or twice sharp stones cut and bruised her feet, and she wished she had some one's hand to take to steady her. She was very eager to get to the other end of the tongue, or ridge of stones, for once there she felt sure it would be but easy walking over sand to the lighthouse. For the lighthouse as you will have guessed, was her destination!
'I daresay the sand'll be rather wet,' she thought; 'it must be the wetness that Celestina thought was water, for it shines just like water sometimes. I'll run over it very quick and my boots are thick. What fun it'll be to tell Celestina I've been to the lighthouse all by myself!'
But the stones grew rougher and rougher. The tongue was not really more than half a mile long, but it seemed much more. Several times before she got to the end of it Biddy looked back with a half acknowledged thought that perhaps it would be best to give up the expedition after all—no one need know she had tried it. But behind her by this timethe rough stones seemed a dreary way, and in front it did not now look far. She felt as if shecouldnot go back, and she had a sort of vague hope that somehow or other the nice old man Celestina had told her of would help her to get home an easier way. Perhaps he would take her round in a boat!
At last she got to the end of the stones, and then, oh joy! there lay before her a beautiful smooth stretch of ripple-marked sand—how delightful it was to run along it, so firm and pleasant it felt to her tired little feet. The lighthouse seemed still a good way off—farther than she had expected, but at first, in the relief of having got off the stones, she almost felt as if she could fly. She did get over the ground pretty quickly for some minutes, and even when she began to go more slowly she kept up a pretty good pace. And at last she saw the queer building—it reminded her a little of an old pigeon-house at grandmamma's, for it was not a very high lighthouse—almost close to her. But, Celestina had spoken truly, between it and her there lay a good-sized piece of water, stretching up to the rocks, or great rough stones round the base of the lighthouse—a sort of lake which evidently was always there, filled up afresh by each visit of the tide.
Bridget gasped. But she was determined enoughonce she had made up her mind. She went close up to the water; it did not look at all deep and her skirts were very short. Down she sat on the sand, less dry than it looked, and pulled off her shoes and stockings, tying them up into a bundle as she had seen tramps do in the country. Then lifting her frock as high as she could, in she plunged.Oh, how cold it was! But the water did not come up very high, not over her knees, though now and then a false step wetted her pretty badly. She was shivering all over, but on she waded, till within a few yards only of the sort of little shore surrounding the lighthouse, when—what was the matter with the sand, what made it seem to go away from her all at once? She plunged about, but on all sides it seemed to be sloping downwards; higher and higher rose the water, till it was above her waist, and still every movement made it rise.
'I'm drowning,' screamed Biddy. 'Oh, help me, help me! Man in the lighthouse, can't you hear me? Oh, oh, oh!'
Biddy fortunately had good lungs and her screams carried well. But the water kept rising, or rather she kept slipping farther down. She was losing her head now, and had not the sense to stand still, and she waspartly stupefied by cold. It would have gone badly with her but for—what I must now tell you about.
It was what would be called, I suppose, a curious coincidence, the sort of chance, so to say—though 'chance' is a word without real meaning—that many people think only happens in story-books, in which I do not at all agree, for I have known in real life far stranger coincidences than I ever read of—well, it was by a very fortunate coincidence that that very afternoon Bridget's father happened to be at the lighthouse. He had gone out there by a sudden thought of Mr. Mildmay's, the Portscale clergyman I told you of, who had mentioned in talking that he had not been there for some time.
'And it is a very fine mild day,' he said. 'It doesn't take twenty minutes in a boat. If you don't think it would hurt you, Mr. Vane?'
Mr. Vane was delighted. There was a good deal of the boy about him still; he loved anything in the shape of a bit of fun, and he loved boating. So off the two came, and were most pleasantly welcomed by old Tobias and his second-in-command at the lighthouse. And by another happy chance, just as Biddy began to wade, Mr. Vane had come to the side of the lantern-room looking over in her direction.
'What can that be, moving slowly through that bit of water?' he said to Tobias. 'I am rather near-sighted. Is it a porpoise?'
'Nay, nay, sir, not at this season,' replied the old man; 'besides it's far too shallow for anything like that, though there is a deepish hole near the middle.'
He strolled across to where Mr. Vane was standing as he spoke, and stared out where his visitor pointed to. Then suddenly he flung open one of the glazed doors and stepped on to the round balcony—perhaps that is not the right word to use for a lighthouse, but I do not know any other—outside, followed by Mr. Vane. Just then Biddy's screams came shrilly through the clear afternoon air, for it was a still day, and out at the lighthouse, when there was no noise of wind and waves, there was certainly nothing else to disturb the silence except perhaps the cry of a sea-gull overhead, or now and then the sound of the fishermen's voices as they passed by in their boats. And just now the waves were a long way out and the winds were off I know not where—all the better for the poor silly child, who, having got herself into this trouble, could do nothing but scream shrilly and yet more shrilly in her terror.
Old Tobias turned and looked at Mr. Vane.
'It's a child, 'pon my soul, it's a child,' he exclaimed, and he sprang inside again and made for the ladder leading downstairs. But quick as he was, his visitor was before him. People talk of the miraculous quickness of a mother's ears; a father's, I think, are sometimes quite as acute, and Bridget's father loved dearly his self-willed, tiresome, queer-tempered little girl. Long before he got to the top of the ladder he knew more than old Tobias, more than any of them—Mr. Mildmay or young Williams, the other lighthouse man—had any idea of. He knew that the voice which had reached him was that of his own Biddy, and before Tobias could give him a hint, or ever a word had been said as to what was best to do, he had pulled off his coat, tossed away his hat, and was up to his waist in the water. For though notsodeep close round the lighthouse as at the dangerous place where Biddy had lost her head, this salt-water lake even at low tide was never less than two or three feet in depth at the farther side.
'I can swim,' was all Mr. Vane called out to the three hurrying after him. But so could Mr. Mildmay, and so could, of course, Tobias and Williams. And it was not so much the fear of his friend's drowning as the thought of the mischief that mightcome to him, delicate as he was, from the chill and exposure, that made Mr. Mildmay shout after him, 'Come back, I entreat you, Vane; you are not fit for it,' while he struggled to drag off a very heavy pair of boots he had on—boots he had on purpose for rough shingly walking, but which he knew would weight him terribly in the water.
A touch on his arm made him start. It was Tobias.
'Stop you here, sir,' he said; 'Bill's off, and he's the youngest and spryest,' and sure enough there was Williams already within a few yards of Mr. Vane. 'I don't take it there's much danger of no drownding—and Bill knows the deep part. But it's cold for the gentleman, so delicate as he is—we two had best stay dry and be ready to give 'em a hand when they get in. But it beats me, it do, to think what child could be such a fool as to try to cross that there water—such a thing's ne'er happened before.'
Mr. Mildmay did not like to give in, though he knew there was sense in what Tobias said. He stood hesitating, one boot half off, but there was not long to wait. Soon came a cheery cry from Williams, 'All right, sir, all right,' and in almost lesstime than it takes to tell it, the two men, half-swimming, half-wading, were seen returning, carrying between them a little dripping figure, with streaming hair, white face, and closed eyes.
'——carrying between them a little dripping figure, with streaming hair, white face, and closed eyes.' P. 161.
It was thus that Biddy paid her long thought-of visit to the lighthouse.
She was not drowned, nor anything approaching to it; she had only once, or twice perhaps, been thoroughly under the water; the whole had in reality passed very quickly, but not so had it seemed to Biddy. Unless you have ever been, or thought yourself in danger of drowning, you could not understand how in such a case seconds seem minutes, and minutes hours; and the ducking and the cold and the terror all combined had made things seem worse than they really were. Bridget was almost quite unconscious by the time her father had got hold of her—perfectly stupefied any way; her clothes were heavy too, and she was at no time a light weight. Altogether it was a very good thing indeed that strong hardy Bill was close behind Mr. Vane, whose powers would not have held out very long. As it was, he was whiter even than Biddy, his teeth chattering with cold and nervous excitement, when at last the whole party found themselves safe in the living-room or kitchen of the lighthouse.
Old Tobias had hot blankets down before the fire and a steaming tumbler of brandy and water ready in no time. Biddy, deposited in front of the grate, sat up and looked about her in a dazed sort of way. She felt as if she were dreaming.
'Biddy,' said her father, 'you must take off the wettest of your things at once.'
Biddy began to finger her garments.
'My frock's the worst,' she said; 'and oh, where's my hat gone?'
'Never mind your hat, child,' said Tobias. 'Here, step this way,' and he led her to a sort of partition in the corner of the room, behind which was his own bed; 'take off your things, my dear, and get into bed with this blanket round you whiles I sees to the gentleman. You'll be none the worse of your drenching: salt water's a deal better for not catching cold. It's the gentleman we must see to. It's the new rector, and a delicate gentleman he is.'
Biddy stared up at him.
'It's my papa,' she said.
It was the old man's turn to stare now.
'Your papa!' he exclaimed. He had neverdreamt but that Biddy was a Seacove child, tempted out too far by the fine afternoon—a fisherman's or boatman's daughter. But however curious he was to hear more, he had too much sense to cross-question her just then.
'Get into bed, missie, and get to sleep for a bit, while your things dry.'
Biddy had had her share of weak brandy and water; she had never tasted it before, and it soon sent her to sleep.
Tobias went back to Mr. Vane.
'She's all right, sir. I'd no notion as she was your young lady. Was she awaitin' for you on the sands, or how?'
Mr. Vane shook his head.
'I know no more about it than you,' he said. But he still looked so white and faint that the lighthouse man and the others gave all their attention to getting him warmed and dried, and at last they got him to look a little better, though he declared he could not go to sleep.
'You can stay quiet any way,' said Mr. Mildmay. But Mr. Vane looked up anxiously.
'My wife,' he said. 'She will be getting frightened, not about me merely, but the child.'
'I will take the boat back at once and tell her,' said Mr. Mildmay; 'if Williams can come with me, it won't take long. I'll run up to the Rectory, and then we'll bring another man out to help to row us all back again. I'll bring some wraps too. You think you'll be fit to go home in an hour or so?'
'Certainly,' said Mr. Vane decidedly. 'I could not stay here.'
Mr. Mildmay reached the Rectory to find poor Mrs. Vane in a sad state of fright. Biddy's absence had not been discovered for some time, as Rosalys was busy with her mother, and Rough had not come in from school, and everybody, if they thought about her at all, naturally thought she was with some one else. For a girl of seven or eight should surely be sensible enough to be left to herself for an hour in her own nursery or schoolroom! But once the hue and cry after her began, it really did seem as if there were cause for alarm. Every one had some new idea to suggest, ending by Rough, who, as he came riding in on his pony and heard the news, declared she must be hiding out of mischief.
But no—a very short search dispelled that possibility, and the pony had to be saddled againfor Rough to set off as fast as he could to Seacove to inquire if the truant had perhaps followed Celestina home.
'And your father not in yet either,' said Mrs. Vane. 'Oh, Alie, whatcanbe the matter? Can something have happened to him that Biddy has heard of, and that has made her run off to him—poor Biddy, she is very fond of papa. But if she has run away out of mischief, Alie—oh,couldshe be such a naughty, naughty girl?'
Mrs. Vane was dreadfully excited. Alie had hard work to keep back her own tears.
'Just as we weresohappy about the doll-house for her too,' Mrs. Vane went on.
Rosalys gave a little sob.
'Ithinkperhaps she's at Celestina's,' she said. But in less time than could have been expected back dashed Rough. No, Biddy was not, had not been at Pier Street, but Celestina and her mother were following him as fast as they could to the Rectory—Celestina had an idea—she would explain it all—but she begged Mrs. Vane to send down to the shore; the sea was out, and it was still light enough to see any one there a good way off.
A party was at once despatched to the sands, invain, as we know, for by this time Mr. Mildmay had landed from his boat and was hurrying along to calm Mrs. Vane's anxiety. He arrived there a quarter of an hour or so after Mrs. Fairchild and her daughter, so Celestina had had time to explain the idea which had struck her—we know what it was, and that it was the true one—and to relate to Mrs. Vane all her reasons for imagining it possible that self-willed, obstinate Biddy had set out on her own account to walk to the lighthouse.
So when Mr. Mildmay appeared and told his strange story, his hearers were able to explain what to him and Mr. Vane had seemed a complete mystery.
'Howcouldshe be so naughty?' Mrs. Vane exclaimed. But Alie touched her gently.
'Only, dear mamma,' she whispered, 'think; she might have been drowned.'
'And so might your father, and as it is, I tremble to think what the consequences may be for him. I do feel as if I could not forgive Bridget,' said Mrs. Vane excitedly.
Mrs. Fairchild was very, very sorry for her, but she was a brave woman. She managed to draw Mrs. Vane aside.
'Dear madam,' she said, 'I do feel for you. But we must be just. Remember the child had no idea of what would be the result of her folly. It was really but a piece of childish folly or naughtiness. And it may be a lesson for all her life; it may be the turning-point for her—if—if only you would—if you can meet her—gently—if nothing is said to harden her.'
'I will try. I promise you I will try,' said Mrs. Vane very softly. 'But oh, Mrs. Fairchild, if it has made my husband ill!' and her voice broke.
'We must hope not—hope and pray,' said Celestina's mother in a low voice.
'And there was something so interesting I wanted to tell you; I had a letter to-day from Madame d'Ermont—such a nice letter. And now all this has spoilt everything,' went on poor Mrs. Vane.
'Never mind. You will tell me about it another time,' said Mrs. Fairchild soothingly. 'Would it—excuse my suggesting it—would I be in the way if I stayed till they come? I have some experience as to chills and accidents of all sorts—and I would like to see how they are.'
'Oh, thank you,' said Mrs. Vane fervently. 'Ishould be most grateful. I have no one now with any head about me since my last maid left.'
And Mrs. Fairchild stayed—not that evening only, but all night, sending Celestina home to explain matters to her father.
'"Love will make the lesson light.. . . Teach me how to learn it right,"Through her tears smiled Daisy.'—Anon.
For Mrs. Vane's troubles came thickly just then. Before night it was evident that both Biddy and her father were not to escape all bad results from the chill and wetting; and the Seacove doctor, who was sent for at once, looked grave, shook his head as he murmured that it was no doubt most unfortunate. He would say nothing decided beyond giving some simple directions till he should see how the patients were the next day. Biddy, after a violent fit of crying, which came on when she found her father could not come 'to say good-night,' andbegging, among her sobs, to be forgiven, fell asleep, and slept heavily, to wake again in an hour or two, feverish, restless, and slightly delirious. This, however, was on thewhole less alarming, for very little will make a child light-headed, than Mr. Vane's condition. There was no sleep for him, poor man; he was racked with pain and terribly awake—nervously anxious to know the ins and outs of Biddy's escapade, and to soften it as much as possible in her mother's eyes. Mrs. Vane kept her promise of being very gentle with Biddy, and indeed, when in her room, and seeing the poor little thing so ill, it was not difficult to be so. But once away from her, and in sight of her husband's sufferings, the irritation against Biddy grew almost too great to keep down. And Mrs. Vane was not very good at keeping down or keeping in her feelings, and each time she burst out it seemed to make Mr. Vane worse. There was no going to bed for either her or Mrs. Fairchild that night; indeed, what she would have done without Celestina's wise and gentle mother I do not know. It was she who sensibly made the best of it all, soothing Mrs. Vane, who really needed it almost as much as Biddy and her father; and the only snatches of sleep Mr. Vane got were when her soft and pleasant voice had been reading aloud to him.
'I don't know how to thank you,' said Biddy's mother tearfully the next morning early, when she atlast persuaded Mrs. Fairchild to lie down a little. 'Can't you stay all day to rest?'
But Mrs. Fairchild shook her head, smiling.
'I must go home,' she said. 'At the latest I must go home by ten o'clock. It will be all right till then. I can trust Celestina to see to her father's breakfast and everything, and there's not much doing in the shop before then. Celestina will have let Miss Neale know not to come.'
'How well you have brought your little girl up—how thoughtful and womanly she is; and to think that she is only a year or two older than Bridget!' said Mrs. Vane sadly.
'It has not been exactly my doing,' Celestina's mother replied. 'I often think the very things I would have wished different for her have been the best training. She hashadto be helpful and thoughtful; she has had her own duties and share of responsibility almost all her life.'
'Biddy never feels responsible for anything—not even for learning her lessons or being ready for meals,' said her mother.
'Well, that is just what wants awaking in her. This lesson may show her that even a child is responsible, that a child may cause sad trouble.One would rather she had learnt it the other way, but it may be what she needed.'
Mrs. Vane sighed. She wanted to be patient, but she could hardly bring herself to feel that a lesson which was to cost Biddy's father such suffering, nay, even to risk his life perhaps, would not be too dearly bought.
The doctor came, but he was not much more outspoken than the night before. Biddy was to be kept very quiet, the more she could sleep the better; as for Mr. Vane, hehopedit would not be rheumatic fever, but it was plain he feared it. And he advised Mrs. Vane to get a trained nurse.
A trying time followed. For some days it seemed almost certain that Mr. Vane was in for rheumatic fever; in the end he just managed to escape it, but he was sadly weakened, and the cough, which had disappeared since his coming to Seacove, began again. It would be weeks before he could leave his room.
And Biddy, too, did not get well as had been expected. She lay there white and silent as if she did not want to get better, only seeming thoroughly to wake up when she asked, as she did at least every two hours, how papa was, and sinking back again when the usual answer came of 'No better,' or 'Verylittle better.' Her mother was very kind to her, but she could not be much with Biddy, and perhaps it was as well, for it would have been almost impossible for her to hide for long her great unhappiness about Mr. Vane.
Mrs. Fairchild came to the Rectory as often as she could; sometimes she sat with Biddy for an hour or more at a time, but Biddy scarcely spoke, and Celestina's mother was both sorry for her and anxious about her.
'There seems no one able to pay much attention to her,' she said one evening at home; 'poor Mrs. Vane is so taken up, and no wonder, with her husband, and Rosalys is as busy as she can be, helping and seeing to everything.'
There came a little voice from the other side of the table: the Fairchilds were at tea.
'Mother, do you think I might go to see her?' it asked. 'I'd be very quiet.'
'I'll ask,' Mrs. Fairchild answered. 'You might come with me to-morrow and wait outside while I find out if it would do.'
Mrs. Vane had no objection—Biddy was really not ill now, she said. It was just one of her queer ways to lie still and refuse to get up. PerhapsCelestina would make her ashamed of herself. So Celestina was brought upstairs, and tapped gently at the door.
'Come in,' said Bridget, though without looking up. But when the neat little figure came forward, close to the bedside, and she glanced round and saw who it was, a smile came over her face—the first for a long time.
'Celestina!' she exclaimed joyfully. But then the smile died away again, and a red flush covered her cheeks and forehead. 'No,' she said, turning on the other side, 'I don't want to see you. Go away.'
Celestina felt very distressed. But she wanted to do Biddy good, so she put back her own feelings.
'Please don't say that,' she said. 'I'll stay as quiet as anything, but please don't send me away. I've been so wanting to see you.'
There was a slight turning towards her on this, and at last Biddy lifted her head from the pillow a little.
'Did you truly want to see me?' she said.
'Of course I did. I've been very sorry about you being ill,' Celestina replied.
Biddy did not speak. Then Celestina heard afaint sound, and going up a little closer still, she saw that Biddy was crying.
'Dear Miss Biddy,' she whispered. Then a pair of hot little arms, not so fat as they had been, were stretched out and thrown round her neck.
'Will you kiss me, Celestina?' whispered Bridget. 'Do you really love me? If you do, you're the only one. I'm too naughty—I've been too naughty. I've as good as killed papa—I know he's going to die. I heard them saying the first night I'd as good as killed him, though I pretended not to hear. And I've been trying to die myself; I thought p'raps if I prayed a great, great lot to be forgiven, God would forgive me before I died. But I want to die, because I'm so naughty I'm only a trouble. And Icouldn'tlive without papa, knowing I'd as good as killed him. Oh, Celestina,' and here the voice grew so low that Celestina could scarcely hear it, 'are you quite sure that papa hasn't died already and they won't tell me?' and Celestina felt her shiver.
'I heard him speaking as I came upstairs,' said Celestina, so quietly that Biddy believed her perfectly; 'the door of his room was open. I think he must be a little better to-day.'
'Oh,' said Biddy with a gasp, 'I do wonder if he is.'
'And——' Celestina began, then stopped again, 'I don't think you should talk about trying to die like that,' she said. 'I—I think it would be rather a lazy way of being sorry for what we'd done wrong just to try to die.'
'I suppose it's because I'm lazy then. They all say I'm very lazy,' Biddy replied. 'But I can't help it. I'm not going to try and be good any more. I fixed that before—before that day. It's no use.'
Celestina considered a little.
'I should think,' she said at last—'I should think you would want to get better to help to take care of your papa and make him better.'
Biddy started at this. It was a new idea.
'Do you think they'd let me?' she said in a half whisper. 'I thought I was too little. Did you ever help to take care of your papa when he was ill? But p'raps he's never been ill?'
'Oh yes, he has,' said Celestina, with a sigh. 'I think he's iller than your papa very often. I do lots of things for him then: I make his tea always, and tidy his room. And sometimes when he's getting better and comes downstairs to the parlour I read aloud to him. For when he's ill, mother has all the more to be in the shop, you know.'
Bridget listened intently. At last—
'Celestina,' she said, 'I do wish I could see papa. It would make mequitesure he's alive, you know, for it all seems so muddled in my head since the day I was so naughty. And if he'd forgive me, and if he'd get better, I think,perhaps, I'd ask God to make me better too, so that I might make papa's tea and read aloud to him like you do.'
'Perhaps it wouldn't be exactly that,' said Celestina, a little afraid of the responsibility of putting anything into Bridget's head, 'but I'm sure you could dosomething. And why shouldn't you see him? Miss Alie was in his room just now.'
Bridget would have hung her head if she had not been lying down. As it was, she looked ashamed.
'He mustn't get up at all, you know,' she said. 'And one day when they offered me to go to see him, I wouldn't.'
'You wouldn't?' exclaimed Celestina.
'No,' said Biddy; 'I didn't want to see him looking like he did that day.'
'But you'd like to see him now, wouldn't you?'
'Yes,' said Biddy. 'If you were to get me my dressing-gown, Celestina, don't you think I might just run down the passage and the little stair and goto see him? He lies on the sofa in his room, Alie said one day.'
Celestina looked frightened.
'Don't you think you should ask your mamma first?' she said. 'Besides, I thought you were too ill to walk.'
'Oh no,' said Bridget; 'I think I could walk if I tried. But you may go and ask mamma if you like; I'm sure she'll say I may.'
Off flew Celestina. She too felt pretty sure that Mrs. Vane would be pleased to hear of Biddy's wish. But when she got to the room where she had left her mother with Mrs. Vane, they were not there, and Alie, who came in a moment afterwards, said they were walking up and down the garden; if Celestina would go out she would be sure to meet them. 'And mamma will be very pleased to hear that Biddy wants to go to see papa. He has asked for her several times, but he said she wasn't to be forced, not till she felt inclined. Papaisso good and patient, and he is really a little bit better to-day,' said Rosalys brightly.
Upstairs Bridget was eagerly waiting for Celestina's return. She had got out of bed and reached down her dressing-gown for herself, feeling rathersurprised at finding how well she could walk; she had found her slippers too, and stood there leaning against the bed, quite ready for her little expedition.
After a while she crept to the door and peeped out. Sounds, cheerful sounds of the usual morning stir in a well-managed house came up the stairs; she heard faint clatter from the kitchen, and now and then a little laugh or a few words of the servants talking together. But no one was about upstairs.
'Papa must be a little better,' thought Bridget, 'else they wouldn't seem like that. I do wish Celestina would come back. I wonder if she's forgotten?'
She edged herself a tiny bit into the passage. It did not seem far, only along by the balusters and down the little stair to papa's room; and just then came a sound which seemed to go straight to Biddy's heart. It was papa's cough—not a very bad one, just his usual little cough. It seemed to waken her up—till now she had felt almost as if in a sort of dream; it was so queer to feel and hear all the house-life going on the same as ever when she had been out of it so long, for ten or twelve days is a long time to a child—but the sound of papa's cough seemed tomake everything real, to join the past and the present together again, still more, to touch a spring in Biddy which I think she had scarcely known was there. And without stopping to think any more, off she set, along the passage and down the stair, till she found herself, breathless and rather giddy, but full of eagerness, at her father's door.
It was open, as Celestina had said, and half shy now, Biddy peeped in. He was lying on a couch between the fire and the window; it was a brightspring-likemorning—he had a book in his hand, but he did not seem to be reading; he was quite still, his eyes were gazing out to the clear blue sky, and the look in his face was very sweet. Then again came the little cough. That was the signal. In rushed Biddy.
'Papa, dear papa,' she cried, as she half threw herself, half tumbled upon him, for she felt giddy again with moving so fast. 'Dear papa, are you getting better? Please don't die, dear papa, and Iwilltry to be good. And oh, please forgive me, and don't say I as good as killed you.'
'My poor little Biddy,' said Mr. Vane, raising himself so as to see her, and drawing her tenderly on to the couch beside him,—'my poor little Biddy. Soyou've come to see me at last! And are you getting better, dear?'
'Yes, yes, papa, but please tell me you're not going to die because of me,' and Biddy began to cry, but gently, not in her old way.
Mr. Vane tried to speak, but his cough was troublesome.
'I think I'm a little better, dear,' he said, 'and, please God, I hope to be better yet. And it will be a great help to me if I see you quite well again, and trying to be of use to mamma, Biddy, and to Alie. You can help to nurse me, you know.'
Biddy looked up. The very things Celestina had said!
'Papa!' she said, 'might I really? Would mamma let me? Will everybody forgive me?'
Was it Biddy speaking? Even her father could scarcely believe it.
Just at that moment Mrs. Vane came hurriedly into the room: she had been to Biddy's, on receiving Celestina's message, and finding the bird flown, had naturally taken alarm.
'Biddy!' she exclaimed, as she caught sight of the child beside her father, his arm round her, her eager flushed face looking up at him—and her tone wasrather anxious and annoyed. But Mr. Vane glanced at his wife with a little sign which she understood. She came quickly towards them.
'Biddy,' whispered her father, 'here is mamma.'
Bridget's face worked for a moment, then she flung her arms round her mother's neck.
'Mamma, mamma,' she whispered, 'I'm going to try to be good—if only you'll forgive me. I don't want to die if I can be good and help to nurse papa. Mamma, there was somethingverysorry came into my heart when papa got me out of the water and I saw how white he was. But I wouldn't listen to it, and it got hard and horrid. But now it's come again—Celestina began it, and Iwillbe good—anddon'tyou think God will make papa better?'
I don't think Mrs. Vane had ever kissed Biddy as she kissed her then.
Doctors say thatwishingto get better has a good deal to do with it. It did seem so in Mr. Vane's case; he was not afraid to die, but he was still young, and it seemed to him that if he were spared to live there were many good and useful things he could do. And he was a happy and cheerful man; he loved being alive, and he loved this beautifulworld, and longed to make other people as happy as he was himself. Most of all he loved his wife and children, and his great wish to get well was for their sake more than for any other reason. And never during the several illnesses he had had did he wishquiteso much to get well as now. For he had a feeling that if he did not recover a sad shadow would be cast over Biddy's life—a shadow that would not grow lighter but darker, he feared, as she came more fully to understand that her folly or childish naughtiness had been the cause of his illness and death.
'It would leave a sore memory in her mother's heart too,' Mr. Vane said to himself, 'however much she tried not to let it come between her and the child.'
And I fear it would have done so.
So Biddy's father did his best to get well. Not by fidgeting and worrying and thinking of nothing but his own symptoms, but by cheerful patience. He obeyed the doctor's orders exactly, and forced himself to believe that the work he would fain have been doing would get done, by God's help, even thoughhemight not do it; he kept up his interest in all going on about him, watching with the keenestinterest the pretty, shy approaches of the spring from his window; he read as much as he was allowed, and helped Rough with his lessons in the evening, and had a bright smile for everybody at all times.
'I almost feel as if he were too good to live,' said Mrs. Fairchild one evening to Celestina and her father, when she had returned from a visit to the rectory. But this time it was Mr. Fairchild's turn to speak cheerily, for he too had been spending an hour or two with the invalid that day.
'I saw a decided improvement to-day,' he said. 'I do think Mr. Vane's patience is wonderful, but I have a strong feeling that he is really beginning to gain ground.'
Celestina's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and so did her mother's. The two families had grown very much attached to each other in these few weeks.
'Won'tthey all be happy when he gets well?' said the little girl. 'And oh, mother, isn't dear little Biddy different from what she was? She is so gentle and thoughtful, and she's hardlynevercross. She does so many little things to help.'
Mrs. Fairchild smiled. In her heart she thought that Celestina had certainly had a hand in this pleasant change, but she would not say so. Childrengot less praised 'then-a-days,' as a little friend of mine calls long ago, for their parents were exceedingly afraid of spoiling them, and the thought of taking any credit to herself had never entered the child's mind.
'I do hope,' she went on, 'that Biddy's papa will be nearly quite well by her birthday. It'll come in a month, you know, mother, and the doll-house is almost quite ready. Mrs. Vane has begun working at it again the last few days, and Rosalys and I and Miss Neale have all been helping. Itwillbe so lovely, mother,' and Celestina's face lighted up with pleasure quite as great as if it was all for herself.
Truly, selfish people havenoidea what happiness they miss!
'Rare as is true love, true friendship is still rarer.'La Rochefoucauld.
Bridget's birthday came in May—the middle of May. From the time I have told you about in the last chapter Mr. Vane went on getting slowly better; at least he got no worse. But it did seem very slow. At last there came a day on which the doctor gave him leave to go downstairs.
'I want to see what he can do,' the doctor explained. 'At this rate we might go on for months and gain little ground. Perhaps he is stronger than he seems.'
They were all very eager and excited about this great step. It was an 'afternoon' day, as the little girls called those days on which Celestina and Miss Neale came back again, and this afternoon Mrs.Fairchild came with them. Mrs. Vane was thankful to have her at hand in case of any help being needed. And all the children were sent out for a walk, with the promise of finding papa in the drawing-room when they came in again.
But as they were coming home they were met by Rough at the Rectory gate. It was one of his occasional half-days. He ran out to meet them, but he looked rather grave.
'Is papa down? Is he in the drawing-room?' cried Rosalys and Biddy.
'Yes,' said Rough; 'but mamma's been rather frightened about him. He seems so weak. She's sent me for the doctor, and he's there now. So you must not go in to see papa. That's why I came to meet you.'
Alie's face fell and Biddy's grew very red.
'I'm sureweshouldn't hurt him,' she said. 'It's all that nasty doctor,' and she almost looked as if she were going to get into one of her old tempers.
Celestina took hold of her hand gently.
'Don't, Biddy dear,' she whispered. 'Perhaps when the doctor goes you'll see him;' which did Bridget far more good than if she had overheard, as she luckily did not, Rough's remark to Alie: 'Idon't thinkshe'sany right to grumble when it's all her doing.'
It was not a kind thing to say, but then Rough's heart was sore and anxious, and when one feels so it is difficult not to be cross and sharp. All their hearts were sore, I think. Children jump on so fast in their minds. Bride and Rough, and Alie too, I daresay, had fancied to themselves that once 'downstairs' again papa would seem directly like himself, and this news was a great disappointment. So the little party went in rather sadly, Miss Neale telling them in a low voice to take off their things and come down to tea in the schoolroom as quietly as possible, Rough, over whom her authority did not extend, stationing himself at the front door to watch for the doctor's departure.
He stayed some time, and when he had gone Mr. Vane asked for the children.
'In a little,' Mrs. Vane answered. Then she turned to Celestina's mother. 'This idea has rather taken my breath away,' she said, but her voice was pretty cheerful.
'I hardly see how it is to be managed,' said Mr. Vane, for once rather despondently.
'We will talk it all over afterwards,' said Mrs.Vane, at a little sign from Celestina's mother; 'and now we will leave you to rest a while.'
'Oh dear, Mrs. Fairchild,' she said, when they were alone in the next room, 'I wonder what we can do. It is dreadful to think of going abroad—to be alone among strangers, and my husband so ill. And then leaving the children. I cannot send them to my mother. Her house is full with my eldest brother's family home from India.'
'I think they would get on very well here,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'And your own governess will be back in a fortnight. Of course Miss Neale would be too young for such a charge; besides, she cannot leave her mother. And—you must excuse my suggesting it—but is not Madame d'Ermont's home somewhere in the south?'
'To be sure,' exclaimed Mrs. Vane, starting up joyfully; 'how stupid of me not to have thought of it! Thank you so much for reminding me. I have her last letter here. You have written to her yourself, have you not?'
'Yes, indeed. I wrote to thank her very much for her kindness,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'It may be of the greatest advantage to Celestina some day.'
For I have been so busy with the story of Biddy'sescapade and its consequences, that I have put off too long telling of the French lady's kind letter to Mrs. Vane about her old friend Mrs. Fairchild and her little name-daughter Celestina.
'It has touched me very much,' she wrote, 'to find I was still remembered; and if ever I can be of use to little Célestine and her mother I hope she or you will let me know.'
Well, the doctor had ordered Mr. Vane to go abroad, as I daresay you will have guessed.
It was a sad disappointment, just when they had come to Seacove and he seemed so well, and though no one reproached her, Bridget felt that the consequences of her self-will were not to be soon forgotten.
It was all settled very quickly; and from the time it was settled Mr. Vane, 'out of contradiction,' he said laughing, really seemed to improve faster than hitherto. So that he was looking a good deal more like 'a proper papa,' as Alie said, the day he and Mrs. Vane started on their long journey.
'I am so glad you are going to be near that nice old lady,' said Alie, amidst her tears; 'and oh, mamma dear, I will try to do everything you would like.'
'I am sure you will, darling, and it is a great comfort to feel so much happier about Biddy now. You will try to make a nice birthday for her, I know.'
'There'll be the surprise—that's something nice to look forward to. And we may have Celestina as often as we like, mayn't we?'
'As often as her mother can spare her, of course,' Mrs. Vane answered.
Then came Biddy. She was not crying, though she winked her eyes a good deal.
'Mamma, I'll try to be good,' she said bluntly; 'and if papa gets quite well again'—here her voice broke. 'Oh, mamma, if only it was the day for you and papa to come back, and him quite,quitewell. Mamma, I think I'd never be naughty again.'
This was a great, great deal from Biddy!
That daydidcome, but a good many other days had to pass before it came, and some of these were rather sad and anxious ones. For the first letters from abroad were not as cheerful as Mrs. Vane would have liked to make them for the little party so eagerly awaiting them at Seacove Rectory. Mr. Vane was very tired by the journey, and had it not been for the kindness of Madame d'Ermont, whowould not hear of them staying anywhere but in her house, at any rate till he grew stronger, Mrs. Vane said she felt as if she would have lost heart altogether. But after a little things brightened up again. 'Papa really seems to get stronger every day,' she wrote; and on Bridget's birthday morning there came a letter from papa himself, all scented with the sweet violets he had slipped into it—for that was long before the days of parcel posts, by which flowers reach us from the south of France and Italy as fresh as if we had just gathered them in our own gardens—and telling of quite a long walk he had been able to take without feeling too tired. The letter ended up with wishing Biddy a truly happy birthday, and hopes that it might be bright and sunny at Seacove. 'I only wish I could pack up some of the sunshine here to send you,' wrote Mr. Vane, 'for we have enough and to spare of it. But after all, the best sunshine of all is that of happy and contented and loving hearts—is it not, my Biddy?'
There was sunshine of both kinds that day at the Rectory. Celestina came early, almost immediately after breakfast indeed, so as to be present at the great 'surprise.' She was to spend the whole day for once with her friends, which was a great treat,though she saw them regularly once or twice a week when she came to have a French lesson from Miss Millet. Mrs. Vane had arranged this before she left, for little Miss Neale, who now gave Celestina lessons every day at Pier Street, could not teach French, and it was a great pleasure, and help too, to Biddy to have industrious, attentive Celestina still her companion in something.
But to-day, of course, there was no question of lessons of any kind.
They had breakfast extra early, which some children I know, would not, I fear, consider a treat. Indeed, I once heard of some young people, scarcely to be called children, and by no means overworked young people either, who chose for a holiday pleasure that they should stay in bed for breakfast, and not get up till the middle of the day, which, I must say, I did not at all admire. The great reason for the extra early breakfast on Biddy's birthday was not that the Vane children were soveryfond of being up betimes, but that Rough wanted to be there at the great scene, and with some difficulty he had got an hour's 'grace' from school that morning.
To begin at the beginning—for I know that when I was a child I liked to be told all about everything—thefirst pleasure of the day, after the reading of papa's nice letter, was the sight of the breakfast-table. Kind Miss Millet and Alie had dressed it up with cowslips after Biddy had gone to bed the night before, for there were cowslips, and very pretty ones, to be had in some woods a mile or two inland from Seacove. And May birthdays always make one think of cowslips.
The breakfast itself was very nice too—extra nice; for there was no bread and milk for once, but only 'grown-up' things—a tempting dish of ham and eggs, and delicious hot rolls and tea-cakes, and strawberry jam and honey to eat with them as a finish up. And besides the letter from papa—which hadreallycome the day before and been kept till this morning, as, in his fear of being too late, Mr. Vane had sent it off rather too soon—there was a neat little packet for Biddy from grandmamma, containing a story-book calledThe Christmas Stocking, and a lovely scarf worked in all kinds of marvellous Eastern colours, 'making one think of the Arabian nights,' as Alie said, from the Indian cousins. So that it was with a sigh of deep content that Biddy sat down to breakfast, knowing that something still more delightful and wonderful was in store.
Celestina arrived before breakfast was quite over, and Rough ran out and brought her into the dining-room, where she had to eat a roll and strawberry jam to refresh her after her early walk. And then when every one had finished and Rough had said grace, they all set off to the schoolroom.
'Shut your eyes, Biddy,' said Rough. 'I'll lead you in, and mind you don't open them till I tell you.'
There stood Biddy, as quiet as a mouse, though her heart was beating fast, till, after one or two whispered directions—'That isn't quite straight,' 'Put the chairs by the fire, Celestina,' and so on—came Rough's voice—
'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes.'