Thisconversation did not have the effect of re-establishing the intercourse between the cousins on its old familiar footing. When they were together, both the girls felt that they must be very careful what they said, lest they should injure each other’s feelings; and this necessity of constant watchfulness over one’s words in presence of another is any thing but pleasant. Nothing can be more surely fatal to a friendship than such a state of mind. It was not strange, therefore, that the cousins, though outwardly as fond of each other as ever, rather shunned than sought each other’s society.
Susan felt this estrangement far more keenly than her cousin. She was not one who made many friends; while Carrie was of a social nature,and was a general favourite. Susie was proud, too, and her cousin had taunted her with being jealous. This had stung her to the quick. It prevented her from saying any thing more against the intimacy existing between the room-mates; and her pride, too, forbade her to accept any invitations to join them in their walks.
“Florence doesn’t want me,” was her invariable reply.
“But I do,” Carrie would say.
“I don’t care about being a third one,” was Susan’s answer,—a reply which annoyed her cousin exceedingly.
“Let her alone: she’s a jealous thing. She must be every thing or nothing,” was Florence’s consolation to her friend when she came to her with these troubles; and at last the advice was taken. Carrie ceased to ask Susan altogether.
Poor Susie spent many unhappy hours alone in her chamber, and shed many bitter tears over this neglect, quite unconscious that sheherself was partly in fault. And (not a little conscience-smitten at her treatment of the poor orphan) Carrie, instead of changing her course, tried to keep out of sight of her sad face as much as possible. This threw her still more into Florence’s society,—so that they were soon quite inseparable.
One day, while walking to the village accompanied by Miss Winthrop,—for it was against the rules to go out of the school-grounds unless under the charge of a teacher,—they met a handsome carriage, which suddenly stopped close by them, and a young lady, who was riding alone, called out,—
“Is that you, my dear little Florence, or only your apparition?”
Florence looked up. “Oh, my dear Cousin Fanny!” she exclaimed; and, springing to the carriage, she was up on the step in an instant, and showering kisses enough on her relative to convince her of her identity.
“I was on my way to call on you,” saidMiss Fanny, as soon as she could take breath after her little cousin’s ardent embrace.
“I’ll go back at once, then, for I don’t want to lose your visit.”
“No,” said the young lady, “I have a better plan than that. Who is that with you?”
“Miss Winthrop, and my best friend, Carrie Stanley.”
“Miss Winthrop,” said the stranger, with a most bewitching smile, “will you not allow me to take my little cousin and her friend out for a short drive?”
Miss Winthrop hesitated.
“Oh, I’ll make it all right with Mr. Worcester. I know him very well. Tell him, if you please, that Miss Montague will be responsible for the safe return of his pupils. Jump in, girls. It is not so very long since Miss Winthrop and I have been school-girls ourselves; and we know what a treat a drive is.”
Miss Winthrop smiled pleasantly.
“On condition that you don’t keep them out too long, Miss Montague, I consent,” shesaid. “I hope you will enjoy your drive, girls.” And amidst their thanks the carriage drove on.
“How lucky it was,” exclaimed Flora, “that hateful old Forester wasn’t with us! She would never have let us go. I can see her shake her old corkscrew curls and make up her mouth and say, ‘It’s contrary to the rules, young ladies.’”
Florence was an excellent mimic; and she had caught Miss Forester’s very tone.
Her cousin laughed.
“I expect you need one such dragon to keep you in order,” she said.
The drive was a very pleasant one, for Miss Fanny was most agreeable company; and sorry indeed were both the girls when it was time to return.
Mr. Worcester met them at the gate. He appeared very happy to see Miss Montague, and promised to call on her during her visit at Mrs. Sidney’s. The girls thanked her for their ride.
“I shall come for you again, with Mr. Worcester’s permission,” was her reply. “Mr. Worcester knows that I am to be trusted.”
“You must have changed somewhat, then.”
“Oh, what an ungallant speech! But I have changed wonderfully. I have grown so old and staid! Come and see for yourself!”
She looked at her watch. “It is really late,” she said. “Drive home as quickly as you can, James. Good-night!”
The coachman touched his spirited horses with the whip; away rolled the carriage, and in a few minutes all were out of sight. The girls went to their room, full of animation and eager to tell their companions of their adventure.
“Oh, Susie, how I wish you had been with us!” concluded Carrie.
Susie made no reply. Her throat swelled and her eyes filled; for she had been crying almost all the time they had been gone.
Carrie did not observe her red eyes, for she was too full of the subject of the drive; andthe tea-bell rang while the girls were still dilating on Miss Fanny’s charms.
A few days after this, Florence took her friend aside very mysteriously, whispering to her that she had something to tell her.
“What is it?” asked Carrie, eagerly.
“I had a note from Cousin Fanny this morning; and—what do you think!—Mrs. Sidney is going to have a tableaux party, and you and I are to be invited! Won’t that be splendid?”
Carrie clapped her hands in delight.
“But do you suppose Mr. Worcester will let us go?” she asked, a little doubtfully.
“Oh, yes! Cousin Fanny says she will make it all right,—that she can manage Mr. Worcester; and I guess she can, for she always does make everybody and every thing do just as she chooses. We shall go, I know; and won’t we have a grand time?”
“I wish Susie could go too,” was her friend’s only reply. “It looks a little selfish in me to go and leave her behind.”
“Nonsense! No, it doesn’t. She won’t think any thing of it. Cousin Fanny never heard of her, you know. Of course, Susan wouldn’t want you to stay at home on her account. That would be selfish enough!”
“If she were only invited too,” persisted Carrie, “I should be perfectly happy.”
“She can’t think it strange that she isn’t, when Fanny never heard of her existence,” replied Florence. “Sometimes I wish I never had myself. She’s a regular nuisance. I’m sick to death of her very name. It’s always ‘Susan! Susan!’ with you, if any thing comes up. But don’t let us talk any more about her now. She isn’t invited; and that’s all about it.”
Florence had her own reasons for not wishing to talk on this subject. In her cousin’s note she had told her that if there were any others of her school-mates whom she wished to invite, she had only to let her know; and, though Florence was determined that Susanshould not go, Carrie’s regrets on the subject made her feel very uncomfortable.
“What shall you wear?” she asked, as much for the sake of diverting her friend’s mind as for any other reason.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Carrie. “I wish mother had let me bring some of my evening dresses; but there wouldn’t be time to send home for one now.”
“Why not wear our white muslins? With pretty sashes and bows on the sleeves, they will look quite nice.”
“It’s as well to think so, at least,” returned Caroline; “for they are the only dresses we have here at all suitable.”
In the course of the next day the invitations came in due form. Mr. Worcester was invited also. Cousin Fanny’s magic had not been over-estimated: he yielded to its power; for he told the girls, when they showed him their notes, that, if they learned their lessons well during the two days that were to intervenebefore the party, they should go under his escort.
The girls were half wild with excitement. There was nothing to mar their happiness. Susan had so kindly tried to make her cousin feel that she did not care at all about going, and was so much interested in the necessary preparations for her dress, that Carrie’s pleasure was not quite spoiled, as Florence at one time had feared it might be. Yet her regrets that Susan could not go were so sincere that the latter, even without an invitation, was happier than she had been for many weeks; for she began to feel that Carrie had not ceased to love her altogether.
The morning of the anxiously-looked-for day at last dawned, but Mr. Worcester was not at the breakfast-table. The girls were dreadfully afraid that he was ill. Never had they felt so great an interest in his health before; but in a short time they learned the cause of his non-appearance at table. He had left a note for them, which he had intrusted toMiss Forester, telling them that he had been called away suddenly and unexpectedly on business and should not return in season to accompany them to the party; but he had made arrangements for a carriage to convey them to Mrs. Sidney’s, and he hoped they would have a pleasant evening.
The morning wore slowly away. It was in vain that Carrie attempted to study. Her head was too full of the delights of the evening to permit her to devote herself to her lessons; and it must be confessed that neither she nor Florence acquitted themselves remarkably well in Arithmetic or History.
At the close of the morning session, Miss Forester informed them that, as they had broken the conditions of perfect recitations, they had forfeited the right to go to the party, and she should consequently countermand Mr. Worcester’s order for the carriage which was to have conveyed them to Mrs. Sidney’s. The disappointment of the girls may be readily imagined. Their expostulations were numerousbut ineffectual, and their anger against Miss Forester was fierce indeed.
“If Mr. Worcester were at home, I know he would let us go,” persisted Florence.
“I am head-teacher in his absence,” replied Miss Forester; “and, since you have not recited perfectly, I shall not let you go.”
Carrie cried, and Susan attempted to comfort her, for Florence had no time to devote to consolation. She was not so easily disheartened. She said nothing, but proceeded to act. She had always an abundance of pocket-money; for her father kept her liberally supplied, and she had long since learned that “money is power.”
During her practice-hour in the afternoon, while Miss Forester was engaged in school, she stole out to the livery-stable and made an arrangement with the keeper to send a carriage a half-hour later than Mr. Worcester’s order. She explained to him the circumstances of the case, and assured him that Mr. Worcester, had he not been absent, wouldhave allowed them to go, and that he would not be offended at their disobeying Miss Forester. These assurances, together with a liberal bribe, induced him to agree to have a carriage in waiting at the appointed hour, a little distance from the house.
Having accomplished this, on her return she made one of the chambermaids her confidant, and promised to pay her well if she would be in readiness to let her in after the party, promising to be back at one o’clock. The girl readily agreed to do so; and when her arrangements were all completed, Florence informed Carrie of what she had done.
At first Carrie was too much frightened to think of accompanying her; but Florence insisted that it “was no more than fair.” She rehearsed again her arguments to the livery-stable-keeper, and, as a grand finale, urged her to rely on Cousin Fanny, who would make it all right with Mr. Worcester.
“The reason old Lady Forester won’t let us go is because she’s affronted to think she isn’tinvited: she is as ugly and hateful as she can be, and she tried to make us miss. I shall go at all events: you can do as you please.”
So said Florence, and then proceeded to depict the pleasures of the evening and the certainty that their absence would never be discovered. The temptation was too great for poor Carrie.
She yielded in spite of Susan’s remonstrances, and at the hour the two friends stole softly out of the house. The carriage was ready according to the agreement; and, once at the party, Carrie quite forgot all her misgivings.
The tableaux were very beautiful, the ladies and gentlemen very polite, and Fanny spared no pains to make her little guests perfectly happy. Never was there so short or so delightful an evening.
The carriage at the appointed hour conveyed them home. They alighted where they had been taken up, and crept softly up to the house. All was dark. They tapped at thekitchen-window. The back-door opened at the signal, and there stood Miss Forester!
“Good-evening, young ladies,” said she, with a grim smile.
She said not another word, and the girls, quite crest-fallen, crept up to bed. They well knew that such an offence would never be overlooked. Even from Cousin Fanny’s intercession little was to be hoped. But how Miss Forester had learned their absence was a mystery.
Had Bridget turned traitor? Or had Susan been mean enough to think it her duty to tell of their disobedience? Florence was impatient to see Biddy, to upbraid her for her faithlessness, or Susan, to express her contempt for her if she was the guilty one; but the next morning she learned that both were quite free from blame.
Bridget’s mother, who lived in the vicinity, had sent for her in great haste, as her youngest brother was in convulsions; and Bridget, even in her distress, was not forgetful ofher promise to the young ladies. She had confided their secret to one of her fellow-servants, who promised to perform her part in letting them in. Miss Forester, happening to have occasion to go to the kitchen, had overheard all this in the passage, and had sent the servants to bed, volunteering to relieve Margaret of her attendance on the door.
“The mean old thing! The spying, prying old thing!” said Florence. “She is always prowling round and eaves-dropping. The contemptible old sneak!”
To all this Nora, her informant, assented,—for Miss Forester was no favourite; but such epithets, though they might possibly act as a safety-valve for Florence’s indignation, were powerless to extricate the culprits from their dilemma.
It was in vain to look for counsel from Carrie; she was too much frightened to be of the least service: indeed, it seemed to afford her great relief when Florence, nerving herself up for the penalty, exclaimed,—
“There’s one consolation, Carrie. They can’t kill us! For even Miss Forester—though I’ve no doubt she’d be glad to do it—can’t make it out a hanging-matter. At worst, it will only be the State’s prison for life!”
“How can you talk so?” said Susan. “I believe you would make fun of any thing.”
“We may as well laugh as cry,” retorted Florence. “We’re in for it. There’s one thing certain, though: I won’t give Miss Forester the satisfaction of thinking that I care a straw about it, or that I’m afraid of her.”
On Mr. Worcester’s return, the facts were duly laid before him. The girls were sent for into his study.
It was useless to attempt any defence of their conduct; and so Florence wisely said nothing. Carrie could only cry; and perhaps her distress touched their teacher’s heart, for after some deliberation he sentenced them to the loss of all holidays for four weeks; and during that time they must not go out of the school-grounds.
This was so much better than they had expected, that the delinquents left him with a light heart. But, though at first it seemed a slight punishment, it proved to be a severe one; for soon after Miss Fanny called with an invitation for them to go on a picnic, which she had arranged on a holiday expressly for the sake of their being able to attend.
She interceded with Mr. Worcester for a reprieve, but in vain; and, as she was expressing her sorrow and disappointment on leaving without them, Miss Forester passed.
She had heard enough to understand what was going on; and, as they went up the staircase to their rooms, she met them and smiled. It was a smile of triumph,—or so, at least, the girls fancied.
It was too much for Florence. She turned and shook her clenched fist behind her teacher’s back, and muttered, between her shut teeth,—
“I’ll be even with you yet.”