A Girl in Spring Time Part 13

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

FRIENDS AT LAST!

There was a constant coming and going at The Deanery during the whole of that day, and the very atmosphere seemed full of excitement. Mrs Faucit, however, kept Mildred a prisoner in her own room, gave her an interesting book to read, and forbade the subject of the robbery to be mentioned in her hearing, with the result that by evening she was herself once more, chatting with the girls, and only lapsing into melancholy at the remembrance of poor, unhappy Cecile.

The next morning Mildred saw Lady Sarah for the first time since the eventful moment when she had started on her search for James's bedroom.

The old lady was sitting in her favourite corner by the drawing-room window, wrapped in shawls, and supported by pillows, for at her advanced age such an experience as she had known was not easily outlived, and as Mildred paced the garden walks with her friends, she received a message to the effect that Lady Sarah wished to see her alone for a few minutes, as she had something particular to say.

"My thanks are due, Most kind and generous maiden, unto you!" quoted Lois, from a play which had been performed at school at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, and Mildred gave a little laugh of complacency.

The quotation sounded appropriately in her ears, for she had no doubt that she was summoned to hear grateful acknowledgment for the help which she had given on the night of the attempted robbery. As she walked across the lawn towards the house, she was rehearsing the scene to herself, after a habit of her own on occasions like the present. "My dear Mildred! How can I thank you sufficiently!" Lady Sarah, she imagined, cried enthusiastically.

"Oh, pray, don't mention it! I have done nothing at all!"

She screwed her face into the very smile of polite protest with which she would give her answer, and was proceeding to invent an emphatic disclaimer from Lady Sarah, when she came face to face with the Benjamin of the household--little, mischievous Erroll, who was strolling about the garden in search of adventure.

He wore a holland blouse, and absurd little knickerbockers about six inches long, from beneath which his bare legs emerged brown and st.u.r.dy.

A scarlet cap was perched on the back of his head, and he swung his arms as he walked with the air of a Grenadier Guard, and a very fierce and warlike one at that. Mildred pinched his ear as she pa.s.sed, as a mark of affectionate remembrance, whereupon Erroll lifted his funny little face to hers, and volunteered a piece of information.

"I telled Yady Saraw about ze pump!"

"The pump!" Mildred's heart gave a leap of apprehension. She seized the child by the arm and held him firmly until he had answered her question. "What pump? What do you mean, Erroll?"

"Wat zo pumped ze water wif, on ze window!" said Erroll pleasantly.

He evidently had no idea that Mildred would be discomposed by the intelligence, and was a good deal astonished at the hasty manner in which she shook him off and resumed her walk to the house.

Here, indeed, was a changed position. She was going to be scolded, not thanked--called to account for misdeeds, not praised for valour.

Mildred pressed her lips together, and her eyes shone with a gleam of anger.

The more exciting events of the last two days had thrown the picnic into the background, so that she had almost forgotten the unfortunate incident to which Erroll had referred. It had troubled her greatly at the time, but since then she had had an opportunity of "making up", which should surely have condoned any previous offence. "Lady Sarah need not have said anything about it; even if she were told. She might have forgiven a little thing like that, when I have perhaps saved her life," she told herself angrily. "I believe she is glad to have something to blame me for, so that she may avoid saying anything nice or grateful!"

Mildred felt thoroughly cross and out of sorts, as was not altogether unnatural under the circ.u.mstances. When one has been treated as a heroine for a couple of days, it comes as an unpleasant shock to find one's self suddenly dragged down from the pedestal and compelled to appear in the character of a culprit. Mildred felt it very hard indeed, and the softened feeling with which she had thought of the old lady during the last forty-eight hours vanished at once, and gave place to the old bitter enmity.

Lady Sarah had seen the girl's encounter with Erroll, so that she was at no loss to understand the sudden change in her expression, as she drew near. They looked at one another in silence for several minutes--Lady Sarah with her brows drawn together, yet on the whole more anxious than angry; Mildred erect as a dart, her head thrown back in defiant fas.h.i.+on.

"Is this true, may I ask, what the child tells me--that you played the hose on my bedroom window the other morning, in order to make me believe it was raining?"

Lady Sarah sat upright on her chair, her hands clasped together on her lap. The morning light gave a livid hue to the worn features, the bones in her neck seemed more prominent than ever. "But it is not my fault if she is old," was Mildred's obstinate comment. "She can't blame me for that, I suppose?"

"Yes, it's quite true."

"It is true! You heard me say that I was afraid of my rheumatism, and tried to persuade me that it was raining so that I might stay at home.

You knew I was anxious to go, and you deliberately set to work to prevent me. Nice behaviour, indeed! I wonder you have the audacity to look in my face and acknowledge it!"

"I never tell lies," said the girl proudly, and Lady Sarah interrupted with a harsh laugh.

"No; you only act them, I suppose. It never struck you that it was acting a lie to go out of your way to deceive an old woman and make her stay at home on false pretences, did it?"

Mildred started.

"No, it never did. I did not think of that. If I had, I would not have done it."

"And why did you do it? To prevent my going to the picnic, of course; but why were you so anxious about that? What harm would it have done if I had been there?"

There was an unwonted strain of anxiety in the sharp voice, and the answer came but slowly.

"Oh, I don't know! We had been looking forward to the picnic for the last week. We had done nothing but talk about it. Of course we didn't want to have it all spoiled."

"As it would have been by my presence?"

"Y-es."

Mildred did not exactly relish saying so many unpalatable things, but all the same there was a kind of satisfaction in being obliged to tell this disagreeable old woman what was thought of her. Disagreeable and ungrateful, too! Had she forgotten all that had happened on the night of the picnic that she could greet her deliverer without one word of thanks?

A wave of emotion pa.s.sed over Lady Sarah's face as she heard that decisive answer. Her throat worked, her face was full of wistful appeal, as she looked at the unrelenting, girlish figure, but Mildred's eyes were cast down, and she saw nothing.

"In what way were you afraid I should spoil your pleasure?"

"Oh--in every way! You would have made us stay beside you all the time and forbidden us to run about; or--or sit on the outside of the coach, or--or speak to anyone--or do anything we liked. You said that we ought to come home by an early train. You wanted us to wear cloaks when we were boiling with heat. You would have corrected us before the others, as if we were little children. Oh!" cried Mildred impulsively, as all the fears of two days earlier came suddenly to remembrance, "it would have been miserable!"

Silence. Mildred shuffled uneasily from one foot to another, rolled her handkerchief into a ball, and felt supremely uncomfortable. She had been irritated into speaking with unbecoming warmth, but the words had no sooner pa.s.sed her lips than conscience began to p.r.i.c.k. She longed for Lady Sarah to say something sharper, more unreasonable than ever, so that she might feel that she was the injured person, and get rid of this horrible feeling of guilt. But Lady Sarah did not speak. Was she too angry to find words? Was she gathering her energies for an outburst of indignation? The silence grew oppressive. Mildred longed to be allowed to rejoin her companions, and raised her eyes with impatient defiance.

Mercy! What was this that she saw? This pitiful, huddled-up figure, these trembling hands and quivering features down which the salt, difficult tears of age were trickling? They could never, never belong to the self-possessed and fas.h.i.+onable lady of a moment before!

Mildred gave one gasp of horror, and threw herself on her knees beside the chair.

"Oh! what have I said? what have I said? Oh, the wicked, wicked, detestable creature that I am! Lady Sarah, Lady Sarah, don't cry! Oh, please don't cry, please don't cry! You will break my heart if you go on like this!"

Her voice trembled, she clasped her arms round the old lady's waist, and swayed with her from side to side, echoing sob for sob, while ever and anon broken utterances fell painfully on her ear.

"--c.u.mberer of the ground! c.u.mberer of the ground! Alone in the world.--No one to care! Oh, dear Lord, let me be done with it--let me die!"

"No! no! no!" cried Mildred, in a paroxysm of remorse. She folded the thin figure more closely in her arms, and laid her soft, warm cheek against the quivering face. "Don't talk like that--don't! I can't bear it. I can never be happy again as long as I live if you won't forgive me, and promise to be friends! I was sorry the moment after I played that trick upon you. It spoiled my pleasure at the picnic. If you had asked me gently I would have told you how sorry I was, but I have such a dreadful temper. I fly into a pa.s.sion, and then I don't know what I say. Do please forgive me, and stop crying! There--there's my handkerchief; let me dry your eyes!"

Lady Sarah trembled.

"You are very good. I don't blame you, poor child. You are an honest la.s.sie, and I've tried your temper many a time. I was young and bright, too, once on a day, but that's all past now. I am nothing but a fretful, selfish, old woman, a burden to everybody, without chick or child to care what becomes of me."

"Don't say that. I'll love you! I'd like to love you if you will let me. You see it has all been a mistake. I thought you were cold and cross, and didn't care, but if you are only sad and lonely, why, then, I _do_ love you!" cried Mildred impetuously; "for I'm sure I should be fifty thousand times nastier myself if I were in your place."

Lady Sarah smiled through her tears.

"I don't want to be 'nasty'! I don't want to spoil your happiness, poor child!" she said pathetically; "but this crabbed spirit has grown and grown, until I seem powerless to overcome it. And you must think me ungrateful, too. I wanted to thank you for your help the other night.

I don't forget it, child--I shall never forget it! I was longing to see you this morning. If you had been half an hour earlier, you would have had a different reception, but that child ran in and began telling his little stories. I wish he had kept quiet. I wish I had never listened."