Chapter Ten.
Peter’s Place.
Leila gasped. For once, her better feelings came to the surface. The enormity of the misfortune aroused her sympathy so fully as to drown every less amiable feeling. Then she pulled herself together.
“It can’t be lost—you were thinking of it all church-time; you couldn’t have carried it carelessly. Feel in your other coat packet.”
Chrissie shook her head.
“No, no,” she said, “I know I didn’t put it in my pocket; and now I remember that the last time I had the feeling of it was in the church porch, when there was all that fuss about the rain and the umbrellas. I dropped it then, or in the street just after, and oh, if it was in the street, it’ll have got soaked in the rain and ruined! And I do believe Auntie cares for it more than anything in the world. It was her grandmother’s. Oh, Leila,” and she clasped her hands in misery.
“Don’t begin crying about it,” said Leila, though not unkindly. “Let’s hunt about a little,” and her eyes wandered round the room. “Mightn’t you have dropped it on the staircase?” She turned towards the door, but Christabel stopped her. “No, no,” she said, “it’s no good. I know now that I didn’t bring it home. And I hear them all coming in, Leila. Don’t seem to be looking for anything.”
“Perhaps we may get it back,” said Leila, who could use her wits to advantage when she aroused herself to give her full attention. “The thing to be done is to ask for it at the church. If we could but get there by ourselves.” Then her eyes turned to the window. “I wonder if it’s going to rain all day.”
A sudden thought struck Christabel.
“What Sunday is it? The first of the month! Oh, I do believe it’s the Sunday when there’s a Children’s Service in the afternoon, and Mummy said once that she thought it would be nice for us to go. Suppose we ask her to let us?”
“If it leaves off raining,” said Leila. “I don’t think we’d be allowed to go again if it pours. But it’s looking brighter.”
“Oh, do let’s try to manage it,” said Chrissie, clasping her hands. “I’d rather—well, rather do anything, or have the horridest pain, rather than tell Aunt Margaret that I’ve lost her book.”
“Yes,” said Leila, piling on the agony, “for, of course, you couldn’t call it an accident, as you’d no business to take it.”
“And if you’d been,”—began Chrissie, but she did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the gong sounded for the early dinner—on Sundays now everybody’s dinner—and the children had to hurry downstairs. On reflection, too, Chrissie said to herself that it would be “awfully silly” to quarrel with Leila.
“She’s been kind about it, and I could never manage without her,” she thought; and as they were entering the dining-room she whispered to her sister, “You ask; I really daren’t.”
It was new for Christabel to own to “not daring” about anything in the world, and Leila felt rather gratified at being trusted in the matter. Nothing was said till dinner was nearly over; the children were very quiet and behaved to perfection. Mrs Fortescue felt pleased. This state of things, following on Chrissie’s attentive looks in church, made her begin to hope that her anxieties about her little daughters were likely to grow less, and inclined her to consent to Leila’s unexpected request.
“Mummy,” she said, “Chrissie and I would like to go to the Children’s Service at church this afternoon. It’s the Sunday for it, and we know the way there quite well, of course. Mayn’t we go?”
Mrs Fortescue smiled.
“I should very much like you to go,” she said, “and I think I can quite trust you by yourselves. But how about the weather?”
“It is clearing,” said Mr Fortescue, “and the glass is going up. Yes—I think they may safely go.”
Chrissie’s face, which had been looking unusually solemn, brightened up. But it clouded again as her father went on, patting Jasper, who was seated next him, on the head—
“And this little man? Wouldn’t you like to escort your sisters to church, Jap?”
“In course I would. I’ll cally your numbrellas and your church-books—all of them, if you like.”
“Then that’s settled. Roley and I are going a good walk,” continued Mr Fortescue. “We need a breath of fresh air, after working so hard all the week, don’t we, my boy? And it will give Aunt Margaret and your mother a nice peaceful afternoon, which I am sure they will be glad of.”
“Let’s be ready early, Lell,” said Chrissie, when they were by themselves, “and then perhaps we could ask about it as we go in.”
“If only Japs wasn’t coming,” said Leila. “But if we had seemed not to want him, they’d have been vexed.”
“P’raps he won’t notice,” said Christabel.
For once they were ready in exceedingly good time—too early, in fact—so afraid were they of a sudden shower of rain, or any other unlucky event, stopping their going. As they ran downstairs their father, who had not yet started on his walk, called them into the drawing-room—the door was standing open, and thus he heard them passing.
“Children,” he said, “don’t try any short-cuts to church. Go as we went this morning. I particularly want you not to go by Peter’s Place—you know where I mean?—a street of small houses round the first corner from the church.”
“Oh yes,” replied Chrissie glibly. “I know. We did pass that way once, but it’s much nicer to keep to the wide streets.”
“Then you quite understand? You promise to go the way we went this morning,” he repeated.
“Yes, certainly,” said the two together. “Where’s Japs?” Chrissie went on. “I wish he’d come.”
“I’m here,” the little boy called out, running downstairs. “I’m pairfitly ready. I didn’t know you’d come down,” and off the three set.
“Why did you say that about Peter’s Place to the children?” Mrs Fortescue inquired.
“Because,” Mr Fortescue replied—“because I saw something in the papers yesterday about an outbreak of scarlet fever there. It was quickly stopped, and there are no fresh cases, but anything like that lingers about, especially in cottage houses of that sort. And there is not the slightest need to pass anywhere near the place.”
“Of course not,” Mrs Fortescue agreed. “But I am glad you remembered to warn them.”
“It was nothing locally wrong,” he added. “It was brought from a distance, I saw. Yes,” he added, “on the whole, I suppose we are really safer in London from epidemics than in most country places.”
The children reached the church in good time, but though they glanced about as they entered, the little girls saw no one of whom to inquire for the missing prayer-book.
“We must ask as we come out,” whispered Leila, for as yet the misfortune had not been told to Jasper; “and do let us sit in the same place, or as near as we can to where we were this morning, just in case you dropped it there.”
But Chrissie shook her head.
“No,” she replied, “I’m certain I didn’t leave it in the church. It was out here, I’m almost sure,” and her eyes searched all round the porch, but in vain.
The service was not long, and not dull. There was a good deal of singing, which the children enjoyed, and the little address was interesting and impressive. It was almost impossible not to listen.
“Oh,” thought Chrissie at the close, “if only we can find the prayer-book, I do think from now I’ll try to be less careless, and ‘gooder’ altogether;” and in her way Leila, too, felt the influence of the wise and kindly words.
Outside they waited a few minutes till the little crowd of children and mothers and governesses had dispersed, in hopes of seeing some one from whom they could get information or advice. But they saw no one looking at all like a verger, and almost in despair Chrissie caught hold of a belated choir-boy, who was passing out.
“Please,” she said, “I’ve lost my prayer-book. Who is there I can ask about it?”
The boy stopped.
“Best ask the verger,” he replied. “But you can’t see him just now. He’s busy, I know. If you left it inside, it’ll be in the vestry, pr’aps. But if you dropped it outside—well, I’m sure I can’t say,” and he gave a low whistle; but as he saw the distress on the child’s face he took pity, and went on. “It might be took to his house, if a honest person picked it up. I’ve known of such. He’s well known about here, you see—and they might have been passing that way.”
“Where is it?” gasped Chrissie.
“Peter’s Place,” replied the boy, “number twenty-two,” and off he ran.
Leila and Chrissie looked at each other.
“Peter’s Place,” they both exclaimed.
It meant nothing to Jasper, of course, for he had not heard Mr Fortescue’s warning.
“I know,” he said. “It’s a funny little street near here. We could go home that way, or I could run down from the corner. I’se so solly, Chrissie, about your prayer-book. Is it your best one?”
“No,” said Chrissie, “I haven’t got a best one. It’s only Lell that has. No, it’s far, far worse. Japs,” she went on, “you won’t tell, for p’raps we’ll get it back and then it’ll be all right and I’ll never do such a thing again,” and seeing that there was now nothing else for it, she told Jasper the whole unhappy story.
He grew pale with sympathy: he was too sorry for her, much to blame though she had been, to say anything to hurt her. No one certainly could have called the little fellow a “prig” who had seen him then. His one idea was to “help.”
“Come along, quick,” he said. “I’ll show you the way to his house,” and he sprang forward.
“Chrissie,” whispered Leila, “we daren’t go—we mustn’t go. We promised.”
“I know,” Chrissie replied, “though I daresay Dads only said it for fear of our losing our way. As if we were so silly! But Japs didn’t promise, Lell?” Leila hesitated—the breaking a promise in the spirit, if not in the letter, does not come easy to honest consciences, such as these two little girls did really possess.
“There’s nothing else to be done,” persisted Christabel, trying to talk down her own misgivings. “We won’t go home that way, Lell, we’ll keep to the big street, and let Japs run round to the house. He knows where it is, and we’ll wait for him.”
And to this the elder sister at last consented. “No, Japs,” she said, as he was hurrying them on by what was actually the nearest way to Peter’s Place, “we don’t want to go that way. It’s rather slummy. We’ll keep to the wide streets, and when we get to the corner—you know where I mean?—you can run back, you see, and Chris and I will wait for you.”
“Werry well,” said Jasper, “but Peter’s Place isn’t at all dirty. It’s kite neat and clean, somefin’ like where Nurse’s cousin, what Mumsey let me go to see, lived.”
But he was pleased at the importance of being trusted, and ran off eagerly when they reached the corner in question.
“Japs has a natural affinity for slums,” Leila remarked in her rather lordly manner, as they stood awaiting his return with what patience they could. “He’ll probably go in for Holy Orders and work himself to death in the East End, when he grows up.”
“He might do worse,” sighed Chrissie. “Any way, I wish I was as good as he is now.”
It seemed a long time—in reality barely ten minutes had passed—before, hurrying round the further corner from where they were waiting, for Peter’s Place did not run directly out of the main street, they at last caught sight of the little figure, and—yes, oh joy!—in his uplifted hand he was waving something,—something too small to be seen distinctly, but which, from Jasper’s manner, there could be no doubt, was the precious prayer-book.
“Got it! got it!” he shouted, almost before he was near enough for them to hear what he said. “It was there. Somebody picked it up what lives near, and brought it to the church-man’s house.”
“Oh Japs, darling Japs, how glad I am,” said Chrissie. “I’ve never been so glad in my life. Now I can put it back on Aunt Margaret’s table, and it’ll be all right.”
Jasper beamed all over; it was not often that he was spoken to as “darling” by either of his sisters. But suddenly a new thought struck him, and an anxious look came over his face.
“But you’ll tell Mumsey all about it, won’t you, Chrissie?” he asked.
Chrissie wriggled and Leila frowned.
“I’ll see about it,” said the former. “I won’t tell her to-day—it’s best not to bother her on Sunday, the only day Daddy’s at home.”
Leila murmured something, but Jasper did not hear what it was. Indeed, he did not listen, and his expression cleared a little.
“Not to-day or any day,” had been the elder sister’s whisper. “There’s no need ever to tell.”
And great temptation never to do so! For now, the indirect disregard of their father’s orders as to not passing by Peter’s Place had involved Leila as well as Christabel in confession, if such ever took place. “And I needn’t have been mixed up in it at all, except out of good-nature to you,” she said afterwards to Chrissie; “so if you tell, it’ll be the meanest thing you ever did.”
“Why were you so long, Japs?” they asked, rather wishing to change the subject. “Did the verger’s people make a fuss about giving it to you?”
“Oh no,” was his reply, “the minute the little boy’s mother sawed me, she gived it me. I told her it was a werry old book, though it was so pretty. It was lyin’ on the table where he was on the sofa, but he said I must wait till his mother came.”
“What do you mean?” said Leila impatiently. “Who was lying on the sofa?”
“The little boy—I said the little boy,” answered Jasper. “He’s been werry ill, though he’s almost kite better now. But his mother didn’t let me shake hands wif him—fear of disturbin’ him, she said. She wasn’t werry polite—not werry. She said, ‘Now, sir, you’d better be quick and go.’”
“I daresay she was busy,” said Chrissie carelessly, “but she didn’t need to say ‘be quick,’ for you didn’t want not to be quick.”
“In course I didn’t. She’d kept me waitin’,” agreed Jasper, whose feelings had been evidently slightly ruffled. “I was only shakin’ hands—goin’ to, I mean. Still,” he added, with his usual kindliness, “it was polite of her to say ‘sir’ to me.”
By this time they were close to their own house. Arrived there, the little girls ran upstairs as quickly as possible. As quickly as possible, too, did they take off their hats and jackets, though in spite of Chrissie’s new resolutions I fear I must own that her jacket, if not hat, found its resting-place on the floor, and as to what became of boots and gloves I really could not say!
For on their way past the dining-room, the door of which had been purposely left slightly open, they had heard their mother’s voice begging them to come down at once. “Tea is ready. Your aunt and I are waiting for you,” she said.
To be quickly obedient, I am sorry to say, was not the motive that inspired their haste.
“Now’s our time, Lell,” said Chrissie. “There’s no one in the drawing-room. We can put it back at once on Auntie’s table. I’ll just slip it a little under some of the other things, so if she possibly has missed it, she’ll think afterwards she had made a mistake.”
“Do it yourself,” said Leila, and then it was that she added her warning as to what she would think of Chrissie if she ever “told,” to which no reply was vouchsafed.
And the prayer-book was replaced, and when the little sisters made their appearance, with, as I have said, unusual quickness, in the dining-room, their mother greeted them with her brightest smiles.
“I really think,” she was saying to herself, “that things are beginning to improve wonderfully with them.”
But Aunt Margaret, though always ready to hope and believe the best, felt less sanguine. There was a certain flurry and excitement about Chrissie, a half-veiled uneasiness about Leila, a sort of reluctance in both to look one frankly in the face, which made her anxious, though she could have given no real reason for this.
And Jasper was very silent, and for once the cheerful and ever-ready little fellow seemed absent and self-absorbed.
“What can it be? or am I growing fanciful in my old age?” thought Miss Fortescue.
The evening passed quietly. The sisters answered intelligently to a few questions from their mother about the little “sermon for children” they had heard, and Jasper added a word or two. It was evident that all three had listened with attention, and this somewhat reassured their aunt.
“Good-night, my darlings,” she said, when she kissed them, as they were all going to bed, for on Sunday evenings Jasper too was allowed to sit up till eight o’clock. But—was it fancy?—did not Leila shrink away a little; was there not a slight catch, as of a very far-away sob, in Chrissie’s throat; and why did Jasper’s blue eyes, which always looked dark at night, strike her as sad and mournful?
“What can it be?” she repeated to herself.
Nor would she have felt reassured, but, on the contrary, still more perplexed, had she overheard the little boy’s whisper as the three made their way upstairs.
“You will to-morrow, won’t you, Chrissie?” and Chrissie’s impatient “Nonsense, Japs. You’re not to interfere—it’s no business of yours.”
The child went to sleep with a heavy heart.
“And I were so pleased at findin’ it,” he thought. “It would all have been kite happy, if only Chrissie would tell.”
For he, of course, had no idea that his very readiness to help in the matter had been accepted by the others in direct defiance of their father’s warning.
And though the next day and two or three days after were bright and sunny, and though Leila and Chrissie really seemed more anxious to please their mother and to keep to her rules, a sort of cloud hung over the house, though Aunt Margaret was the only one who said to herself, with increasing misgiving—“The children have something on their minds. What can it be?”
But before a week had passed, already the impression had faded, if not entirely, yet very nearly so. The shame and regret, the wishing, and for a time meaning, to be, as Chrissie had called it half-jokingly to herself, “gooder,” had no root; they had made fair promise for a moment, and then they “had withered away.” For if children—and people—allow themselves just to be governed by their inclinations; to put off till “more convenient seasons” real penitence, real turning in the right direction; to fill their minds and thoughts with pleasanter subjects than their own faults and failings—why, nothing is easier than to do so! And, on the other hand, more and more difficult does it become to take up the good resolutions again. For in this world we never stand still in character, any more than in our bodies; every day we are growing older, and every day, if we are not growing better, we are growing worse.
So the sudden improvement in her two little daughters, which had brought such happy hopefulness about them to their mother’s heart, proved but sadly passing—indeed, they fell back in several ways, as if, instead of being the better for making the start, they were the reverse; the truth being that, after all, their consciences were not at rest, though they tried to silence them and sometimes succeeded. The sight of the prayer-book always gave Chrissie a twinge, and still worse was the look in Jasper’s reproachful eyes, though after a day or two he left of reminding her of what, in his innocence, he had looked upon as a promise.
And Leila was as lazy and disobliging as ever, often ungenerously taunting Chrissie with ingratitude, which naturally led to very unlovely quarrels.
Neither helped the other in the last. They grew more and more unpunctual and careless and ill-tempered. They only just stopped short of actual rudeness to poor Miss Greenall, and even the pleasant French lessons with their aunt, seemed to have lost their flavour.
“Something has gone wrong,” she said to herself over and over again. “What can it be? I wish I knew what is best to do—how really to make some impression on them. I used to think I was able to influence children,” and she could not help sighing.
She little thought that her own words were so soon to come true. “Sharper lessens will be sent if they do not listen to gentler teaching,” she had said.
Chapter Eleven.
A Stern Lesson.
One morning, rather more than a fortnight after the Sunday I have told you about, while the three children were at lessons with patient Miss Greenall in the dining-room, Jasper suddenly put his head down on the table, and burst into tears.
They all gave a start of surprise; it was so unlike him!
“What is the matter, dear?” asked the governess, very kindly.
“I can’t do them,” he sobbed, pushing his slate away. “I can’t. My head’s hurtin’ so, and I don’t know how to do them.”
Miss Greenall looked distressed.
“Perhaps I have given you too difficult sums,” she said, for his sums were the “them” of his lament, and she glanced at the rows of figures.
“How she does spoil him!” whispered Chrissie, adding, as she turned to Jasper, “I wouldn’t be such a baby as to cry about it, if I were you.”
But though, as a rule, nothing hurt the little fellow’s feelings as much as any hint of “babyishness,” the words seemed to have no effect. He just cried on.
Miss Greenall tried to soothe him.
“We’ll put away the sums for to-day,” she said. “I know you have tried to do them, and to-morrow I’ll explain them again to you. Suppose you do a little writing for a change? That won’t tire your head.”
“Werry well,” sighed Jasper. “But I really did try.”
“I know you did,” his teacher repeated, and she pretended not to see the half-mocking glances that passed between her elder pupils.
So with half-suppressed sobs and deep-drawn breathings, Jasper set to work again, and Miss Greenall turned her attention to Leila and Christabel.
“Is your Mamma at home this morning?” she asked later, as she was putting on her cloak to leave. “I should like to see her for a moment.”
“No, she’s not. She won’t be in till luncheon,” Leila replied, none too politely. Miss Greenall hesitated. Then she said, lowering her voice, “Would you mind telling her that I don’t think Jasper is very well?”
“There’s nothing the matter with him except that he’s a spoilt baby,” said Chrissie. “We’re not petted if our lessons are difficult.”
Miss Greenall said nothing, but a glance, almost of appeal, to Leila, brought out a condescending reply.
“You really needn’t bother about him, but I will tell Mummy if I don’t forget,” and with this small amount of response Miss Greenall had to be content.
Leila did forget, however, and Chrissie did not try to remember, as might have been expected, and as both their mother and Aunt Margaret were very busy that day about the sale of some of the Fareham pictures, Jasper’s languor and aching head passed unnoticed.
But the next morning, while Mrs Fortescue was dressing, she was startled by an unexpected tap at the door, and Roland put in his head.
“Mums,” he said, “will you come up and look at Jap? He’s caught cold or something, and he seems so queer. He doesn’t want to get up, and you know he’s never lazy.”
Mrs Fortescue needed no second bidding. She was in Jasper’s little room in another minute.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she asked anxiously.
“My ’hroat’s razer sore, Mumsey darlin’,” he said, “and I’m tired in my head. Must I get up?”
“No, no. Stay in bed and I’ll send up some nice breakfast,” she replied, and as she met Roland following her—“Roley, dear,” she said, “I hope it’s only a cold, but I must get the doctor—or a doctor, for it’s so far to send for our own from here.”
“Let me go,” the boy replied. “It’s better to have some one we know. I’ll take the ’bus and be very quick, and you can give me a note to explain why I’m late at Mr Banbury’s,” and he was off, almost before his mother realised that he was going.
After all it was not so very far to go, and as Roland at once caught the omnibus, which all but passed Dr Wilkins’ door, he was back before breakfast was finished.
“What’s Japs doing?” Chrissie had asked, as she and Leila made their appearance, by no means too early.
“He is not well,” her mother replied. “I hope it is only a cold, but—”
“Oh, by-the-bye,” Leila interrupted, “Miss Greenall thought he wasn’t well at lessons yesterday.”
“Why did she not say so?” said Mrs Fortescue, “it was careless of her.”
“N-no,” replied Leila hesitatingly, “you and Auntie were out, and—well she did tell us to speak of it to you, but—”
“She told you, not me. I’d nothing to do with it,” exclaimed Christabel rather rudely, “and you forgot. But there wasn’t anything to tell. He was only cross over his sums, and cried like a baby.”
Mrs Fortescue seemed far from pleased.
“Jasper’s being cross about anything,” she said coldly, “certainly points to his being ill. I cannot understand neither of you speaking of it to me.”
And it was just then that Roland came in. Mr Fortescue had already left—unusually early that morning, as there was a pressure of work at his office.
“He’s coming—I just caught him,” said Roland, as he drew in his chair.
“You have been quick, dear,” said his mother. “It is a great relief. How soon do you think he will come?”
Leila and Chrissie turned to their aunt.
“Where has Roland been?” they asked. “What is he talking about?”
“He has been to Dr Wilkins,” Miss Fortescue replied quietly.
“What a fuss!” Chrissie muttered. It was only meant for Leila, but her aunt, who was by no means deaf, caught the words.
“Mother,” Roland went on, “you don’t think it can be anything worse than a cold? I told the doctor you thought it was a bad chill, but he questioned me a good bit when he heard Japs was sleeping close beside me—and he was queer in the night. Talking nonsense, you know. Dr Wilkins asked if he went to school, or had been near any infection. He said there had been a lot of scarlet fever near here—in a street called Peter’s Place. It had been brought in a curious way, and they had some difficulty in tracing where it came from—that was how he had heard of it. It’s over now, but if Japs had been near there, you see?”
“No,” his mother replied, “that is impossible. We knew of the illness there some time ago, and your father warned us. No—I cannot see that he has been exposed to any infection.”
But she was feeling very anxious—so much so that she did not notice the strange look that had come over the faces of both her little daughters as they heard what Roland said. She did not see that Leila grew white and Christabel red, but Aunt Margaret’s eyes were keen.
“Can it be only nervousness—dread of serious illness?” she said to herself. “No, they are far from cowardly. I fear, I fear, it is something worse.”
But then, for the time being, her mind and thoughts, as well as their mother’s, were too entirely taken up by the sudden new trouble that had come upon the household, for her to be able to let them dwell on the increased misgiving that something was wrong, something “on the children’s minds.”
Breakfast was cleared away quickly and the two girls told to remain where they were in the dining-room. Then Dr Wilkins’ brougham drove up and he came in. It was still standing at the door when, at ten o’clock, Miss Greenall punctually made her appearance.
“Is that a doctor’s carriage here?” she asked with some anxiety, and then, glancing at her pupils, she saw that they seemed unusually subdued and quiet.
“Yes,” replied Chrissie. “It’s our own doctor. He’s come to see Japs, who’s got a cold.”
Miss Greenall started.
“I hope you told your mother what I said,” and she turned to Leila, who answered vaguely—
“Yes—I told her, but not last night. He seemed all right again yesterday afternoon. He didn’t cry or anything.”
Miss Greenall only sighed. But before the regular time for her to leave had come, Mrs Fortescue looked in at the door.
“Miss Greenall,” she said, “will you please leave off lessons now, and when you have put on your hat, I would like to speak to you in the drawing-room. I am going to ask you to do me a favour.”
“I will come directly, dear Madam,” was the reply.
Then books were closed, slates and pencils, and ink and pens, put away, and with a rather cold “good-morning” to the children the little governess left them to themselves.
To themselves—yes—and to their thoughts!
“What does it mean—what’s all the fuss about?” at last said Chrissie irritably.
Leila made no reply. She stood looking out of the window for a minute or two. Then she went to the door and opened it a little.
“What are you doing that for?” asked her sister.
“I want to hear when she goes,” said Leila in a low voice, “and then I’ll ask Mummy what’s the matter.”
Then came the sound of the drawing-room door opening and Miss Greenall on her way out.
“I’m sure it can be arranged,” the children heard her say. “Mother always keeps the rooms so nice.”
“I am very, very much obliged to you. It is most good of you to give up your own,” was Mrs Fortescue’s reply.
Leila and Chrissie looked at each other in perplexity. What did it mean? But they were not long left in doubt. Their mother came into the dining-room.
“Children,” she said, “I have to tell you some bad news. Stand over there by the window,” she went on, and then they noticed that she herself remained at the door. “Dr Wilkins has seen Jasper, and—and—” she seemed to catch her breath, “there is no doubt that it is scarlet fever. We must hope for the best, but it may be a bad attack. A nurse is coming at once. It is not very infectious at the beginning, so there is no reason to be afraid about you two and Roland, so far. Dr Wilkins has very kindly offered to have Roley in his own house, so that his lessons will not be interrupted, and he is packing his things now, to go at once.”
She stopped for a moment. The children did not speak.
“We have arranged,” she went on, “for you and Aunt Margaret to go to rooms in Mrs Greenall’s. She lets two, and luckily they are vacant, and Miss Greenall is most kindly giving up her own. It is near here and we can hear of each other every day,” she sighed. “How the dear child has caught it, we cannot imagine,” she added, “but he is never as strong as the rest of you, and therefore perhaps more sensitive. Now, you must go upstairs and do your best in the way of packing all you will need. You will find Aunt Margaret and Harriet in your room, and they will help you. I must not see you again, as I shall have to stay with Jasper till the nurse comes. But, oh, my dear children, I may trust you, surely? You will try to be good and obedient and unselfish in this time of trouble?”
They both looked down. Then Leila murmured something that sounded like “we’d far rather stay here.”
“Yes,” echoed Chrissie, and even this seemed to cheer their mother. “I’m not afraid of the fever,” said Leila, in a strange voice.
“But it would add to all our distress if you did get it,” said Mrs Fortescue, smiling, though sadly enough.
“The unselfish thing is to go, and to be very, very good and thoughtful.”
She turned to leave the room.
“Mumsey,” cried Chrissie, and she made a sort of dart forward, but her voice was husky, and her mother did not hear or see her, and she stopped short.
“What were you going to say to her?” questioned Leila gloomily.
“You know,” was the reply.
“What good would it do?” said Leila. “It can’t be undone—and perhaps he didn’t get it that day. It’s so long ago.”
“It’s always like that,” said Chrissie. “I remember about Miss Earle. She had to stay away once for three weeks to see if she didn’t get it, after her sister had had it. Leila,” she went on, “you said you weren’t afraid of it. I am—awfully.”
Leila looked at her in surprise.
“Yes,” said Christabel, “I wouldn’t dare to be very ill—and p’r’aps—you know—not get better, after being so wicked. Yes, wicked. Worse than you, I know. You needn’t think I don’t know that.”
“I wasn’t thinking about it,” said Leila. “I thought if they let me help to nurse Japs, it would be a sort of make-up, and if I did get it, that would do for a punishment, and would put it all straight, you see.”
“No, I don’t see. It would make it all worse,” said Chrissie irritably. Deep down in her heart, she knew well what would be the first step to take towards “putting it straight” but the impulse to confession had faded again, leaving only enough uneasiness to make her cross and quarrelsome.
Just then Harriet appeared.
“If you please,” she said timidly, “Miss Fortescue says aren’t you coming up to help about your things?”
They turned to go.
“What’s going to happen to you, Harriet?” asked Chrissie recklessly. “Are you going to be turned out too?”
Harriet smiled in calm superiority.
“I’ve had it, Miss,” she said, “and of course your Mamma couldn’t nohow do without me. I’d never dare look Aunt—that’s Nurse, you know, Miss—in the face again if I didn’t do my best.”
“She’s much better than we are,” thought Christabel.
That very morning—no, for they did not go till after the early dinner—saw the two girls and Miss Fortescue established in Mrs Greenall’s scrupulously neat and clean, but very tiny, rooms. Spenser Terrace had seemed small in comparison with their old home, but here it looked as if the whole house could have been fitted into their former nursery!
“There is one advantage in very close quarters,” said Aunt Margaret, as she busied herself in unpacking and arranging their belongings. “You have to be neat. It is rather like being on board ship.”
Leila sighed and Chrissie wriggled, but neither grumbled. How indeed could they have done so? For besides the miserable consciousness which they were doing their best to stifle, was there not the “object lesson” of their aunt’s utter self-forgetfulness and devotion—old woman as she almost was—cheerfully accommodating herself to what, with the habits of her life, could not but be very trying, to say the least?
“What would she think of us—worst, of course, of me—if she knew,” thought Christabel, little suspecting that Aunt Margaret’s still keen eyes were at that very moment noting the expression on her face.
“She is very unhappy,” said Miss Fortescue to herself, “and so is Leila. Poor children! They have more feeling than sometimes has seemed the case. And if—if their consciences are not at rest, this trouble, whatever it is that they are remorseful about—this trouble may be a turning-point for them.”
A day or two passed, quietly enough. Miss Greenall attended to the little girls’ lessons as usual, in the afternoon their aunt went out with them, and in the evening they read French with her. They were obedient and subdued; never had their governess found them so easy to manage, and she, naturally, put this state of matters altogether down to their anxiety about little Jasper, and liked them the better for it.
But when they were alone together, things were less smooth. Leila was peevish and inclined to “cast up” to Christabel the greater amount of blame due to her, and Christabel was not of a character to bear this patiently. With their careless habits, the small rooms and close quarters—fresh and bright as Mrs Greenall and her one small maidservant kept everything—were a great trial. Tidyings-up seemed to be needed every hour of the day, and by degrees, as the first shock of their little brother’s illness wore off, they grew more selfishly alive to their own really very trifling discomfort.
“I’m sure we’re punished enough,” said Chrissie one morning when they were arguing about first turn at the tiny toilet-table. “There’s Japs having quite a good time of it, after all—everybody fussing and petting him. And Roland treated like a grown-up man at Dr Wilkins’s! I daresay he goes in to late dinner.”
“But they’ve done nothing to be punished for,” said Leila, “and I,”—she changed her mind, and went on, “there’s Mummy, and Aunt Margaret, as well as us.”
“Mummy adores Japs so—she loves nursing him, I’m sure,” replied Chrissie; “and as for Auntie—well, I suppose she’s a saint and angel, and I don’t pretend to be.”
“It wouldn’t be much good if you did,” remarked Leila drily. “You’d better hurry up or you’ll be the late one this morning.”
Breakfast was all ready and Aunt Margaret at the table when they went in. But almost at once the children became conscious of a change in her face and tone; it almost seemed as if she had been struggling to keep back her tears, and tears, to the old, seldom come lightly.
“Is—is anything wrong?” asked Leila tremblingly, and all in a moment something came over Christabel—she felt as if her heart had stopped beating.
“Yes,” said Miss Fortescue. “Darlings, we must be brave and hopeful still—and better than all, we must earnestly pray that he may be spared to us—but—I cannot hide it from you. There is sad news this morning—little Jasper has had a bad turn of some kind in the night. He is very, very ill.”
“Who said so—who brought word of it?” said Chrissie with a strange sort of fierceness in her tone; “p’r’aps it’s not true.”
Miss Fortescue shook her head.
“Miss Greenall went herself, as she has done every morning,” she replied; “she has been so kind; and when she rang, your mother spoke to her out of the window. She has done so twice a day, you know, and till now she looked quite cheerful. But this morning—the poor girl scarcely knew how to tell me. Edith was quite calm, but, oh dear, dear—she just said what I have told you. The darling is terribly ill—I don’t think—” but here the poor old lady, brave as she was, turned away. She could say no more.
“Have they sent for Dr Wilkins?” asked Leila, and her voice sounded quite unlike itself.
“Oh yes,” replied Aunt Margaret. “He has been there half the night, and is coming again this morning.”
“Can’t Miss Greenall go back now to ask if he’s any better?” Leila went on.
“It would be no use just yet,” Miss Fortescue said sadly. “There cannot be anything more to hear for some time. While you are at your lessons, I think perhaps I will go round myself—not to go in, of course, but to speak to your mother through the window.”
“Lessons,” repeated Leila, “we can’t do lessons. We can’t be expected to.”
“My dears,” said their aunt, “you must do something. No one knows better than I do, how miserably trying such anxiety is, but it would be worse if you hung about doing nothing. One must face these things in life, and try to be patient. Sickness and sorrow come to all.”
Then for the first time Chrissie spoke.
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose they do, but—oh, oh—if it was only that!” and so saying, she rushed out of the parlour and locked herself into the little bedroom that she shared with Leila.
“Poor Chrissie,” said Miss Fortescue, and the knowledge of what her sister was feeling made Leila look up sharply. Did Aunt Margaret suspect anything? She was moving away, when Miss Fortescue went on speaking. “Leave her alone for a little. You can keep some breakfast for her on the side-table. Finish your own, and then the things must be cleared, and you can get out your books,” and Leila, herself in a turmoil of misery, silently obeyed.
And somehow or other the morning passed. With swollen eyes and burning cheeks Chrissie came back after a while and drank some milk, and the two went through a sort of pretence of lessons with kind Miss Greenall, who was patience and gentleness personified. Then Aunt Margaret came in, but with no cheering report.
“Just the same,” she said; and after dinner she made the children come out with her for an hour or two, and in a dull stupor of wretchedness they paced along beside her, feeling as if nothing in all the world mattered in the least, if only Jasper were well again, or—crueller still—if only they had not been the cause of this terrible illness!
For by this time, I think, Leila’s misery and self-reproach were as severe as Chrissie’s.
Later in the evening Miss Greenall, as had been arranged, went off again for news. It was nearly the children’s bedtime when she returned, and catching sight of her face as she came into their sitting-room, Miss Fortescue turned quickly to them.
“It is quite time for you to go, dears,” she said. “I will come in to say good-night, and will tell you if there is anything different.”
But they, too, had seen the girl’s white face and tremulous lips.
“No, no,” cried both together, “let her say it before us. Aunt Margaret, we must hear.”
And then the dreaded word came.
“Worse,” and with a burst of irrepressible tears, for she was only a girl herself, she went on confusedly, “they scarcely think—Dr Wilkins is afraid—he may not live through the night.”
Poor Miss Fortescue, who had risen from her chair, staggered back into it. Miss Greenall had already rushed away. Leila stood by the table as if turned to stone, white as a sheet. Christabel, the tears pouring again from her still swollen and aching eyes, flung herself on the floor before her aunt.
“I must tell, I must,” she sobbed in wild despair.
“I can’t bear it, Lelly, I can’t, and you needn’t be afraid. I was the worst. You meant to help me. I’ll take all the blame—all, all—I’ll—oh, what can I do? I’d be cut in pieces if it would do any good. Oh Japs, Japs, my own little Japs! Auntie, Auntie, listen—it was all me.”
Miss Fortescue raised her without speaking and drew her on to her knee.
“I am listening, my child,” she said.
And then, between choking sobs and torrents of tears, came the story that we know. The whole story—without excuses, without slurring over the sad wrongness of it all, in any way, till at the end the miserable little face hid itself on her aunt’s shoulder while she murmured—
“Can I ever be forgiven? Is it any use for me to pray for Japs to get better? I haven’t dared to before—oh Auntie, Auntie.”
It was, under the circumstances, a terrible confession to hear, though, at the root of it all, was nothing worse than childish carelessness and disobedience, followed, all too naturally, alas, by concealment and deceit. And for a moment, or two Miss Fortescue felt as if she could scarcely speak.
“How could they? How could they?” she said to herself. But when Leila, too, flung herself upon her, in less stormy but still agonised penitence, saying over and over again, “I’ve been as much to blame. I have. I was older and I knew how wrong it was. Poor Chrissie—you were no naughtier than I was,” a strange sort of calm, almost of joy, came over Aunt Margaret.
“The lesson they needed—was this to be it?” she thought. “Oh, if the darling can yet be restored to us—if only our prayers may be granted.”
And the very thought brought hope again, and strength to speak the best and wisest words to the two broken-hearted little girls—words which they never would forget—true in their earnest, even stern, blame of the small wrong-doings which had led to greater, yet full of loving sympathy and encouragement.
But the night which followed—of broken sleep and waking to fresh fits of misery; of miserable dreams, and flashes of hopefulness—gone as soon as they came!—the night was a dreadful one.
“Will the morning never come?” thought Chrissie as she woke for the twentieth time, to hear Leila’s half-stifled sighs and moans beside her. For the morning must bring news—if no better, it must be worse.
And as often happens in such cases, their first sound sleep was after dawn. And when they opened their weary eyes, Aunt Margaret was standing there, with, thank God, a smile on her face.
“Yes,” she said, before they could ask the question half-choking them. “Yes—a shade better. They are hopeful.”