"Two letters," said Daisy, holding them up in her hand; "actually two letters; one for Primrose—oh, yes! of course that must be from Mr. Danesfield; and one for Jasmine—oh! Jasmine's is such a funny-looking letter, quite thick and interesting, and with a darling little picture on the back. What can the picture be?—oh! some little bells, and The Joy-bell written over them."
"Give it to me," said Jasmine, her face suddenly turning crimson. "Oh, Daisy! why do you examine my letters so curiously? This was meant to be quite private. Oh, oh, oh! how my fingers tremble."
"We are all alone, you know, Jasmine," said Daisy; "dear Primrose is not in. She went to her continual reading nearly an hour ago. Dear Primrose! she sometimes looks quite pale and tired. Perhaps the letter is about our secret, Jasmine; please do read it to me—please do."
But by this time Jasmine had torn the envelope open, and was oblivious to all Daisy's comments. Her eager eyes devoured the contents of an official-looking sheet of paper, then she danced up and down the room, then she tossed the paper up to the ceiling, and finally caught Daisy in her arms, and covered her little face with kisses.
"Oh, Daisy, it's too good!—I'm so happy, I could almost cry. Daisy, darling, he wants to see me about my story—he thinks it's very fine—he says there are masterly bits in it—I'm to go and see him as soon as possible."
"Him?" repeated Daisy; "but who is he, Jasmine?"
"He's the editor of one of the most powerful of all our magazines," said Jasmine; "the magazine is called The Joy-bell—hasn't it a delicious title? Oh, Daisy! I must go at once to see him."
"Take me with you," said Daisy, coming up close to her sister—"take me with you, darling, dear Jasmine. I'm much better, I've nearly lost my cough, and the spring is coming; the air feels quite warm to-day—do take me, Jasmine, for it is our own secret, and then, after you've got your money—for I suppose you'll get a lot of money—we can both tell Primrose to-night."
Jasmine hesitated, but the sun was shining warmly, and Daisy's little face was very pleading—Jasmine felt so happy at this moment that she greatly longed to give happiness.
"Yes," she said, suddenly, "I don't suppose Primrose will really mind, and you must wrap up well; only there's just one thing, Daisy, we'll have to call for Poppy. I would not on any account go to the publisher's without Poppy."
As Jasmine and Daisy were hurrying quickly down the street to catch the first omnibus which went in the direction of the Edgware Road, Daisy suddenly clutched her sister's hand, the color left her pretty face, and she began to hurry forward at a very rapid pace.
"What is the matter, Daisy?" said Jasmine: "you have quite hurt my hand; has anything frightened you? have you seen any one?"
"Oh, it's nothing—I mean I'm subject to starts," said poor little Daisy, in a sad voice. "I'll be better when I get into the omnibus with you, Jasmine; and please, Jasmine, may I sit very close to you? and may I hold your hand?"
"You poor little darling!" said Jasmine, affectionately, "you are not a bit strong yet—you must have some more chemical food; I am told there is nothing so good for starts as chemical food."
Daisy gave another start and a very gentle sigh. She knew well in her little breast that no amount of chemical food would take away the terror which inspired her when she saw the face of Mr. Dove. She had seen him just now, although Jasmine had not—he was standing with several other men at the corner of the road, and his blood-shot eyes had seemed to look through her, and as she passed by he had raised his hand, and shaken it at her in a truly menacing manner.
Dove had not forgotten Daisy, as Daisy had fondly hoped. Daisy Mainwaring meant to him a certain amount of money. Dove was not the sort of man to allow the chance of gaining money dishonestly to go by. As to earning money, and coming by it as the sweet fruits of honest toil, that did not at all suit his idea. When he saw the child going out with her sister he recollected, with much pleasure, that quarter-day was about due. Feeling in his own pockets, he confessed they were unpleasantly light and empty, and then he wondered if he might find any agreeable little pickings in the girls' trunks. He had subjugated poor little Daisy so completely that he would have ventured to rob even in her presence, but of course he preferred doing his burglary work alone.
He very quickly made up his mind to pay a visit that very day to the girls' new rooms in Miss Egerton's house. He made an excuse to get away from his companions, and then, walking quickly in the direction of Miss Egerton's house, he took his bearings carefully. At this hour Miss Egerton was busy with her school and Bridget was employed in the kitchen. He might do what he liked, therefore, in that part of the house which the girls called the Palace Beautiful. He knew a way by which he could get on the roof—from the roof there was an easy entrance to the girls' rooms. By the time Jasmine, Daisy, and Poppy were joyously driving towards the city Dove had taken possession of their nice bright rooms. When he got in he locked the outer door, and then he felt quite comfortable, and at leisure to look around him.
The first thing he saw was the letter directed to Primrose on the sitting-room table. He took it up, and examined it closely. He could spell out—for he was by no means a proficient reader—the word Rosebury on one of the post-marks; that was enough for him; the letter was tucked neatly into his pocket, and then he went round the room in search of fresh spoil.
He found very little, for the Palace Beautiful showed none of its charms to his eyes; in Dove's opinion it was a poor sort of place—clean, certainly, but what of that? Dove considered that cleanliness meant poverty. Dove's tastes lay in the direction of rooms thickly carpeted; he liked two or three carpets, one on the top of the other, on a floor; he liked the rooms to be well crowded with furniture—furniture of the good old mahogany type, heavy and dark—and the windows draped with thick merino. A room so furnished would, as Dove expressed it, look solid, and mean a heavy purse, and perhaps a nice little nest-egg laid by tidily in one of the drawers or bureaus. Such a room would be very interesting to examine, but this sitting-room, with its crimson drugget, and its white flooring, its one or two choice engravings on the walls, and its little book-case filled with good and valuable books, was, Dove considered, very shabby indeed. He found nothing more worth taking, and having given the Pink a kick by way of a parting blessing, he left the room, made his exit again by the roof, and so departed unperceived. He had Primrose's letter in his pocket, and he thought himself very lucky to have so nicely secured her quarter's allowance. He returned to his own house in Eden Street, and in the privacy of his back parlor opened Mr. Danesfield's letter. It was a short letter, and, as it happened was not written by Mr. Danesfield at all. Dove, however, by patient spelling and peering, presently mastered its contents.
"The Bank,
"High Street, Rosebury,
"April 21.
"MADAM,
"In Mr. Danesfield's absence, I send you a cheque for £17 10s., according to his orders. The cheque will require your signature at the back, and if you will kindly sign it you, or any one else, can obtain cash for the amount at the Metropolitan Bank, Strand.
"I expect Mr. Danesfield home in about six weeks; he has been wintering abroad.
"Yours faithfully,
"JOHN DAVIS."
Dove took the greater part of an hour to make this letter out; next he fingered the cheque, turning it backwards and forwards; then his face grew very blank—for, unsigned, that cheque was valueless. He was a violent man, and he uttered some strong expressions, and his wife, on hearing them, took good care to keep out of his way. She could not make out why Dove sat so long in the back parlor, and why he refused to eat his dinner, which was very hot and tasty. After a time, with a sigh of relief, she heard him go out.
Dove had hastily fastened up the letter, trusting to no one's noticing that it had been opened. Again he reached Miss Egerton's house; again he made his way from the roof to the upper landing, and from the upper landing to the girls' rooms; the letter was not placed on the table, but was skilfully slipped down between some books which lay in a pile on Jasmine's little writing-table. It might have been put there by any one who was dusting the room, and it might have lain in its present position unseen for many days. Dove hoped no one would perceive it; he scowled at the poor little Pink, who crouched away from him, and turning on his heel again, left the room.
It is to be feared that Poppy stole away from her work that morning. Poor Poppy was getting into a sadly defiant mood. She was getting thoroughly tired of her aunt, Mrs. Flint, and when Jasmine appeared and said a few coaxing words the naughty girl left her work undone, disregarded the many cries for Sarah Ann and Sarah Maria, and putting on her brilliant hat and her smart jacket, sallied forth citywards with Jasmine and Daisy. In due time the three reached the office of The Joy-bell and were admitted into the presence of the editor.
"You musn't let me accept too low terms, Poppy," said Jasmine, as they were going in at the door.
Poppy nodded very brightly in reply, and Jasmine took the seat the editor offered her with a certain little air of modest elation.
"I got your note," she began, "and I thought you'd like to see me immediately, so I came. This is my sister; she knows all about it; she's in the story herself. I've drawn all my characters from the life; and my friend, Poppy Jenkins—you saw her a fortnight ago—she's in the book too."
The editor—Mr. Potter was his name—had a habit of waving his hand when anything that he considered superfluous was being said; he now waved both Daisy and Poppy into the background, and addressed himself to Jasmine in a style which, as she said afterwards, riveted her attention on the spot.
"I wrote to you, Miss Mainwaring," he said, "because I saw germs of promise in your composition—it is young, of course, for you are very young, but it is fresh, and with due correctness, which I myself am willing to supply, I do not see why 'The Pursuit of Happiness' should not appear in our journal. We publish, however, only under certain conditions, and before I make any offer for your writings I should like to know whether you are able to fulfil them."
"That sounds in the nature of a bargain," here burst from Poppy's lips. "Now, Miss Jasmine, please will you listen very sharp, and see what the gentleman is after? Bargains seem to me to be all in favor of them that makes them. Aunt Flint made a bargain with me, and, oh my! I thought it good enough to leave the country and come up to a town whose name is wanity. Nothing have I got, Miss Jasmine, from my share of the bargain but a swimming head and the name of Sarah!"
"If this young person will cease to interrupt us," proceeded the editor, in his blandest tones.
"Oh, yes; Poppy, please stop talking," said Jasmine. "I beg your pardon, sir; I only wanted Poppy to help me when we came to terms. We have not come to the money part yet, dear Poppy. Yes, sir, I am most anxious to listen to you."
"Well, Miss Mainwaring, the facts are these—yes, I fear it is a question of money, after all. The Joy-bell is a new magazine; we are most anxious to extend its circulation by every means in our power. We have hit on what we consider a novel, but effective expedient. Each contributor to our pages is expected to subscribe for a hundred copies per month of our magazine—these copies he is asked to disseminate as widely as possible amongst his friends. The magazine is only sixpence a month. Of course you get your friends to take the copies off your hands. Your story will, I think, run for six months—you are really put to no expense, for, of course, you must know a hundred people who will gladly take a magazine in which you appear. Thus you gain the advantage of having your story widely read and published not at your own expense."
"But please—" began Jasmine.
"If I might speak who am brought here for the purpose," here burst from Poppy, "what pay is the young lady to have for the words of genius that she has wrote upon the paper? Yes, Miss Jasmine, you said I was to let my voice be heard here—I'm not afraid, not of nobody, and here, I puts down my foot, and I says, 'What's the pay?'"
"The pay?" echoed the editor. "Surely the young lady does not expect to be paid for anything so very amateur—no, she cannot expect to be paid in money—in another way she is paid, and largely; she obtains a reputation, and what immature talent she has is brought to the fore! I am afraid, Miss Mainwaring, I must not take up any more of your valuable time—I think I have explained myself quite clearly—do you accept my offer? If you are willing to become a subscriber for one hundred copies monthly of The Joy-bell your story shall appear; if not, I must return you your MS. with regret."
Poor Jasmine's white little face grew piteous.
"Oh, Poppy!" she began.
"Do you want it, Miss Jasmine?" said Poppy. "I calls it a cheat; but do you want it?"
"Oh, dear Poppy, I thought my words would look so lovely in Print—I am disappointed!"
"Then you shan't be, Miss Jasmine, darling. Here, sir, you're another of the Aunt Flint tribe, but my darling Miss Jasmine shall not look as she does now if I can prevent it. Please, sir, will you look in this here little purse given to you by the honest hand of toil, and see if it contains the price of a hundred of those nasty Joy-bells. There's my three months' wage in that purse, sir, so I expect it will prove sufficient."
The editor opened the little purse gingerly.
"Do you wish your friend to subscribe for you?" he asked, looking at Jasmine. "I will allow you to have the first instalment at a reduction. The full price for a hundred copies of The Joy-bell at sixpence a copy will be, of course, fifty shillings. On this occasion you shall have these delivered to you at your residence for forty-five shillings."
"It's in the purse, sir," said Poppy, with an air of modest pride. "Forty-five shillings, and fifteen shillings over, for my wage with Aunt Flint comes exactly to three pounds a quarter. The fifteen shillings will find me in boots and house shoes, Miss Jasmine; and as my 'at is fresh trimmed, and I have enough cotton dresses to go on with, you are more than welcome to the two pound five."
"We will arrange it so, then," said the editor. "Miss Mainwaring, you must give me your address, and you shall receive proofs in a day or two. This sum of money provides for the appearance of the first instalment of your story. From the sale of the hundred copies you will be provided with funds for the second instalment, and so on."
"But how am I to pay Poppy back if I must give you the money that I get for the magazines?" asked Jasmine, her face becoming more crimson each moment.
"Ah! that," said the editor, with a slightly sarcastic smile, "that is surely not my affair."
After this a few comparatively trivial arrangements were made. Jasmine gave the address of the Palace Beautiful to Mr. Potter, and walked downstairs, feeling excited, pleased, and disappointed.
"Oh, Poppy!" she said, "how light, how very light your purse is."
"No, Miss Jasmine," answered Poppy, "you're out altogether there, for fifteen shillings in silver weighs more than three pounds in gold. It's my heart, not my purse, that's light, Miss Jasmine—it has done me a sight of good to help you, Miss Jasmine; I know he is a cheat in there, but never mind, when your pretty, beautiful tale appears there'll be a run on it, I think, and that Joy-bell will be asked for high and low. You'll pay me back, never fear, and I'll be real proud to my dying day to feel that I was the first to help you."
That evening, as Jasmine and Daisy sat together waiting for Primrose to return, Daisy said suddenly—
"Did you soar to-day, Jasmine, when you took Poppy's wages to have your story printed?—was that what you call a soaring flight?"
Daisy spoke innocently, and with real desire for information, but at her words Jasmine covered her face and burst into tears.
"What a cruel remark, Eyebright," she said. "Do you know I'm quite miserable about this; I've been getting more and more wretched ever since I left that man's office. Suppose, Daisy, I don't sell a hundred copies of The Joy-bell; then I shall never be able to have any more of my story printed, and I shall never have it in my power to pay Poppy back. I think I must have yielded to temptation that time; perhaps I'm nothing but a vain little girl, and think myself cleverer than I am."
"Oh, I'm sure you're a genius, Jasmine," said Daisy. "I know, for I have studied your face a great deal; in the story-books I generally notice that the geniuses have the same kind of face that you have—they generally have a little discontented, surprised look about them. I admire the expression very much myself, and sometimes when I'm alone—for you know you and Primrose have to leave me a good deal alone—I try to practice it before the glass. I think it's mostly done with a rise of the eyebrows, but I never can keep mine up long enough."
Jasmine laughed.
"I do hope I am a genius," she said; "I have always longed so to be one. If I really am, it will be all right about Poppy's money, for, of course, the public will try to buy my story. It's really rather a striking story, Daisy. There's a girl in it who does such wonderfully self-denying things—she never thinks of herself for a moment—she is very poor, and yet she earns money in all sorts of delightful ways, and supports her family—she has got two sisters—they are not half as clever as she is at earning money. The story begins by the sisters rather despising Juliet, but in the end they find out how much she is worth. The leading idea in the story is the inculcation of unselfishness—oh dear! oh dear! I hope I shall prove myself a genius in having developed this character. If so, I shall be able to pay Poppy back."
"There is something so beautiful in unselfishness," said Daisy, in a rather prim, moralizing little tone. "Do you know, Jasmine, that I was once going to be frightfully selfish?—I should have been but for the Prince, but he spoke to me; he made up a lovely little story, and he told me about the Palace Beautiful."
"I never can make out why you call these rooms the Palace Beautiful, Daisy," said Jasmine.
"It's because of the way they've been furnished," said Daisy. "They are full of Love, and Self-denial, and Goodness. I do so dearly like to think of it. I lie often on the sofa for hours, and make up stories about three fairies, whom I call by these names; they are quite playmates for me, and I talk to them. I often almost fancy they are real, but the strange thing is, Jasmine, they will only come to me when I have tried to be unselfish, and cheerful, and done my best to be bright and happy. Then Goodness comes, and makes the walls shine with his presence, and Self-denial makes my sofa so soft and easy, and Love gives me a nice view through the window, for I try to take an interest in all the men and women and little children who pass, and when I sit at the window and look at them through Love's glass you cannot think how nice they all seem. I told the Prince about it one day, and he said that was making a real Palace Beautiful out of our rooms."
Jasmine sighed.
"I hear Primrose's step," she said. "Oh, Daisy! you are a darling! how sweetly you think. I wonder if these rooms could ever come to mean a Palace Beautiful to me! I don't think fairies could come to me here, Daisy. I don't think I could see things through their eyes. I want my palace to be much larger and grander than this. Perhaps if I am a real genius it will come to me through my story; but, oh! I hope I did not do wrong in taking Poppy's money."
"No, for you are a genius," said little Daisy, kissing her affectionately.
Primrose's life was very busy at this time. Certainly nothing could be more irksome than the daily task of reading to poor Mrs. Mortlock, but the fifteen shillings a week which she now earned regularly was a wonderful help to the household purse, and Primrose performed her irksome duties with a cheerful, and even thankful heart. Her anxieties about Daisy were almost laid to rest. Since the child had been moved to Miss Egerton's house she seemed quite a changed creature. Her old cheerfulness and sweet calm were returning to her. Morning after morning she bade Primrose good-bye with a bright smile on her little face, and however long and dull her day was, she greeted her sister happily at night. What, therefore, was poor Primrose's consternation to find, on returning home the evening after Jasmine had made arrangements for the publication of her manuscript not only Jasmine, but Miss Egerton and Bridget all surrounding poor little Daisy, who lay on the sofa with a ghastly white face, and burst into nervous troubled weeping whenever she was spoken to.
"We found her in such a queer state," said Jasmine; but Miss Egerton held up a warning hand.
"Let it rest now, my dear," she said; "we need not go into the story in Daisy's presence; she wants perfect quiet. Primrose, she has been longing so for you; will you sit down by her, and hold her hand?"
Daisy opened her eyes when she heard Primrose's name, and held up a hot little hand to her sister, who clasped it very firmly.
"I want to speak to you all by yourself, Primrose," she whispered. "Please ask Jasmine, and Miss Egerton, and Bridget to go away. I want to say something most important to you."
"Leave us for a moment," said Primrose to the others; and Jasmine went down with Miss Egerton to the sitting-room.
The moment Daisy found herself quite alone with Primrose she raised her head, ceased crying, and looked at her sister with bright feverish eyes, and cheeks that burned.
"Primrose," she said, "would you think it very, very wrong of me if I did something that wasn't in itself the very best thing to do, but something that I had to do to prevent a dreadful ogre putting me down into a dark dungeon? Would it be very wrong of me to do a very little thing to prevent it, Primrose?"
"My darling," said Primrose, "your poor little head must be wandering. I don't understand what you mean, my dear little one. Of course it would be only right of you to keep away from an ogre, and not to allow one to touch you—but there are no ogres. Daisy love—there never were such creatures. You need not make yourself unhappy about beings that never existed. The fact is, Daisy, you are too much alone, and your little head has got quite full of the idea of fairies. I must ask Mr. Noel not to talk to you in so fanciful a manner."
"Oh don't, Primrose, for it is my one and only comfort. Oh! I am glad you think I ought to keep out of the ogre's power. He is a dreadful, dreadful ogre, and he has tried to get into the Palace, and I am awfully afraid of him."
Then Daisy laughed quite strangely, and said, in a wistful little voice—
"Of course, Primrose, this is only fairy-talk. I always was fond of fairies, wasn't I? Primrose, darling, I want you to do a little thing for me, will you?"
"Of course, Daisy. Why, how you are trembling, dear!"
"Hold my hand," said Daisy, "and let me put my head on your shoulder. Now I'll ask you about the little thing, Primrose; there's your letter from Mr. Danesfield on the table."
"Has it come?" said Primrose; "I am glad. I expected it yesterday morning."
"It's on the table," repeated Daisy. "Will you open it, Primrose? I'd like to see what's inside."
"Oh, there'll be nothing very pretty inside, darling; it is probably a postal order for our quarter's money."
"Yes, but let me see it, Primrose."
Primrose moved slowly to the table, took up the letter, and opened it.
"It's just as I said, Daisy," she remarked, "only, no—it's not a postal order, it's a cheque. I must write my name on the back, and take it to the Metropolitan Bank to cash to-morrow."
"Let me see you writing your name on the back, please, Primrose," said Daisy, in a queer, constrained little voice.
Primrose smiled to herself at the child's caprice but, taking up a pen, she put her signature across the back of the cheque.
"May I take it in my hand, Primrose?" said Daisy. "Oh, thank you! My hand shakes, doesn't it? but that's because I'm so dreadfully subject to starts. Isn't it funny, Primrose, to think that this little paper should mean a lot of golden sovereigns? Doesn't it make you feel rich to have it, Primrose?"
"It makes me feel that with it and the help of my weekly salary we shall be able to pay for our bread and butter, Daisy."
Daisy turned ghastly white.
"Oh, yes," she said, "oh, yes, dear Primrose. Will you put the cheque back into the envelope, and may I sleep with it under my pillow? I'll stay so quiet and still, and I'll not start at all if I have the cheque that you have signed under my pillow."
Primrose was so anxious to soothe Daisy that she allowed her without a moment's hesitation to have her way. The moment the child felt her hot little fingers clasping the letter with its precious enclosure she became quiet, and ceased to speak. Primrose had undressed her, and placed her in bed, and she now turned her back on her sister, and still clasping the letter tightly, closed her eyes. Primrose hoped she was asleep, and went softly out of the room to talk over matters with Jasmine and Miss Egerton. Miss Egerton could throw no light on the subject of Daisy's queer attack, and when Primrose at last went to bed she had to own that her anxieties with regard to her little sister had returned.
The next morning she was obliged to leave earlier than usual, and rather to Daisy's astonishment, and very much to her relief, said nothing about Mr. Danesfield's letter. Primrose had not forgotten the letter, but she knew she would not be able to go to the bank that day, and she thought it would comfort Daisy to take care of it.
"Jasmine," she said to her second sister, "must you go out this morning? I think it is hardly well to leave Daisy alone."
Jasmine's face clouded over.
"Have you forgotten, Primrose, that Miss Egerton and Mr. Noel were to take me to South Kensington Museum to-day? They arranged that I should go with them quite a week ago, and it would never do to put them off again now. I'll tell you what I'll do, Primrose; I'll take Daisy too; I'll see that she is not over tired, and Mr. Noel will take great care of her; they are very fond of each other."
"Try to arrange it so, then, Jasmine," said Primrose; "for I do not feel happy about her being left."
Primrose went away to spend her day as usual with Mrs. Mortlock, and sat down to her "continual reading" with a heavy heart.
Mrs. Mortlock was losing her sight rapidly—cataract was forming on her eyes, and she could now only dimly see the face and form of her young companion. Primrose, however, always managed to soothe the somewhat irascible old lady, and was already a prime favorite with her.
To-day she took up the newspaper with a heavy heart, and the anxiety which oppressed her made itself felt in a certain weary tone which came into her voice.
Mrs. Mortlock was fond of Primrose, but was never slow in expressing an opinion.
"Crisp up, Miss Mainwaring," she said; "crisp up a little; drawling voices give me the fidgets most terribly. Now, my dear, try to fancy yourself in the House of Commons; read that speech more animated, my love. Ah, that's better!"
Primrose exerted herself, and for a few minutes the reading came up to its usual standard, but then, again, thoughts of Daisy oppressed the young reader, and once more her voice flagged.
"There, my dear, you had better turn to the bits of gossip; they are more in your line, I can see, this morning. Dear, dear, dear! I can't tell what's come to girls these days; they don't seem to find no heart nor pleasure in anything. Now, if there is a girl who, in my opinion, has fallen on her feet, it's you, Miss Mainwaring; for, surely, the handsome salary I allow is earned with next to no trouble. When once a girl can read she can read continual, and that's all I ask of you."
"I'm sorry," said Primrose; "some things at home are troubling me, and I cannot help thinking about them. I shall do better over the gossip."
"That's right, my love! I'd ask you about the home troubles, but my nerves won't stand no worriting. Get on with the gossip, dear, and make your voice chirrupy and perky, as though you saw the spice of it all, and enjoyed it—do."
Just at this moment, while poor Primrose was trying to train her unwilling voice, the door was opened, and Poppy, red in the face, and with her best hat and jacket on, came in.
"Miss Primrose, I'm come to say good-bye, I am. No, Mrs. Mortlock, when about to quit I don't fear you no longer—not all the Sarahs in Europe would have power over me now. I'm going. Aunt Flint and me we has quarrelled, and I has given her fair warning, and I'm going back to my native place, maybe this evening. Never no more will this city of wanities see me. I'm off, Miss Primrose; I leaves Penelope Mansion now, and I go straight away to your place to bid Miss Jasmine and Miss Daisy good-bye."
"For goodness sake, Sarah Matilda Ann!" here interrupted Mrs. Mortlock, speaking with great excitement, "before you go see you bring me up my beef-tea—Mrs. Flint won't give it a thought, and my nerves won't keep up without the nourishment. Run down to the kitchen this minute, Sarah Mary, and bring me up the beef-tea, and a nice little delicate slice of toast, done to a turn, to eat with it. Mind you, don't let the toast get burnt, for if I can't see I can taste, and well know when my toast is burnt."
Poppy was about to give a saucy answer, but a look from Primrose restrained her, and before she left Penelope Mansion she had provided the old lady with her luncheon. Primrose said a few words of farewell and regret, and then Poppy set out, determined to take her chance of finding Jasmine and Daisy at home.
"I'll go back to my own place to-night," she said to herself, "and tell my mother that wanity of wanities is London—my fifteen shillings will just buy me a single third, and I needn't eat nothing until to-morrow morning."
When Poppy arrived at Miss Egerton's she was told by Bridget that Miss Jasmine was out, but that she would find Miss Daisy by herself upstairs. Poppy ran nimbly up the stairs, and knocked at the sitting-room door; there was no answer, and turning the handle, she went in. Daisy was lying with her face downwards on the sofa—sobs and quivers shook her little frame, and for a time she did not even hear Poppy, who bent over her in some alarm.
"Now, Miss Daisy, darling, I'm real glad I has come in—why, what is the matter, missie?"
"Nothing, Poppy; nothing indeed," said Daisy, "except that I'm most dreadfully unhappy. If I was a really quite unselfish little girl I'd go and live in a dungeon, but I couldn't do it—I couldn't, really."
Whatever Poppy was, she was practical—she wasted no time trying to find out what Daisy meant, but bringing some cold water, she bathed the child's face and hands, and then she made her take a drink of milk, and finally, she lifted her off the sofa, and sitting down in an arm-chair, took her in her arms, and laid her head on her breast.
"There now, pretty little dear, you're better, aren't you?"
"My body is better, thank you, Poppy—I like to feel your arms holding me very tight. My mind will never, never be well again, dear Poppy."
"Would it ease it to unburden?" said Poppy. "Sometimes it's a wonderful soother to speak out about what worries one. At Aunt Flint's I used to let fly my worries to the walls for want of a better confidant. You think over about unburdening to me, Miss Daisy. I'll promise to be a safe receptacle."
Daisy shook her head mournfully.
"It would be no use," she said; "even telling now would be no manner of use. Oh, Poppy, I wish I had been strong enough, and I wish so dreadfully I had not minded about the dungeon. If the Prince was here he would say I ought not to live any longer in the Palace Beautiful, and I don't think the rooms do look like the rooms of a palace to-day. Please, Poppy, look round you, and see if you can see any goodness shining on the walls, and if you can see through Love's glass into the street."
"Oh lor! no, Miss Daisy; I'm not so fanciful. The walls is just fairly neat, and the windows, they're just like any other attic windows. Now, missy, you're just fairly worn out, and you shall shut your eyes and go to sleep."
Poor little Daisy was so weary and weak that she absolutely did close her eyes, and comforted and soothed by Poppy's presence, she fell into a short and uneasy doze. She awoke in about an hour, and lay quite still, with her eyes wide open. Poppy said something to her, but she replied, in an imploring tone.
"Please let me think. I had a dream when I was asleep. I did something in the dream, and I think I'll do it now really—only you must let me think Poppy."
"Think, away, pretty little miss," said Poppy: "and while you are worriting your poor little brain over thoughts I'll take it upon me to prepare a bit of dinner for you."
Poppy made some tea, and boiled an egg, and toasted some bread to a light and tempting brown. When the meal was prepared she brought it to Daisy, who said wistfully—
"If I do what I want I must be strong, so I'll eat up that egg, and I'll take some toast, and you must take something too, Poppy."
"Seeing as I can't get no meal till to-morrow morning I'm not inclined to refuse a good offer," said Poppy. "You don't know, missy, as I'm going back to my native 'ome to-night."
"Poppy," said Daisy, suddenly, taking no notice of this remark, "do you know if Mrs. Ellsworthy is a very rich woman?"
"Mrs. Ellsworthy of Shortlands?" said Poppy; "why, in course; ever since I can remember, my mother has said to me, 'Poppy, child, them there Ellsworthys is made of money.'"
"Made of money," repeated Daisy, a little shadowy smile coming to her face; "then they must be really rich. Do you think, Poppy, that Mrs. Ellsworthy is rich enough to give away £17 10s. to buy the daily bread, and to help a little girl who could not help being selfish out of a dreadful dark dungeon? Mrs. Ellsworthy has always been very kind, and I used to love her when I lived at home, but if I thought she was not really very, very rich, I would not ask her, for that might be putting her to great trouble. Losing money makes one's heart ache terrible, Poppy, and I would rather bear my own heartache than give it to another person."
"Mrs. Ellsworthy is made of money," repeated Poppy, "and £17 10s. would be no more than a feather's weight to her. All the same, I can't make out what you're driving at, Miss Daisy."
"I wonder if Mrs. Ellsworthy is at Shortlands now," continued Daisy.
"To be sure she is, Miss Daisy; shall I take her any message when I goes back home?"
"Oh, no, Poppy, thank you very much. Poppy, I wish you had not lent all that money to Jasmine two days ago—you have not any money in your pocket now, have you, Poppy?"
Poppy gave a slight sigh.
"Just the price of a third single to Rosebury, and no more, Miss Daisy, darling."
"Oh, dear me," said Daisy, "it's just exactly that much money which would make me perfectly happy. Must you go to Rosebury to-night, Poppy?"
"Well, missy, I'd do something to make you 'appy, but I don't know where to go if I don't go to my home—to be sure, Aunt Flint would give her eyes to get me back again, but I fears that even for you, Miss Daisy, I can't bear no more of that Sarah game."
"But don't you think you might be able to bear it just for a week, Poppy? If I loved you always and always all the rest of my life, do you think you could bear it just for one little week longer? I'd be sure to let you have the money back again then, dear Poppy."
Poppy gazed hard at the child, who was sitting upright on her sofa, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining, and a fitful quiver about her pretty lips.
"What does it all mean?" thought practical Poppy; "it's more than common worries ails the little dear. I'm sure I'd bear Sarah to my dying day to help her, the sweet lamb! I wonder, now, has she lost some of Miss Primrose's money. I know they're short enough of means, the darling ladies, and maybe the child has mislaid some of their money, and is frightened to tell. Dear me, I shouldn't think Miss Primrose would be hard on any one, least of all on a sweet little lamb like that; but there's never no saying, and the child looks pitiful. Well, I'm not the one to deny her."
"Miss Daisy," said Poppy, aloud, "I have got exactly fifteen shillings in my purse, and that's the price of a third single to Rosebury, and no more. It's true enough I meant to go down there to-night, and never to see Aunt Flint again, but it's true also that she'd give her eyes to have me back, and was crying like anything when I said good-bye to her. 'Sarah,' she says, 'it's you that's ongrateful, and you'll find it out, but if you comes back again you shall be forgiven, Sarah,' she says. So I can go back for a week, Miss Daisy, and if you have lost fifteen shillings, why, I can lend it to you, dearie."
"Oh, Poppy, you are a darling!" said little Daisy. "Oh, Poppy, how can I ever, ever thank you? Yes, I have—lost—fifteen shillings. You shall have it back again, Poppy, and Poppy, I will always love you, and always remember that you were the best of good fairies to me, and that you took me out of the power of a terrible ogre."
"All right, Miss Daisy," said Poppy, returning the child's embrace; "here's the fifteen shilling, and welcome. Only I never would have called sweet Miss Primrose an ogre, Miss Daisy."
Poppy went away presently, and the moment she was gone Daisy began to make some hasty little preparations.
"I'll take the Pink with me," she said to herself. "I'll empty all the things out of my little work-basket, and my darling Pink can sleep in it quite snugly, and she'll be great company to me, for I cannot help feeling very shaky, and I do start so when I see any one the least like Mr. Dove in the distance. I mustn't think about being frightened now—this is the least I could do, and if I'm terrified all over I must go through with it."
Then Daisy wrote a tiny note—a little note on half a sheet of paper—which she tore out of her copy-book. It was blotted with tears and almost illegible. This was what she said:—
"Primrose, darling, I and the Pink, we have gone away for a little bit. Your money is lost, Primrose, and I cannot look you in the face until I get it back again. Don't be a bit frightened about me—I and the Pink will come back when we have got the money.
"Your loving little
"DAISY."
This note was left open on the table to greet Primrose when she came in, and then Daisy buttoned on her little jacket, and put on her strongest pair of boots, and the neat little hat which Primrose had trimmed for her the week before, and popping the Pink into her work-basket, she stole softly downstairs and out of the house without old Bridget, who was busily engaged in the back kitchen, hearing her.
The poor little maid got into the street just when the shades of evening were beginning to fall. She had the Pink in her basket, and fifteen shillings clasped tightly inside one of her gloves. Fifteen shillings paid for a third single to Rosebury, and she was going to Rosebury—so far her plans were definite enough; beyond this broad fact, however, all was chaos.
Daisy knew very little more about London than she had known nine months before, when first she and her sisters arrived in the great city. She had gone out much less than the other two, and she had never gone alone. Whenever she had walked abroad she had gone with a companion.
Now her only companion was the Pink, and the poor little heart felt very lonely, and the little feet trembled as they walked along the pavement.
She had been so terrified about Poppy finding out what she really wanted to do with the fifteen shillings that she had been afraid to ask her any questions about Rosebury. She had not an idea from what railway station she was to go, and she feared, as she walked through the streets, that she might have to walk many miles.
At first she walked very rapidly, for she was anxious to get out of Mr. Dove's neighborhood, and she also thought it just possible that she might meet Primrose or Jasmine returning home. Besides the fifteen shillings which were to pay for her ticket she had threepence of her own in her pocket. When she had walked about half an hour, and thought that she had gone a long way, and felt quite sure that she could not be very far from the railway station which led to Rosebury, the Pink awoke, and twisting and turning in her narrow basket began to mew loudly.
"Oh, poor Kitty Pink," said Daisy, "she must be wanting her supper, poor dear little kitty! I'm not at all hungry myself, but I think I ought to buy a penno'th of milk for my kitty. I'll just go into that shop over there—I see that they sell bread and milk. Perhaps they'll give me some bread and milk for kitty for a penny, and oh, perhaps they will know if I am near the right railway station for Rosebury."
Summoning up all her courage, for Daisy was naturally a timid child, she ventured into the shop, and having asked for some bread and milk for her cat, which was given with a little stare of amusement by a good-natured looking woman, she put her important question in a very faltering voice.
"Rosebury, my little dear?" said the shopwoman; "no, I never heard of the place. Is it anywhere near London, love?"
"No," said Daisy; "it's miles and miles away from London. I know the county it's in—it's in Devonshire and a third single costs fifteen shillings, and I have got fifteen shillings in my glove. Now, perhaps, you'll know where it is."
"In Devonshire?" repeated the woman. "And a third single costs fifteen shillings? Surely, miss, you are not going all that long way by yourself?"
"Yes," said Daisy, in a dignified little tone. "I'm obliged to go. Thank you very much for Pussy's milk. How much am I to pay? Oh, a penny? Thank you. Good evening."
The Pink was once more shut down into her basket, and Daisy hurried out of the shop. The good-natured woman stared after her, and felt half inclined to call her back; but, like many another, she reflected that it was no affair of hers. The child went on to the end of the long street, and then stood at a corner where several omnibuses came up. A conductor, seeing her wistful little face, jumped down from his stand, and asked her if she wanted to go anywhere.
"To Rosebury, in Devonshire," said poor little Daisy. "It's fifteen shillings a single third."
The man smiled at the anxious little face.
"You want to get to Devonshire, missy," he said. "Then I expect Waterloo's your line, and this here 'bus of mine goes there. Jump in, missy, and I'll put you down at the right place."
"I've only got two pennies," said Daisy, "Will two pennies pay for a drive to Waterloo for me and kitty?"
The man smiled, and said he thought he might manage to take her to Waterloo for that sum.
There are little girls of ten years old who in the present day are possessed of a large amount of self-possession. Some of these little maids are, in their own way, quite womanly—they can ask their way without faltering, and they can even walk about alone in a great world like London without losing themselves.
But to this class of self-possessed little girls Daisy Mainwaring did not belong. She had a charming, babyish little face, and was something of the baby still in the confiding and wistful way in which she leaned on others for support. Daisy was, perhaps, in all particulars younger than her years. When at last, after inconceivable difficulties—after being jostled about by an indifferent crowd, and pushed rudely against by more than one stupid, blundering porter—she did find her way to the right ticket-office, and did secure her single third to Rosebury, and then get a very small allowance of room in a crowded third-class carriage her heart was beating so loudly that she almost wondered it did not burst. The great train, however, moved out of the terminus, and Daisy felt herself whirling away through the night, and then she became conscious of a little sensation of thankfulness. Surely the worst of her journey was over now; surely she and the Pink would be received very kindly and very lovingly by Mrs. Ellsworthy; surely Mrs. Ellsworthy would listen with full credence to the little tale Daisy would make up about an ogre having stolen away her money, and would hasten to fill the poor empty little purse from her own abundant stores. Daisy thought such happy and hopeful thoughts as she was commencing her weary journey, and then she clasped the basket which contained the Pink tightly in her little arms, and presently, from sheer weariness, dropped asleep. When the little head bobbed forward two or three times a good-natured neighbor put her arm round the child, and after a little even took her into her arms, where Daisy, after many hours of deep slumber, awoke. The night train to Rosebury went very slowly, stopping at every little wayside station, and sometimes seeming to the exasperated passengers scarcely to move at all; but all these weary hours Daisy slumbered peacefully, and when she awoke the sun was shining brightly, and a new day had begun.
"Well, my dear, you have had a hearty sleep," said the good-natured woman; "and where are you bound, if I may make so bold as to ask, little miss?"
"I am going to Rosebury," said Daisy. "Oh! how kind of you to let me sleep in your arms. I've had quite a nice nap, and I'm not so very tired. Thank you very much for being so very good to me. Are we near Rosebury now, please?"
"In half an hour you'll get there, dear. Now I must say good-bye, for this is my station. Good-bye, missy, and a safe journey to you."
"I'm so sorry you are going away," said Daisy, and she raised her little lips to kiss her friend.
"God bless you, love," said the nice, pleasant-faced woman, and then she got out of the carriage, nodding her head to Daisy as she walked away.
The loneliness which had more or less been soothed or kept in abeyance by this good woman's company now returned very strongly, and Daisy had to feel a certain empty little purse which she held in her pocket to keep up her resolution. She did not seem so certain about Mrs. Ellsworthy being nice and kind as she was the night before. The third-class carriage in which she had travelled was now nearly empty, and when she at last arrived at Rosebury she was the only passenger to alight. She gave up her ticket and walked out of the station, a forlorn and unnoticed little personage. It was still very early in the morning, not quite six o'clock, and there were very few people about, and the whole place had a strange, deserted, and unhomelike feeling. Could this be the Rosebury where Daisy was born, where she had been so petted and loved? She did not like its aspect in the cold grey morning light. There was a little drizzling mist falling, and it chilled her and made her shiver.
"I know I've been very, very selfish," she kept murmuring to herself. "I oughtn't to have minded the dungeon. I ought not to have been so terrified at the ogre. I'm afraid God is angry with me for being so dreadfully selfish, and for letting the ogre take Primrose's money. I always did think the sun shone at Rosebury, but perhaps even the sun won't get up because he is angry with me."
Daisy knew her way down the familiar and straggling village street, but there were one or two different roads to Shortlands, and she became puzzled which to take, and what with the drizzling rain, and her own great fatigue of body, soon really lost her way.
An early laborer going to work was the first person she met. She asked him eagerly if she was on the right road; but he answered her so gruffly that she instantly thought he must be a relation of Mr. Dove's and ran, crying and trembling, away from him. The next person she came across was a little boy of about her own age, and he was kind, and took her hand, and put her once more in the right direction, so that, foot-sore and weary, the poor little traveller did reach the lodge-gates of Shortlands about nine o'clock.
But here the bitterest of her disappointments awaited her, for the woman who attended to the gates said, in a cold and unsympathizing voice, that the family were now in London, and there was no use whatever in little miss troubling herself to go up to the house. No use at all, the woman repeated, for she could not tell when the family would return, probably not for several weeks. Daisy did not ask any more questions, but turned away from the inhospitable gates with a queer sinking in her heart, and a great dizziness before her eyes. She had come all this weary, weary way for nothing. She had taken dear Poppy's last money for nothing. Oh, now there was no doubt at all that God was very angry with her, and that she had been both wicked and selfish. She had still twopence in her pocket—for the good-natured omnibus conductor had paid her fare himself. She would go to the nearest cottage and ask for some milk for the Pink, and then she wondered—poor, little, lonely, unhappy child—how long it would take her to die.
High tea at Penelope Mansion was an institution. Mrs. Flint said in confidence to her boarders that she preferred high tea to late dinner. She said that late dinner savored too distinctly of the mannish element for her to tolerate. It reminded her, she said, of clerks returning home dead-beat after a day's hard toil; it reminded her of sordid labor, and of all kinds of unpleasant things; whereas high tea was in itself womanly, and was in all respects suited to the gentle appetites of ladies who were living genteelly on their means. Mrs. Flint's boarders were as a rule impressed by her words, and high tea was, in short, a recognized institution of the establishment.
On the evening of the day when poor little Daisy had disappeared from her Palace Beautiful Mrs. Flint's boarders were enjoying their genteel repast in the cool shades of her parlor. They had shrimps for tea, and eggs, and buttered toast, and a small glass dish of sardines, to say nothing of a few little dishes of different preserves. Mrs. Dredge, who was considered by the other ladies to have an appetite the reverse of refined, had, in addition to these slight refreshments, a mutton chop. This she was eating with appetite and relish, while Miss Slowcum languidly tapped her egg, and remarked as she did so that it was hollow, but not more so than life. Mrs. Mortlock, since the commencement of her affliction, always sat by Mrs. Flint's side, and when she imagined that her companions were making use of their sight to some purpose she invariably requested Mrs. Flint to describe to her what was going on. On this particular evening the whole party were much excited and impressed by the unexpected return of Poppy, alias Sarah.
"It took me all of a heap!" said Mrs. Flint; "I really thought the girl was saucy, and had gone—but never a bit of it. If you'll believe me, ladies, she came in as humble as you please, and quite willing to go back to her work in a quiet spirit. 'Sarah,' I said to her in the morning, 'you'll rue this day,' and she did rue it, and to some purpose, or she wouldn't have returned so sharp in the evening. She's a good girl, taking her all in all, is Sarah, and being my own niece, of course I put up with a few things from her which I would not take from a stranger."
"She spoke pretty sharp this morning about you, Mrs. Flint, to my continual reader," said Mrs. Mortlock; "I wouldn't take no airs, if I was you, from Sarah Maria. Miss Slowcum, I'll trouble you for the pepper, please. Seeing that I'm afflicted, and cannot now use my eyesight, I think there might be a little consideration in the small matter of pepper shown to me, but feel as I will I can find it in no way handy. Thank you, Miss Slowcum; sorry to trouble you, I'm sure."
"She grows more snappish each day," whispered Miss Slowcum to Mrs. Dredge; but just then the attention of all the good ladies was diverted by a ringing peal at the hall door-bell, followed by eager voices in the hall, and then by the entrance of Poppy, alias Sarah, who broke in upon the quiet of high tea with a red and startled face.
"An awful trouble has happened," she began, breathlessly. "Oh, ladies, you'll pardon me, but this is no time for standing on ceremony, when my own darling little lady, Miss Daisy Mainwaring, has gone and left her sheltering home."
"Good gracious! my continual reader's little sister!" exclaimed Mrs. Mortlock. "Left her home! you must be mistaken, Sarah Jane."
"No, ma'am, it's a most sorrowful fact," said poor Poppy, who looked terribly dejected, and nearly sobbed as she spoke; "the other two dear young ladies has come for me, and I must go back with them. I'm sorry, Aunt Flint, to part again so soon, but this is unexpected, and my duty lies with my young ladies."
"Your duty lies with your aunt, miss," here exclaimed the exasperated Mrs. Flint. "Sarah, I was taking your part, but your airs are now past standing. Ladies three, I feel convinced that this story is all a make-up. I don't believe for a moment the child has gone away. It's a make-up of Sarah's, who is turning into a most wicked girl."
"I don't believe it," here exclaimed Miss Slowcum. "Sarah Bertha has spoken the truth, I feel convinced. I had a warning dream last night. I dreamt of white horses, and that always signifies very great trouble. It's my belief that the poor dear innocent little child has been murdered!"
"Murdered!" almost screamed Mrs. Mortlock. "Miss Slowcum, I'll thank you to come and take the seat next me, my dear, and tell me all your reasons in full for making this most startling remark. My dear, I don't object to holding your hand while you're pouring forth the tale of woe. How and where, Miss Slowcum, did the child meet her death?"
Meanwhile, during this wrangling and fierce disputing, Mrs. Dredge, more kind-hearted than the others, had left the room. She had gone into the hall, where Primrose and Jasmine stood side by side. She had listened to their bewildered and agitated little story, and then asking them to sit down and wait for her, she had returned to the parlor.
"Mrs. Flint," she said, "I have been talking to the two elder Mainwaring girls; they are in the hall. No, Mrs. Mortlock, you can't see Miss Primrose at present. The girls are in great trouble, for the little one has gone away, and there seems to be a mystery about it all. Your niece Sarah seems to be the last person who has seen the child, Mrs. Flint, and, of course, Miss Primrose and Miss Jasmine want to talk to her, and she had better go home with them. The friend they live with, a Miss Egerton, left home this very afternoon to spend a week in the country, and so the girls are quite defenceless, and have nobody to consult. That being the case, I'm going back with them also to their lodgings in a four-wheeler. Sarah Ann, go and fetch a four-wheeler this instant, and don't stand gaping. Mind, a four-wheeler, girl, and don't bring a hansom on no account near the place. Yes, ladies, it's my duty to go with the poor orphans, and go I will."
While Mrs. Dredge was speaking Mrs. Mortlock ceased to hold Miss Slowcum's very thin hand. Miss Slowcum's face looked decidedly jealous, for she would have dearly liked to have been herself in Mrs. Dredge's interesting and sympathizing position. Mrs. Mortlock raised her almost sightless eyes to the fat little woman's face, and remarked in a slightly acid voice—
"I'm obliged to you, Mrs. Dredge, for thinking that in the moment of trial the sight of me and a sympathizing squeeze from my hand would have done my continual reader any harm. It's very good-natured of you to go with the orphan girls, Mrs. Dredge, and I'm glad to think you've just had the support of your chop to sustain you under the fatigue. Please remember, Mrs. Dredge, that we lock up the house in this home at ten o'clock, and no latch-keys allowed. Isn't that so, Mrs. Flint?"
"Under ordinary circumstances, quite so, ma'am," answered Mrs. Flint, who would not have minded snubbing Miss Slowcum, but was anxious to propitiate both the rich widows; "under ordinary circumstances that is so, but in a dire moment like the present I think the ten minutes' grace might be allowed to Mrs. Dredge's kind heart."
"Here's the four-wheeler!" exclaimed Mrs. Dredge.
"Good-bye, ladies. If I'm not in at ten minutes past ten don't look for me until the morning."
When Mrs. Dredge, Primrose, Jasmine, and Poppy got back to the girls' pretty sitting-room the good-natured little widow proved herself a very practical friend. First of all, she listened carefully to Poppy's account of all that had transpired that day. She then got Primrose to tell her as much as possible about Daisy. All the child's distress and nervousness and unaccountable unhappiness were related, and the sage little woman shook her head several times over the narrative, and said at last, in a very common-sense voice—
"It's as clear as a pikestaff to Jemima Dredge that that sweet little child has been tampered with. Somebody has been frightening the bit of a thing, Miss Primrose, and it's for you to find out who that somebody is. As to where she's gone? Why, she has gone back to where she was born, of course, and you and me will follow her by the first train in the morning, my dear."
"She was taking care of a cheque of mine for seventeen pounds ten shillings," exclaimed Primrose, "and in her little note she speaks of the money being lost. I think nothing of the loss of the money beside Daisy, but, Mrs. Dredge, Jasmine and I cannot afford even a third-class ticket to Rosebury just at present."
"Tut, tut, my dear," said Mrs. Dredge, "what's the good of a full purse except to share it? My poor husband Joshua was his name—we was two J's, dear—he always said, 'Jemima, thank God the chandlery is prospering. A full purse means light hearts, Jemima. We can shed blessings with our means, Jemima.' Those was Joshua's words, Miss Mainwaring, and I hear him now telling them to me from his grave. You and me will go down to Rosebury in the morning, dear, and Miss Jasmine will stay at home with Sarah Mary for company, for there's no sense in waste, and one of you is quite enough to come."
While this conversation was going on Bridget knocked at the girls' door, and presented Jasmine with a thick parcel, which had just arrived for her by post. It was some of the manuscript, and the first proofs of her story. The parcel came to hand at a sorrowful moment, and Jasmine laid it on the sofa, made no comment about it, and did not attempt to open it. Primrose scarcely raised her head from her hands, and was not the least curious, but Poppy's eyes gleamed brightly, for sharp Poppy guessed what the parcel contained, and she sincerely hoped that whatever happened this story would prove a great success, and that it would bring in so many gold coins to her young lady that she would become not only rich herself, but able to pay back what she had borrowed from her. For although Poppy was the soul of generosity, she did want her wages back.
At an early hour the next morning Mrs. Dredge and Primrose started for Rosebury, and poor Jasmine and Poppy prepared to have a long and lonely time by themselves. Poppy hoped that Jasmine would cheer up, and look at that lovely printed story of hers, and perhaps read it aloud to her; but poor Jasmine was really nearly broken-hearted, and said once almost passionately—
"How can I look at it, Poppy, when I don't know where our little darling is? Did she not share my secret? And she was so proud of me and she always would believe I was a genius. I can't look at it, Poppy—no, I can't; but if you like to open the manuscript, and read what is printed of the story, why you may. Yes, I expect you will find it exciting. Sit down and read it, Poppy, and I will go to the window and look out. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Primrose promised to send me a telegram when she got to Rosebury. Oh, what shall I do if I don't soon hear some news of my darling little Daisy?"
"Seeing as I can't comfort you, Miss Jasmine, I may as well take to reading the mysterious, lovely story," answered Poppy. "Maybe when you're having your dinner bye-and-bye, miss, you won't object to me telling you what I thinks of it."
"Only I shan't care in the least what you think to-day, dear Poppy," answered poor little Jasmine, in a tone of deep melancholy.
She went and stood by the window, and Poppy ensconced herself comfortably on the sofa, and began to enjoy herself as best she could under the circumstances.
In about an hour there came a tap at the door, and Arthur Noel came in. Jasmine gave a little pleased exclamation when she saw him; then she ran forward, took his hand in hers, and burst into tears.
"Daisy is lost," she said; "our sweet little Daisy, who loved you so much, is lost."
"It's inferred that she's gone down with a single third to Rosebury, sir," here interposed Poppy.
"Come and tell me all about it, Jasmine," said Noel, in his most sympathizing tones. He led the poor little girl to the sofa, and, sitting down by her, listened attentively to her story.
"But the Ellsworthys are in London," he said, when he heard that Daisy had gone to them.
On hearing this news poor Jasmine burst into floods of fresh weeping.
"Oh, then she's sure to be quite lost!" she said. "Oh, Mr. Noel, if you are in any sense a true friend, won't you try to find her?"
"Yes, Jasmine; I will never rest until I find her. I am glad I came in to-day. I came to ask you to do something for me, but I find you want my help instead. I will come here this evening, about the time your sister is likely to be back, and I will then go and look for Daisy, in case she is not found. Don't be frightened, Jasmine, I am quite sure we shall soon get tidings of the dear little girl."
"And do you know," said Jasmine, who felt a little comforted, "that we have not only lost Daisy, but all our quarter's money. It is most mysterious. Primrose gave Daisy a check to take care of for her, and Daisy says she has gone away because the cheque is lost. We have no money now that the cheque is lost, except just what Primrose earns from Mrs. Mortlock."
"There's a likelihood of some more earnings presently, Miss Jasmine," here interposed Poppy, in a cheerful voice; "there's a likelihood of a good bit more money when this powerful and thrilling romance is published."
"Your story, Jasmine?" said Noel, "and in type? Who did you get to publish it, my dear child? Oh, you must let me read this."
"Another time, please, Mr. Noel. I don't think I could quite bear it to-day," said Jasmine.
Noel looked at her earnestly.
"I wonder, Jasmine," he said, "even though you are in such trouble, if you would be brave enough to help me, and to earn a little money to day? I want you to do quite a simple thing, and something you will probably enjoy. I have never read any of your romances, but I have often noticed that you possess rather remarkable artistic tastes, and that you have a very correct eye for the arrangement of color. I have been struck with this even in this little room, and I happened to mention my observations one day to a lady who is a friend of mine. That lady is giving a dinner-party to-night, and she wants some one to arrange the flowers on her table in as fresh and new a style as possible. Will you come with me to her house now, and see what you can do? She will provide you with the flowers and the glasses to put them into, and you can arrange them on the table just as you like best. She will give you a guinea for the work, and I think you will find it light and pleasant."
Jasmine's eyes began to sparkle.
"Oh! at another time it would be delightful," she said.
"But don't you want a guinea very badly now? Don't you think you had better put on your hat and come away with me, and try to earn it?"
"I will," said Jasmine, with sudden enthusiasm. "Oh, Mr. Noel, how good you are! How I wish I had a brother, and that you were he!"
Noel took Jasmine to his friend's house, where the little girl began by being almost frightened, but soon forgot herself in the strong interest of her pleasant work. Noel was right when he said Jasmine had true artistic instincts. Certainly, hers was untaught genius, but her unerring taste came to her aid, and Mrs. Daintree's dinner-table never looked prettier or fresher than when the little maiden had completed her work. The room was bright and sunny, but Jasmine gave the table a bower-like and cool effect, and she not only dressed the dinner-table but placed flowers here and there about the room. Mrs. Daintree was delighted, and asked the pretty little girl to come again to arrange a dinner-table for her the following week.
With her golden sovereign and her shilling tucked tightly away in her glove Jasmine did not feel altogether miserable as she went home; even though Daisy might still be lost, those first earnings were sweet. She rushed upstairs and told her tale to Poppy, who sympathized most warmly with her. Very soon after her arrival a four-wheeler was heard to draw up to the door, and Mrs. Dredge alone returned.
"I have left Primrose at Rosebury," she said; "we have made inquiries, and there is no doubt a child resembling Daisy went down by the night train yesterday. We have searched high and low, however, but cannot at present get any trace of her. Don't look so pale, Jasmine, she must soon be found. Primrose is staying with Miss Martineau, and they are not leaving a stone unturned to find her. Most likely they have done so by now. Don't cry, Jasmine; take example by your sister—she's a fine plucky bit of a lass, and does not waste her time in tears when there's something to be done."
"Yes, that's just it," said Jasmine; Primrose has got something to do, but I haven't—I can do nothing to find my little darling! Oh, Mrs. Dredge, are not you awfully frightened about her?"
"Tut, tut, my dear, not a bit of it! Of course, when a little lass runs away all by herself there are most times difficulties in getting trace of her, but don't you be in a way, for they won't last long."
Poor little Jasmine sighed, and all her deep depression returned. She was soothed again, however, by the sight of Noel, who came in very soon afterwards. He said he had seen the Ellsworthys, and meant to go down to Rosebury by the night train.
"I'm pleased to hear it, young man," said Mrs. Dredge; "you're doing just what my Joshua would have approved of had he been alive. Even though Joshua was in the chandlery line he had a truly noble heart, and one of his mottoes was that the strong should help the weak, and if shoulders are made broad they should carry big burdens, so you go down to Rosebury, young man, and prosper in your work."
Noel smiled.
"I will certainly do my best," he said; "I quite agree with your husband's sentiments."
"Well, well, young man, Joshua would have liked to know you in his day. Dear, how stupid I am! but I didn't rightly catch your name. What are you pleased to call yourself, sir?"
"My name is Arthur Noel."
"Well, what a small world we live in; it was only to-day I heard talk of you. When Miss Primrose and I were down at Rosebury we came across a gentleman of the name of Danesfield, and he came straight up to Miss Primrose and said he had had a letter from you which he had not been able to answer, because he was away. He said a lot to Miss Primrose about the letter you wrote him; it seems that somebody must have stolen three five-pound notes, which Mr. Danesfield put into a closed envelope, and gave Miss Primrose for a kind of emergency fund when she left her home. The poor lassie turned as white as a sheet when he talked to her. Well, young man, you look white enough yourself at the present moment, but I'll tell you, now, what has struck me, that whoever took the three five-pound notes helped himself or herself to that cheque of Miss Primrose's, and that poor little Daisy knows about it."
"I should not be the least surprised if you were right, Mrs. Dredge," answered Noel. "Well, I must go now if I want to catch my train. Good-bye, Jasmine keep up your heart—expect good news soon, and get all the orders you can for dressing dinner-tables."