Poor little Daisy, very faint and tired, and with a feeling of almost despair in her little heart, presently crept through a gap in one of the hedges, and sat down on the grass in a large field. She was so foot-sore she could not walk another step; she was also terribly weak from long fasting, and as she now had no hope at all of bringing Primrose back her money, she felt disinclined to walk another step.
"I suppose I'll soon die," she said to herself. "I wonder if God will take me to heaven? I know I was very selfish about the dungeon. I might have gone to the dungeon, and dear Primrose would have had her money, and she and Jasmine would not have starved; but Mr. Dove did so terrify me I really had not courage. Please, dear Jesus, I had not courage. I'm only a very weak, frightened little girl, and I gave Mr. Dove Primrose's money, and now I can't get it back from him, and I think my heart is broken. I know, Jesus, you are angry with me, but please don't go on being angry; please forgive me, for I am all alone now without Primrose and Jasmine, and I think I'll soon die, for I feel so very weak. I didn't tell a lie, either, Jesus; I never told any one about Mr. Dove and the sticky sweetmeats—no, though I am a coward about the dungeon, I would not go so far as to break my word. I often longed to tell the Prince, for I felt he would deliver me from the ogre, but I couldn't tell a lie even to be saved. Please, Jesus, forgive me for being such a cowardly little girl."
By this time the drizzling mist of the early morning had passed away, the sun had come out, and the robins and thrushes in the hedge close to Daisy began to sing. They poured out full notes of thrilling sweetness and their music comforted the child, and she began to smile very faintly to herself, and to hope that as God had let the sun come out, and the birds sing, so He had forgiven her.
The poor little Pink began to mew loudly in her basket, and Daisy let her out of her prison, and when kitty rubbed her soft head against her little mistress's sleeve the child felt some fresh thrills of comfort. She felt terribly disinclined to move, however, and was really more weak and exhausted than absolutely hungry. The day wore on, and the little girl and her cat remained unnoticed in their corner of the large field. There was a right of way through the field, and foot-passengers came and went, but Daisy in her sombre little black dress failed to attract any attention. She was quite in the shade under her hedge-row, and it is to be doubted if any one saw her. At last from utter weariness she sank down on the ground and fell asleep. The Pink curled herself up by her little mistress's side and slept also. It was then that the sun, slowly travelling across the heavens, found them out in their shady corner, and kissed them, and made pussy's soft little grey coat shine. The child and the cat were thus made visible, and attracted the attention of a woman who was walking across the field with a market-basket on her arm. She came up at once to examine the little group; then she bent down close, then she gave an exclamation half of horror, half of delight, and then she took the sleeping child up in her arms, and covered her with passionate kisses.
SHE CAME UP TO EXAMINE THE LITTLE GROUP.
SHE CAME UP TO EXAMINE THE LITTLE GROUP. Palace B.
"Oh! my own little Miss Daisy—my own little darling precious lamb! And is it thus you have come back to your poor old Hannah again!"
Nothing could have comforted Daisy more under present circumstances than to find herself in her old nurse's arms. She quite gasped with the joy and relief, and putting up her little hand to Hannah's face, she stroked it fondly.
"Now, my darling, where have you come from? and what are you doing? and—why, if that isn't the little Pink, I declare! Now, my pet, tell me, have you all three come back to Rosebury again?"
"No, Hannah, I'm the only one who has come back. Oh Hannah, will you please take me to our little cottage for a few hours—I should so like to die there—I was born there, wasn't I, Hannah?"
"Yes, love, but you're not going to die there, nor nowhere else. I can't take you back to the cottage, dearie, for it's let, and I'm not living there. I've a little bit of a place of my own in the village of Teckford and I keep a small shop, and don't do so bad. You must come home now with me, darling. Oh, yes, you must—not a word must you say against it; then, when you've rested, and have had some nice bread and milk, you shall tell old Hannah your story; and if so be as you're in any trouble, why, your old nurse Hannah will set her wits to work to find a way out of it. Now, my darling, I'm going to carry you to my cottage."
Daisy was certainly very weak. She tried to expostulate with Hannah—she tried to say that her one and only duty was to try and get tidings of Mrs. Ellsworthy's whereabouts, and then to follow her on foot if necessary; but if the little spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. The comfort of seeing her nurse again was too much for Daisy—the knowledge that those were the very arms which had carried her as a baby, and soothed her and tended her as a little child, was quite too cheering to be resisted. Daisy made a valiant effort to say "No," but instead, her lips formed a faint "Yes, Hannah, take me to your home," and then Hannah, who was a strongly-built woman, lifted the slight little girl in her arms, and carried her across the fields to her tiny cottage at Teckford. All the time, while she was being carried in those kind arms, Daisy kept repeating to herself, "I'll have some bread and milk, for I am a little hungry, and I'll rest for perhaps an hour, and then I'll go away on foot with my dear Pink to find Mrs. Ellsworthy."
But when the child and the woman reached the house in the village Daisy was too faint and weary to take more than a spoonful or two of bread and milk, and long before the night arrived she had forgotten that she meant to undertake any journey, and lay with burning cheeks and bright, feverish eyes on Hannah's bed in her little home.
Mrs. Dredge's remarks had by no means been lost on Noel. When he left Miss Egerton's house he consulted his watch, and found that he had still an hour to spare before he need try to catch his train. He thought for a moment or two, recalled certain expressions on Daisy's face, certain words which dropped from her lips, and, above all, a look which had filled her pretty eyes on the one and only occasion when they had met Dove together.
Noel began to feel more and more certain that this man, to whom he had taken a great dislike, had something to say to all the child's misery. Noel knew, however, that suspicion in such a case would be of little avail—he must have certainty, and certainty could only be his by cautious and wary movements.
Again he consulted his watch, and now he determined on a bold course. He remembered that the girls had once told him that Dove was a painter by trade, but that he seldom or never had anything to do. Noel was extremely fastidious, and, if possible, almost over-refined in the arrangements of his own home. He made his little plan with a sigh, but he would have done more than this for the sake of pretty little Daisy.
Walking quickly, he soon found himself at the Doves' address in Eden Street. His knock at the hall door was answered by Tommy Dove, who assured him that both his father and mother were having high tea with shrimps and watercresses in the back parlor.
Noel said he wanted to see Dove on business, and Tommy, remarking that the back parlor was as good a place as any other for this purpose, ushered the visitor in direct.
"I believe you are a painter," said Noel—"I have chambers at Westminster, and want to have my balcony and front windows painted. I've heard of you through the Miss Mainwarings, and as I'm in a hurry to get the job completed at once, I have called round to know if you are disengaged."
"Of course you are, Dove," said his wife.
"Softly, my only love," replied her husband. "Sir, be pleased to take a seat. I shall be glad to do my best for you, and any recommendation from the young ladies you mention is most gratifying to me. Sweet young ladies they was, and ever will be—and my wife and me, we mourns unceasing for their departure."
"Speak for yourself, Dove," said the wife—"we are doing better with our present attics than we ever did with our late attics. Sir, you'll excuse me, but truthful I ever will be at all costs."
"Can you paint my windows or not?" said Noel, rising to his feet, and speaking with some asperity. "If you are too busy to undertake the work pray say so, and let me seek some one else, for my time is precious."
"Of course he'll do it, sir," said Mrs. Dove. "Say yes to the gentleman, Dove, and thank him, and have done with it."
"Well, sir, I am very busy," said Dove. "I haven't a moment to call my own for weeks to come, but all the same, I wouldn't disoblige the late attics for a good deal, so I'll just put off the Cooks, who are wild to get their house-cleaning through, and Mr. Martin, who keeps the bacon and 'am shop, must wait. Yes, sir, I wait your pleasure, sir—I can come."
"To-morrow morning, then, early," said Noel, "this is my address. Ask for my servant when you arrive, and he will show you what you are to do, and will also give you directions as to the colored paint I wish used. I must hurry off now, for I'm going down to the country on some very sad business. You will be sorry to hear, Mr. Dove, that Miss Daisy Mainwaring has lost a considerable sum of money, and the poor little child is in such trouble about it that she has run away. Of course, I don't believe for a moment that she has really lost the money—of course it was stolen from her. Well, good-bye, I'm going to seek her, and to try to catch the thief. Be sure you arrive at my house in good time in the morning, Dove."
"Yes, sir, very sorry to hear your bad news," said Dove, in a self-possessed voice, but Arthur saw that his color had changed, and he wanted no stronger clue to confirm his suspicions. When he got into the street he not only consulted his watch, but a time-table. A later train than he had intended to travel by would take it to Rosebury early in the morning. He would go by this train. Now he jumped into a hansom and drove to his chambers. His servant came to him, to whom he gave hasty directions.
"You're to buy the paint yourself, Lawson; see that it is properly mixed, and the right shade. Move the plants from the balcony early in the morning—the man will arrive in good time, and listen, Lawson, I don't want him to be too closely watched."
"What do you mean by that, sir?" said Lawson.
"Only that you need not stay in the room all the time—come in and out, of course—but don't imagine the man to be a thief until he is proved such."
"Well, sir, your commands must be obeyed, of course, but you have many articles of virtue and elegance about."
"Never mind that, Lawson—do as I tell you."
When his servant left the room Noel took a five-pound note out of his pocket, and enclosing it in an open envelope laid it carelessly on the chimney-piece. There was no writing on the envelope, and the note might well have been slipped into it by mistake. Noel also slipped a ring of some value from his finger, and dropped it into a little tray, which contained odds and ends of different descriptions.
"Now I've laid my trap," he said to himself. "My poor little Daisy, I hope I may ensnare your ogre to his destruction."
The next morning early Dove, well pleased with his job, and never guessing that the smallest suspicions had attached themselves to him, arrived at Noel's rooms. He was a most idle man, and seldom cared for work, but he was pleased at Noel's singling him out, and imagined that notwithstanding her running away, he owed this visit to little Daisy.
"She's a pert little thing," he said to himself, "and if she's so true to me as all this, why I suppose I must leave her alone in the future. I made a nice little haul out of her the other day, and I've got several of them sovereigns about me still; but lor, wasn't she in a piteous fright when I took that cheque away with me!"
Dove was highly pleased with the appearance of Noel's rooms. He could see no beauty in the simplicity of the girls' Palace Beautiful, but although he was quite incapable of judging of the value of the pictures and exquisite little statuettes which adorned the walls, he was judge enough of the depth and richness of the Turkey rugs, and of the wealth which must have been expended over the very select furniture of Noel's sitting-room.
Lawson, wondering much at his master's directions but supposing that Dove must be a very special protégé, received him with much cordiality, gave him directions with regard to his work, and then left him alone. Dove painted and cleaned, and whistled as he worked; he felt quite cheerful and virtuous, and began to consider that the position of British workmen was not such a bad one after all. He felt more and more pleased with Daisy Mainwaring for having put him in the way of such agreeable and profitable occupation, and more and more resolved to leave her alone for the future.
"Maybe if I was to talk to the pretty little dear she'd find me a deal more jobs of this yere sort," he said to himself. "A little lady she is, and no mistake, and she keeps very genteel friends, as any one can see with half an eye."
After Dove had worked for two or three hours he began to feel thirsty, for he was quite unaccustomed to any continuous labor. The sun was shining brightly on the balcony, and he was also a little hot, and the inside of Noel's room looked deliciously cool and inviting. He had just seen Lawson walking down the street, too, so he was quite sure of having the premises to himself. Slipping off his shoes he stepped into the room and began to look about him with an appreciative air. He handled some of Noel's choicest books, and looked through a portfolio of rare engravings but neither books nor engravings were quite in Dove's way, and after a time he strolled over to the mantel-piece, as he said, to see how he looked reflected in the over-mantel glass. There were letters there directed to Noel. Dove would have dearly liked to acquaint himself with their contents, but he was a slow and deficient reader. Some cigars lay in a little cigar-case at one end. Dove, as a matter of course, and without weighing the question at all, slipped a couple into his pocket. After doing this he did not feel quite so virtuous, nor so like the proverbial British workman; he jingled some of Daisy's sovereigns in his pocket, and laughed when they made a pleasant sound. Still eagerly peering at all the articles on the mantel-piece his quick eyes presently detected amongst a heap of rubbish and odds and ends Noel's valuable signet-ring; it was of heavy workmanship, and its gold alone made it worth money.
"Why, Isaacs the Jew would give me two pound ten, or perhaps three pounds for this," queried Dove. "It has plainly been forgotten here, and if the gent does miss it he'll lay the blame on that fine fellow Lawson."
It took a very small parley with Dove's seared conscience to make him pocket the ring, and by the time Lawson returned to the house the five-pound note had also been appropriated. Dove whistled more cheerily than ever over his work that afternoon, and in the evening he went home quite unsuspecting any little trap which might have been set for him.
He had scarcely gone before a boy arrived with a telegram directed to Lawson, and with a reply pre-paid. Lawson read the following words:—
"Look on the mantel-piece in my sitting-room for a blank envelope, open, which contains a five-pound note—No. 11267. I also left my ring in the cigar tray. Wire reply if note and ring are safe.—ARTHUR NOEL."
The address to reply to was added.
Poor Lawson spent an agonized ten minutes in searching over the contents of the mantel-piece. In the end he had to fill in the reply telegram with the news that nowhere could the five-pound note nor the ring be found.
A little over two hours passed, and again the worthy servant was startled by a telegraphic dispatch. This was what it contained:—
"Have reasons to believe that the painter Dove is the thief. Go instantly to the nearest police-station, give them the number of the note, and go with one of their staff to Dove's house. His address is, 10, Eden Street, Junction Road, Holloway. The note and ring will probably be found on his person. Get him apprehended if possible. Take all necessary cabs.—ARTHUR NOEL."
Thus it came to pass that when that evening Dove sat down tranquilly to a luxurious supper of lobster salad, chops, and bottled stout, he was unpleasantly interrupted. When two policemen, accompanied by Lawson, came into his room, he was guilty of using very violent language, and altogether conducted himself in a most excited manner; but, notwithstanding his resistance, and Mrs. Dove's hysterics, and some terribly distressing chuckles, really sounding more like laughter than tears, which were heard to issue from the lips of that naughty boy, Tommy, a strict search of his person was instituted, and in consequence he was that very night locked up in jail.
Oh, if only poor little Daisy, tossing on her hot and feverish pillow, could have known!
Hannah was doing well in her little shop at Teckford. She had always been a most saving body, and although Mrs. Mainwaring had never been able to pay her high wages, she had managed to put the greater portion of what she received away. Hannah was one of those fortunate individuals on whom even a shabby dress will look neat. Her boots lasted twice as long as any one else's, her caps retained their starch and their whiteness long after another servant's would have had to be resigned to a fresh cleaning process. Hannah therefore required little or no money to spend on dress, and in consequence, when the Mainwaring girls went away, she had a little nest-egg laid by to stock a shop. She found a suitable little house at Teckford, laid in her little store of provisions with care, for she argued wisely that however poor people were they required food, and was living very comfortably on the proceeds of her sales. Hannah, as a rule, had a smooth and unruffled brow; she was a careful woman, but not a troubled one. At the present moment, however it could scarcely be said of this good soul that she was without cares. The neighbors who came in to buy their bacon, and fresh eggs, and candles, and tea, remarked that Hannah had no longer a cheery word and a pleasant smile to give them, and the children, when they tumbled out their halfpennies and asked for "a little piece of taffy, please, ma'am," noticed that Hannah's eyes had red rims round them, and they wondered if she was naughty, and that was why she cried.
Yes, poor Hannah had a troubled heart during those early summer days, for Daisy lay so weak and languid, and indifferent to all external things, on her tiny little bed, never giving Hannah any information as to why she had wandered alone to Rosebury, never saying anything about the weight of sorrow which rested on her little heart, only now and then moaning out that she must get up and go to Mrs. Ellsworthy, and now and then feebly saying that she wished so very much that the Prince was there.
Hannah knew all about Mrs. Ellsworthy, and how she had taken the girls up, and tried to help them, after their mother's death; but who was the Prince?
Finding that the child continued slightly feverish, and most unnaturally weak—finding that the dainties she prepared were only just tasted by the little sufferer—Hannah looked well into her little store of hardly-earned money, and finding that she had sufficient to pay him, called in the village doctor.
Of course, with his limited experience, this good man could little understand Daisy's case. He ordered medicine for her, and plenty of cooling drinks, and said that he could not find anything very much the matter, only she was most unnaturally weak.
"It's my thinking, sir," said Hannah, "that this is the kind of weakness that ends in death. My little lady is all on the pine for something or some one, and unless she gets what she wants soon she will die."
Hannah's view of the case was rather puzzling to the doctor, who stared at her, and considered her from that day forward a very fanciful woman. He repeated his injunctions to give Daisy plenty of milk, and to see that she took her tonic three times a day; and then he took his leave.
When he was gone Hannah went to her next-door neighbor and asked her if she would be so very kind as to go and sit in the child's room for a couple of hours. Then she put on her bonnet and neat black cloak, and started off on foot to Rosebury. She had made up her mind to get Mrs. Ellsworthy's address from some one, and to write to her about Daisy. In due time she arrived at the lodge, saw the woman who kept the gates, obtained from her without much difficulty Mrs. Ellsworthy's address, and then prepared to return home. Just as she reached the stile, however, which led into the field where she had found Daisy, a thought struck her—she had no writing-paper in the house, and what could be bought at Teckford was almost too bad to use. Hannah made up her mind to go to Rosebury, which was a much more important village than Teckford, and get a few sheets of note-paper, and an envelope or two. She walked very fast, for she did not like to leave Daisy so long by herself, and, panting and hurried, she at last arrived at the little stationer's shop. The stationer's wife knew Hannah, and greeted her with effusion.
"I'm truly pleased to see you, Mrs. Martin," she said. "Why you're quite a stranger in these parts, and I did not expect to see you round now, with one of your young ladies returned and all."
Hannah heaved a profound sigh.
"She's very, very ill, poor darling," she said. "Very dangerously weak and ill; and I must trouble you to hasten with the paper, Mrs. Jones. One penn'orth of your most shining note, and two envelopes to match. Mind you, give me a paper with a good gloss on it, Mrs. Jones."
Mrs. Jones stared at Hannah Martin; but fetching down a box of note-paper, prepared to wrap some sheets in tissue paper.
"I shouldn't say Miss Primrose was ill," she remarked as she did so, "though she do seem worried, dear young lady."
When the shop-woman made this observation Hannah's pence tumbled down on the counter with a crash.
"Goodness gracious me, ma'am!" she exclaimed, "you don't mean to tell me that Miss Primrose Mainwaring is at Rosebury?"
"Why, of course, ma'am; why, don't you know? why you said but now how weak and ill she was."
"Never mind the paper," answered Hannah, "and never mind a word I said about anybody; just have the goodness to tell me where I'll find Miss Primrose."
"She was staying with Miss Martineau but yesterday and there's a gentleman come down, too—a very 'ansome, harristocratic-looking young man, I call him, and for all the world as like our pretty Miss Jasmine as if he was own brother to her—and they two and Miss Martineau are fairly scouring the place for that poor little tot Miss Daisy, who it seems 'as run away from home. Why, Hannah—Hannah Martin, woman! are you daft?"
For Hannah had rushed from the shop while Mrs. Jones was speaking, leaving her neglected paper and two or three pence behind her on the counter. A few moments later the good soul was knocking at Miss Martineau's door, and very soon Primrose and Arthur Noel too were in possession of all the facts that Hannah could give them.
"Oh, Hannah! it is so good to think you were the one to save her and find her," said Primrose, as she kissed her old nurse, and shed some thankful tears.
"You had better come back with me now, Miss Primrose," said Hannah, "and perhaps the gentleman or Miss Martineau will send a telegraphic message to poor Miss Jasmine."
But Primrose's difficulties had not come to an end. She instantly started to walk across the fields with Hannah; but when Daisy heard she had come she absolutely refused to see her, and cried so piteously, and got into such an excited state, that Primrose felt herself obliged to yield to the child's caprice, and to keep out of the room.
"I can't see her, Hannah," poor little Daisy said. "Of all people in all the world, I can't see my own Primrose. Oh, if only I were well enough to go to Mrs. Ellsworthy, or if only the Prince would come!"
Primrose heard Daisy's weak little voice through the thin walls of Hannah's cottage.
"Hannah," she said, "I know who Daisy means by the Prince. The Prince is that kind Mr. Noel, who has been helping me to find the little darling. If he has not gone back to London, for he said he would go back at once after he knew we had found Daisy, he could come to her. Oh, Hannah," continued poor Primrose, "I cannot think what has happened to your dear baby, Daisy. I begin to believe what Mr. Noel has been hinting to me—that some one has got a secret influence over her."
"We had better see and find this Mr. Noel at once, miss, now," said practical Hannah. "We can think of secret influences and all that sort of thing when we have found the gentleman whom the dear child is pining to see. If Mr. Noel is still at Rosebury you had better put on your hat, Miss Primrose, and walk across the fields to the village, and bring him back with you. I'll stay with Miss Daisy and soothe her the best way I can. She's dreadful agitated and very weak and trembling ever since you came in, miss."
Primrose said she would go back to Rosebury directly, and she was so fortunate as to meet Noel as he was starting for London.
"You must come with me," she said earnestly. "I fear our dear little Daisy is even worse than Hannah represented her to be. She has absolutely refused to see me, and talks only about you and Mrs. Ellsworthy. I don't know what she can want with either of you, but it is quite evident that she thinks you can help her and save her from some great trouble. Poppy said she wanted Mrs. Ellsworthy to give her money; I suppose to replace what she lost of mine. Well, Mrs. Ellsworthy is not here; so can you come to see her to-night?"
"I will come at once, Miss Mainwaring," answered Noel. "If we walk down this street we shall pass the post-office, and I can send a telegram to Mrs. Ellsworthy and also to my servant, Lawson. I must try and get into town some time to-morrow, however, for I have got to attend the trial of no less a person than your old landlord, Dove. He was apprehended for stealing a bank-note and a ring from my mantle-piece."
"I never liked that man," said Primrose; "indeed, I never thought either of the Doves quite honest. Mrs. Dove made a rule of keeping back a little of the money she borrowed from me on all occasions."
Then Primrose and Noel walked as quickly as they could down the village street. Noel despatched his necessary telegram, and in a short time they both found themselves in Hannah's humble cottage.
"She is asleep," said Hannah, as she came out to meet them. "She is moaning in her sleep, and she gives sighs enough to break your heart. You had better, both of you, stay in my little sitting-room until she awakes."
"If you will allow me," said Noel, "I will go and sit beside her bed; she is accustomed to me. I will promise to be very careful in my dealings with her. I believe I can talk to her without startling her in the least."
Hannah looked dubious, but Primrose interposed in her gentle voice—
"Yes, Hannah, Mr. Noel will not startle Daisy; he has always had a most happy influence over her."
Poor little Daisy! the sight of her wan face, the anxious expression which seemed indelibly stamped on her childish brow, gave Noel so strong a sense of pain and indignation that he sincerely longed to secure for Dove as severe a punishment as the law would give. He sat down gently by the humble little bed, and when the child moaned and tossed in her sleep he laid his cool hand on her forehead. That hand had a magnetic effect—even in her sleep Daisy seemed to know it. She murmured, "The Prince, has he come?" and a moment after she opened her dark blue eyes and fixed them on Noel, while a very faint smile flitted across her little face.
"You have come at last, Mr. Prince. I am very, very glad; I have wanted you," she said.
"I have wanted you, Daisy; I have been looking for you everywhere. I have been in great trouble about you," answered Noel, in his gentlest tones.
"Have you?" said little Daisy; "I am sorry you have been in trouble. Do you know that Primrose came to-day and I could not see her? I can see you, but not Primrose. Please let me hold your hand. I don't feel so dreadfully weak when I hold your hand. Will you stoop down, and let me talk to you. I can't talk at all loud, for I'm dreadfully weak. Do you know, Mr. Prince, that I'm going to die?"
"No, Daisy, I don't think you are," answered Noel. I am the Prince who delivers little girls from ogres. I never heard of a little girl dying after she was delivered from the ogre."
"Wicked little girls are not delivered," answered Daisy. "I was so dreadfully cowardly. I was afraid of a dark dungeon, and so—and so—but I mustn't tell you. I did lose Primrose's money, and I was a coward, but I haven't been so bad yet as to tell a lie. You mustn't ask me to tell you what it all means, Mr. Prince, for I can't. I hope very much you'll forgive me for being a cowardly little girl; God has, long ago, for I asked Him, and I am not really afraid to die. I shouldn't feel a bit afraid or unhappy about it if I thought Primrose and Jasmine could have their money."
Here Daisy's voice quite failed her, and she looked so dreadfully white and weak that Noel began to fear there was some truth in her poor little words. He saw that their interview must not be prolonged, and that he must give the child relief as soon as possible.
"Daisy, you have got to listen to me," he said. "You need say very little yourself, but you can listen to my words. I know why you want to see Mrs. Ellsworthy—yes, dear, you can hold my hand as tightly as possible. No, don't tremble; you want Mrs. Ellsworthy to give you some money. She is not here; I know she would help you, and feel sorry for you, but there are others who do that. Daisy, suppose I give you back your money instead of Mrs. Ellsworthy? Give me your little hand, dear, and let me put the money into it. Here; it makes quite a small parcel—a ten-pound note, a five-pound note, two sovereigns and a half. Now, Daisy, shall we keep this as a little secret between ourselves? Primrose will ask no questions if you beg of her not, and when you have put that money into her hand will you not be able to have her with you again?"
Daisy's little hot hand closed tightly over the money. She did not speak, or even attempt to thank Noel, but her eyes, wider and wider open each moment, were fixed intently on his face.
"That is settled, then, Daisy," continued Noel, "and we need not think of Mrs. Ellsworthy just at present, for you do not now need her services. Of course a Prince is the right person to deliver a little girl from a dreadful ogre. I don't see that Mrs. Ellsworthy should have anything to do with it. Now, my dear, I'm going to say one or two other things to you—you need not feel the least frightened."
"May I really keep the money?" whispered Daisy at last.
"Of course, I said so. We will not say any more on this subject at present. I have given you the money to-night, because I want you to have Primrose sitting by your side and nursing you and comforting you. When Primrose is with you again you will cease to think those gloomy thoughts about dying. Now I have something else to add before I leave you."
Noel had now taken a very firm hold of Daisy's little hand. She had been trembling a good deal, but she had certainly grown calmer. Perhaps the knowledge that she really did possess some money to give to Primrose was comforting her. Noel felt a sense of distress at disturbing even for her eventual good the child's present calm. It must be done, however, and he thought a moment how he could most gently deal with her.
"I'm going to tell you a story, Daisy," he said—"a very sad story, and, alas, a true one. There lives a little girl, I will not tell her name, although I know it, who has been unfortunate enough to get into the power of a very bad man. The man is very, very bad, but I will not mention his name here, although I know it also. The man came to the little girl and talked to her, and no doubt he threatened her, and at last he made her promise him something—what, I cannot say. From the moment this little girl made this promise she became thin and white, and anxious and unhappy. She struggled against the terrible promise which seemed to bind her with fetters of iron, but she could never get away from it, and the man appeared like a terrible ogre to her, and she longed for a Prince to come and deliver her from him. The wicked man having terrified this poor little girl, did his best to use his influence over her to his own ends. At one time she lived in the house with him, but although she struggled against it her friends induced her to go elsewhere. Even in the new palace, however, she was not safe from the terrible ogre; he followed her, and, it is to be feared, although nothing is absolutely known, that he used cruel threats to induce her to give him some money which was not hers to give. The poor little weak girl was afraid to consult any one on account of her promise. It was quite natural she should think it right to keep her promise, although it was very sad. She was so completely under the power of the wicked man, or the ogre, as we will call him, that she gave him her sister's money—the money that was to support them all for some months, and then in her great despair she ran away." Here Noel paused—Daisy's eyes were fixed on him. Her face was white as death.
"You see, dear, it is a painful story," he said, "but it is not quite finished yet. The poor little girl ran away, but she never knew what was happening to the ogre. That wicked man was not allowed to continue his evil ways without punishment. At the present moment he is locked up safely in prison, where he can hurt no one. He was put there because he stole a five-pound note and a ring from the gentleman whom the little girl used to call the Prince. It is believed, though of course nothing is certainly known, nor will be until the little girl is taken out of the thraldom of the ogre and confesses what has happened, that this wicked man has also stolen a good deal of money from an envelope which the elder sister used to consider her 'Emergency Fund' envelope. In short, it is thought that his one object in frightening the poor little girl was simply to rob her and her sisters. Now that he is in prison, however, and quite out of the way of harming any one, it is greatly hoped by those who love her that the poor little one, who was made to suffer so cruelly, will be released from the thraldom of the wicked ogre, and be made to see that there are times and circumstances during which even the most truthful little girl would do better to break her word than to keep it. Now, Daisy, that is the end of my story; I've got nothing more to say about it, for at present I know nothing more. Good-night, dear—I will send Primrose to you. I will come to you when you want me again."
"Here's the money, Primrose—here's all the money," said little Daisy, in a weak, weak voice, when her sister came up to her bedside, and bent over her. "It was lost and the Prince brought it back; you won't ask me any questions about it, will you, Primrose?"
"No," exclaimed Primrose, in her very quiet and matter-of-fact voice—the kind of voice which was most soothing to the excitable and nervous child at the present moment.
"I'm glad to have it back, Daisy, dear, for I have missed it; but of course, I shan't ask you any questions about it. I shall just put it into my purse, and you shall see what a nice fat purse I have got once more."
Then Primrose held her little sister's hand, and shook up her pillows, and tended her as only she knew how, but all that night Daisy grew more and more restless. The drowsy state in which she had hitherto been had changed to one of wakefulness. All through the long night the little creature's bright eyes remained open, and her anxious face had a question on it which yet she never spoke. At last, as the bright summer's morning broke, she turned to Primrose and said eagerly—
"Kneel down, Primrose, and ask God what a very ignorant, very unhappy little girl ought to do. Oh, Primrose, it's all about a promise—a promise that was most faithfully given. What shall I do about it?"
"Do you want to keep it, or to break it?" asked Primrose.
"It seems to me I ought to keep it, Primrose, because a promise, faithfully given, ought always to be kept; but Mr. Noel says I ought to break this promise; oh, I don't know what to do!"
"Your heart won't be at rest, Daisy, and you won't really get better, until you do know what to do," answered Primrose. "Of course, I will kneel down and ask God to tell you."
Then the elder sister prayed aloud a very few earnest words, and the little one joined her in whispered sentences. The prayer was not long, but in Daisy's case it was quickly answered. When the morning quite broke, and the real working-day had begun, Primrose sent a message to Noel to come at once to see the child. Daisy received him with a touching little smile.
"Was the little girl me?" she asked. "And was the wicked, wicked ogre, Mr. Dove?"
"It is clever of you to guess that much, Daisy," answered Noel.
"Am I the little girl?" continued Daisy, "who made a promise which she ought now to break? Will God forgive me for breaking a promise which I made so very, very faithfully? Mr. Noel, I will tell you something. That promise has nearly killed me. The old Daisy went away when that promise was made, and such a poor, cowardly, wretched Daisy came in her place. She'd have been selfish, too, but for you; but you taught her a little bit about the Palace Beautiful, and she was trying to be good in spite of the dreadful promise. Then the ogre came again, and the second time he was so dreadful that she even became very selfish to get rid of him. Oh, Mr. Noel, is it right for me—will God think it really right for me—to break that dreadful promise?"
"He will, Daisy. The promise ought never to have been made. Only an innocent and ignorant little child would have made it; yes, Daisy, dear, yours is one of the rare cases of a promise better broken than kept. See, I am the Prince, and I'm going to take the spell of the ogre from you. The wicked ogre is locked up in a dungeon instead of you, and the Prince commands the poor little captive to tell him everything."
Then Daisy, with some broken sobs, and with a piteous light in her blue eyes, told Noel the whole cruel story. He listened without once interrupting the little narrator. When she had finished, he kissed her, and told her that she now had nothing to fear, and then, bidding her sleep away all her troubles, he left her to Primrose's care. By the next train he himself went to London in full time to attend Dove's trial.
That worthy was at first inclined to brazen matters out, but when Noel, primed with Daisy's confession, appeared on the scene, his face underwent a remarkable change. Its rubicund tints quite deserted it, an alarming pallor spreading over every feature. Tommy Dove, who might have been seen in a foremost position amongst the crowd of spectators, was heard audibly to exclaim—
"Law, I guess there ain't no leg for my respected pa to stand on now!"
This, although not expressed aloud, seemed also to be Dove's opinion, for he then and there made a full confession of his wicked practices, and of the cruel threats he had employed to terrify Daisy. He received his sentence, which was a severe one, with much stoicism, and, as he was led away from his place in the prisoner's dock, addressed a parting word to his affectionate and hysterical spouse—
"Never mind, Mrs. Dove, my only love, even fourteen years comes to an end somehow, and when we meets again we'll make a rule for there being no attic lodgers."
"To the very end his was a poetic turn," his wife afterwards remarked to her favorite cronies.
With the weight of her secret removed Daisy began slowly, very slowly, to mend. The strain she had undergone had been too great for her quickly to recover her strength; but little by little a faint color did return to her white cheeks, she slept more peacefully, and began to eat again.
"There's nothing at all for you to do, Miss Primrose," said Hannah, "but to give up that post of continually screaming out book and newspaper stuff to a deaf old lady."
"She isn't deaf, Hannah," interrupted Primrose. "She wants me to read to her because her sight is very bad."
"Well, well," replied Hannah Martin, in a testy tone, "whether she's deaf or whether she's blind, it ain't no way a fit post for you, Miss Primrose. You've got to stay here now, and take care of that precious little lamb, and you had better send for Miss Jasmine to keep you company."
"I am certainly not going to leave Daisy at present," replied Primrose. "I've got money enough to go on with, but I must go back to town as soon as possible in order to earn enough to return Mr. Noel's money to him. As to Jasmine, do you know, Hannah, she has got quite a nice way of making a little income? You remember how cleverly she always arranged the flowers in our drawing-room at dear Rosebury, and how our mother always asked her to make bouquets for her? It now seems that Jasmine has got rather remarkable taste, and some fine ladies in London are employing her to arrange flowers on their dinner-tables. They pay her very well indeed for this, and the labor is nothing at all."
"Hoot!" said Hannah; "I think it's rather demeaning of herself. Well, Miss Primrose, I suppose the poor dear will want a holiday the same as the rest of you. To tell the truth, Miss Primrose, my old eyes ache to see the darling, she was always such a bonny one."
Primrose smiled.
"When the fine ladies go out of town, Hannah, we will have Jasmine down, and you shall squeeze us all into that nice, cosy little bedroom of yours. What a good thing it was, Hannah; that you did not follow us to London, but that you started this nice shop in the country, for now we three girls can have our change in the country at such small expense."
Tears started to Hannah's eyes.
"I've been always saving up for this, Miss Primrose, and if you will talk of paying me at all, I'll never forgive you; aren't you my nurslings, all three of you, and the only creatures I have got to live for?"
In the meantime while things were mending for Primrose and Daisy, and Daisy was beginning once more to get that soft pink in her cheeks which gave her such a curious and touching likeness to her name-flower, poor little Jasmine, left behind in her Palace Beautiful, was not having quite so good a time.
Jasmine was beset by several worries and anxieties; she was also extremely lonely, for Miss Egerton, owing to the dangerous illness of a near relation, was still absent from home, and Poppy, driven by the dire necessity of earning bread to eat, had been obliged to return, as little maid-of-all-work, to Penelope Mansion.
Jasmine was alone, but she was a brave child, and her strong longing now was to help Primrose, and above all things not to ask for any money from her.
For the first few days after Primrose had gone to the country the poor little girl's resources were very meagre indeed. She had thought that first sovereign she had earned simply inexhaustible, but it was surprising how it melted in her inexperienced grasp, and how very, very little it seemed capable of purchasing.
In her first delight at finding herself capable of earning money she had written an extravagantly hopeful letter to Primrose.
"You need not think at all of me, dear Primrose," she wrote; "keep all the money you can collect to buy nice nourishing things for dear little Daisy. Perhaps I shall become quite famous as an arranger of flowers on great London dinner-tables. If I do get orders, and I think I am sure of them, I shall not only be able to pay my own London expenses, but will save something towards our emergency fund. Oh, Primrose, my heart burns with longings to earn lots of money, and to be great and strong and famous!"
This poor little enthusiastic letter reached Primrose when Daisy was at her worst, and it so happened that it lightened her cares about the little sister alone in London. She felt quite sure that Jasmine was getting plenty of orders, and was earning sufficient money for her own modest wants in the pretty way she spoke of; and in consequence she did not send her any of the money which Daisy had returned to her.
But poor little Jasmine was not receiving orders so fast as Primrose anticipated. One or two other ladies did ask her to dress their dinner-tables for them, and one or two more promised to do so, and then forgot all about it; but no one paid her as well as Mrs. Daintree had done. Noel was out of town, and was unable to interest himself in her behalf, and so it came to pass that the slender purse could not supply the modest needs, and Jasmine was much too proud, and too determined to help herself, to write to Primrose for money.
These were hard days for the little girl—days which were to prove the stuff she was made of to the very uttermost—but doubtless they gave her, as all anxious days of pain bravely borne do, a valuable experience and a depth of character which she could not otherwise have acquired.
The lesson she was to learn, however, was a painful one, and its sharpness was to be felt very quickly.
Jasmine's hope of hopes lay in her beloved manuscript. That story, the first-fruits of her young genius, must surely make her purse bulky, and must wreathe her little brow with laurels. That story, too, was to refund poor Poppy the money she had lent, and was to enable Jasmine to live in comfort during her sister's absence.
One day, about ten days after Primrose had gone to Rosebury, Jasmine stood by the windows of the Palace Beautiful to watch the postman. He was coming up the street, and Jasmine greatly, greatly hoped he would stop at Miss Egerton's and drop into the letter-box, perhaps, a letter from Primrose, and more delightful still, a roll of proofs of her dear story. The postman, however, passed on his way, and gave his loud rat-tat at the doors to right and the doors to left, but neither sounded the bell nor gave his double-knock at Miss Egerton's door. Jasmine sighed deeply, and retiring from the window, sat down to her frugal breakfast. She looked pale, and her eyes were not as bright and starry as usual. Presently she took out her purse and looked at its contents. This was Thursday. She had dressed a dinner-table on Monday, and had received seven and sixpence. Her purse now contained three shillings, and she certainly could not accuse herself of any extravagance in the matter of diet.
"This will never do," she said to herself. "I believe if I do not get any more money I shall be obliged to apply to Primrose, and it was only last night I heard from dear old Rose saying how glad she was that I was able to support myself. She said Daisy's illness had cost a great deal, and we must all economize in every possible manner for some time. Dear darling old Primrose, I will not ask her to help me—I will manage for myself. Now how shall I do it? I am afraid those ladies did not care for the star arrangement of flowers which I made at that last house. I thought them lovely, peeping out through their dark green leaves, but I heard Mrs. Lee whispering to Mrs. Mansell, 'How peculiar! do you quite like it?' and then Mrs. Mansell said nothing more about my dressing her dinner-table. Her dinner-party was to have been to-day, and she almost promised to have me when I arrived in the morning. Well, there is no use thinking of that; I cannot swell my purse in that manner this day, that is very evident. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?"
Here a sudden thought came to Jasmine. Under its influence her cheeks flushed, and her eyes began to shine.
"Why, of course," she exclaimed; "how very silly of me to forget!—my hundred copies of The Joy-bell ought to have arrived by now. Yes, of course they ought, and perhaps I shall be able to sell some of them. I have no doubt Mrs. Dredge would buy a couple if Poppy asked her and perhaps Mrs. Mortlock and Miss Slowcum would also like to see my first story in print. Yes, of course, I can sell a few copies. Bridget said she would buy one, and she said she had two cronies who would be sure to take a copy each. Yes, I expect I shall make a few shillings by the sale of The Joy-bell to-day, and that will keep me going fine. Oh, dear! the very moment I have earned a little money by them I must send a copy down to Daisy. Won't the darling like to show my words of genius to Primrose? I'll run downstairs this minute, and ask Bridget if she has not got a parcel for me."
But alas! no Joy-bells had arrived for Jasmine, and after the little girl had wondered a great deal, and talked the matter over with Bridget she determined to put on her hat and go off to consult with Poppy.
She was not long finding her way to Penelope Mansion, and Poppy opened the door for her, but greeted her in a sad voice, and looked decidedly depressed.
"I have come about The Joy-bell" began Jasmine at once, in an excited voice. "It ought to have come—my hundred copies, you know, and they haven't. I must go to inquire about it at once; and, Poppy, dear, could you come with me?"
Poppy turned very red.
"No, Miss Jasmine, darling, I couldn't," she said, in the meekest voice.
Poppy's tones were so unlike those she usually employed that Jasmine glanced at her in some surprise.
"Why, Poppy, how funny you are!" she exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?"
"Don't you notice it, Miss Jasmine, but I'm a bit low-like," said Poppy. "I has my low fits and my high fits same as t'other folks, and this is a low fit day—that's all, miss."
"Oh! I am so sorry. Poor Poppy! And is the swimming in your head as bad as ever?"
"It's continual, Miss Jasmine. It seems to have become a kind of habit, same as the smuts and the Sarah Janes. A swimming head is most certain the London style of head for a girl like me. Yes, I am sorry I can't go with you, Miss Jasmine, darling, but I can't this morning. I hope you will get safe to the City, miss, and that you will see the editor, and give it to him sharp for not sending you your Joy-bells. Oh, my, Miss Jasmine! to think that your beautiful words is in print at last! Most likely the whole of London is flooded by them now, and the editor will be asking you for more of your words of beauty and wisdom. You make a sharp bargain with him, Miss Jasmine, and before you put pen to paper again for him, you get your money down. There's nothing so safe in clinching a bargain as money down. Oh, dear! I wish I could go with you. And, Miss Jasmine, if you could find it convenient to pay me back say one and sixpence of the little loan, I'll be for ever obliged, darling."
At this moment Mrs. Flint's voice was heard calling Poppy, and demanding who she was standing gossiping with. Mrs. Flint's voice sounded quite sharp, and Jasmine guessed that something unusual must have occurred to disturb her, for Mrs. Flint was known on principle never to excite herself.
"What is the matter with her?" she inquired of Poppy, who flushed up at her tones.
"Oh, nothing, miss. She's only a bit put out about the broken boots. There, I must run."
Poppy almost shut the door in Jasmine's face. She was certainly very unlike her usual self.
Jasmine walked down the steps of the Mansion, and slowly, very slowly, went up the street to meet the omnibus which was to convey her Citywards.
She was quite a clever little Londoner now, and knew which were the right omnibuses to take, and, in short, how to find her way about town. She hailed the City omnibus, and hastily and humbly took her place amongst its crowded passengers. She was the unlucky twelfth, and her advent was certainly not hailed with delight. The bright morning had turned to rain, and the passengers, most of them women, were wrapped up in waterproof cloaks. Jasmine, when she entered the omnibus, looked so small, so timid, and unimportant, that no one thought it worth while even to move for her, and at last she was thankful to get a little pin-point of room between two very buxom ladies, who both almost in the same breath desired her not to crowd them, and both also fiercely requested her to keep her wet dress from touching their waterproofs.
At another time Jasmine would have been quite spirited enough to resent the unfriendly behavior of the inmates of the City 'bus; but her interview with Poppy had depressed her greatly, and she had a kind of terrified little fear that she knew the reason of Mrs. Flint's sharp tones, that she could guess why Poppy's bright face should look so dismal, and why she was obliged so earnestly to beg of her to return her one and sixpence.
"She wants her own money—her wages, that she earned with a swimming head and all," thought poor Jasmine. "How selfish of me not to remember before that of course, poor Poppy would want her wages; it is perfectly dreadful to think of her doing without them. Why, of course, Mrs. Flint would be likely to scold her if she went about with her ragged boots when she earns such good wages. Poor, dear, brave Poppy! she would never tell what she did with her money. Well, she must have it all back to-day. Yes, I am determined about that, she shall have it back, to-day."
Jasmine was thinking so hard, and so absorbing was her theme, that she leaned unconsciously against the fat neighbor on her right. This good person immediately pushed her with some vigor into the arms of the portly neighbor on her left, who exclaimed, in a cross voice—
"Lor' sakes! my dear, sit upright, do."
"I hope the young person will soon get out," exclaimed the other neighbor. "I call it downright unconscionable to crowd up Christian women like this. Might I make bold to inquire, miss, when you are thinking of alighting?"
"I am going to Paternoster Row," said Jasmine, in a meek voice. "I do not think I am very far from there now."
"Oh, no, miss! we have only to go down Newgate Street, and there you are. It's a queer place, is Paternoster Row, not that I knows much about it."
"A mighty bookish place," took up the other neighbor "they say they are all bookworms that live there, and that they are as dry as bits of parchment. I shouldn't say that a bright little miss like you had any call to go near such a place."
Jasmine drew herself up, and her face became sunshiny once more.
"You would not think," she began, with an air of modest pride, "that I belong to the booky and the parchmenty people, but I do. I am going down the Row to inquire about one of my publications, perhaps I ought to say my first, so I am anxious about it."
"Lor', who would have thought it!" exclaimed both the ladies, but they instantly fell back and seemed to think it better to leave so alarmedly learned a little girl alone. For the remainder of the ride they talked across Jasmine about the price of onions, and where the cheapest bacon was to be purchased, and they both breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped out into the rain and they could once more expand themselves in the space which she had occupied.
Meanwhile the forlorn little adventurer walked down the narrow path of this celebrated Row. It was still raining heavily, and Jasmine's umbrella had several rents in its canopy. Now that she was so close to her destination she began to feel strangely nervous, and many fears hitherto unknown beset her. Suppose, after all, The Joy-bell which contained the first portion of her story had not had a large success; suppose, after all, the public were not so delighted with her flowing words. Perhaps the editor would receive her very coldly, and would tell her what a loss her story had been, and how indisposed he felt to go on with it. If this was the case she never, never would have courage to ask him to give her Poppy's wages. If the editor scolded her she felt that she would be incapable of saying a word in her own defence. Nay, she thought it extremely probable that then and there she would burst into tears. Undoubtedly, she was in a very low frame of mind to-day. She, as well as Poppy, had her low fit on, and she greatly trembled for the result of the coming interview. Since that pathetic little last speech of Poppy's about her broken boots Jasmine had quite forgotten how sorely she needed money for herself. Her one and only desire just now was to restore Poppy's money.
"I must do it," she said to herself; "I must do it, and I will. I have made up my mind, and I really need not be so frightened. After all, Poppy and Daisy are both quite sure that I am a genius. Daisy says that I have got the face of a genius, and Poppy was in such great, great delight at my story. It is not likely that they would both be wrong, and Poppy is a person of great discernment. I must cheer up and believe what they told me. I daresay Poppy is right, and London is half-flooded with my story. Ah, here I am at the entrance of the court where the editor of The Joy-bell lives. How funny it is to be here all alone. I really feel quite like a heroine. Now I am at the office—how queer, how very queer—I do not see any Joy-bells pressed up against the window. No, not a single one; there are lots of other books and papers, but no Joy-bells. Dear, dear! my heart does beat, for I am thinking that perhaps Poppy is right, and that all the copies of The Joy-bells are bought up; that, of course, is on account of my story." Then Jasmine entered the house, and went into a little office where a red-haired boy was sitting on a high stool before a dirty-looking desk. The boy had a facetious and rather unpleasant face, and was certainly not remarkable for good manners.
"I want to see the editor of The Joy-bell," asked Jasmine, in as firm a tone as she could command.
The red-haired boy raised his eyes from a huge ledger which he was pretending to occupy himself over, and said, "Can't see him," in a laconic tone, and dropped his eyes again.
"But why?" asked Jasmine, somewhat indignantly. "I have particular business with him; it is most necessary that I should see him. Pray, let him know that I am here."
"Very sorry," replied the boy, "but can't."
"Why not?"
"'Cause he ain't in town."
"Oh!"
Poor Jasmine fell back a pace or two; then she resumed in a different tone—
"I am very much disappointed; there is a story of mine in The Joy-bell, and I wanted to speak to him about it. It was very important, indeed," she added, in so sad a voice that the red-haired boy gazed at her in some astonishment.
"My word," he said, "then you do not know?"
"Don't know what?"
"Why, we has had a funeral here."
"A funeral—oh, dear! oh, dear! is the editor of The Joy-bell dead?"
Here the red-haired boy burst into a peal of irrepressible laughter.
"Dead! he ain't dead, but The Joy-bell is; we had her funeral last week."
Poor Jasmine staggered against the wall, and her pretty face became ghastly white.
"Oh, boy," she said, "do tell me about it; how can The Joy-bell be dead, and have a funeral? Oh, please, don't jest with me, for it's so important."
The genuine distress in her tones touched at last some vulnerable point in the facetious office-boy's breast.
"I'm real sorry for you, miss," he said, "particular as you seems so cut up; but what I tell you is true, and you had better know it. That editor has gone, and The Joy-bell is decently interred. I was at her birth, and I was at her funeral. She had a short life, and was never up to much. I never guessed she'd hold out as long as she did; but the editor was a cute one, and for a time he bamboozled his authors, and managed to live on them. Yes, The Joy-bell is in her quiet grave at last, and can't do no more harm to nobody. Lor', miss, I wouldn't take on if I was you, you'd soon get accustomed to it if you had a desk at an office like this. In at the births, and in at the deaths am I, and I don't make no count of one or t'other. Why, now, there was The Stranger—which went in for pictorial get up, and was truly elegant—it only lasted six months; and there was The Ocean Wave, which did not even live as long. And there was Merrie Lassie—oh, their names is legion. We'll have another started in no time. So you must be going, miss? Well, good morning. If I was you, miss, I wouldn't send no more stories to this yere office."
"I must see you, Poppy—I must see you, and I can't come into the house. I could not face Mrs. Mortlock, nor Mrs. Dredge, nor Miss Slowcum. I am a dreadful failure, Poppy, a dreadful, dreadful failure, and I cannot look any one in the face. Do come out with me, dear Poppy, and at once; for if I can't speak to you at the present moment my heart will break."
"They're teaing just now," said Poppy, in a reflective tone; "they are all in the dining-room as snug as possible over their high tea. They have shrimps for tea, and a wonderful new kind of paste that Aunt Flint brought in to-day. It's called Gentlemen's Relish, and eats well on hot toast, and I made a lot. Oh, my! won't the ladies go in for it! Though Miss Slowcum always is so bitter against gentlemen, she will eat their relish, and no mistake. Well, Miss Jasmine they are all engaged over the pleasures of the social board, and what's to hinder you and me going down to the back scullery and having our talk there? You see, miss, if I went out with you I'd have to tidy up a bit first, and that would take time."
"You are quite sure they won't hear me, Poppy, if I walk across the hall. Miss Slowcum is dreadfully curious, and if she heard my step in the hall she would run out even though she was eating Gentlemen's Relish. I do not want any one to see me now that I am a failure."
"Step on this mat," said Poppy—"now on this; now make a spring here. There you are. Now we'll be down in my scullery long before Miss Slowcum can get to the dining-room door. Now, miss, let me put a seat for you. The scullery ain't so damp to-day, is it, Miss Jasmine?"
"I don't know," said Jasmine, who looked very tired, and almost ill. "Poppy, dear, I have not brought the one and sixpence."
"Oh, it don't matter," said Poppy. "One and sixpence never fretted me yet, and it ain't going to begin. You'll pay me when you can, Miss Jasmine, and there ain't no hurry."
But Jasmine noticed that Poppy moved her little feet out of sight, and in spite of her brave words Jasmine observed a look of dismay creeping into her bright eyes.
This slight action on Poppy's part—this little lurking gleam of disappointment—were as the proverbial last straw to poor Jasmine. Her fortitude gave way, and she burst into the bitterest tears she had ever shed.
Poppy was much alarmed, and stood over her dear little lady, and brought her cold water, and tried to comfort her by every means in her power.
When Jasmine had a little recovered herself she told the whole bitter story of her morning's adventure to Poppy. That young person's indignation knew no bounds.
"The editor must be put in prison," she said; "he must be caught and put in prison. Mrs. Jones the charwoman has a second cousin once removed, whose first cousin is married to a policeman, and Mrs. Jones is coming here to-morrow, and I'll get her to see her second cousin, and the second cousin shall see her first cousin who is married to a policeman, and he will tell us what is to be done. That's going to the fountainhead, ain't it, Miss Jasmine? Never you fear, miss, darling, that editor shall be locked up in prison, and be made to give back your money. Never you fear, dear Miss Jasmine, it will all come right when Mrs. Jones sees her second cousin who has a first cousin who is married to a policeman!"
Poppy became quite cheerful when she remembered Mrs. Jones's remarkable means of getting at a policeman, but Jasmine could not be comforted; she shook her head almost petulantly.
"It's all most puzzling for me," she said, "about Mrs. Jones and her policemen; it sounds exactly like the House that Jack Built, and I shall have a swimming head myself if I listen to you. No, Poppy, that policeman will never lock the wicked editor up in prison; he is a great deal too clever to allow himself to be locked up. Oh, dear! Poppy, what shall I do? All your money is gone, and my story is gone, and I know you are wanting boots as badly as possible. You are a dear, brave Poppy, but I know you have not a boot to your foot."
"Yes, Miss Jasmine, I has, I has one boot and one shoe; the shoe is an out-door one, and heavy, and the boot is a light one. Worn together, they make one walk a little one-sided, and the ladies, in particular Miss Slowcum, don't like it, but, lor', that don't matter nothing to speak of; they can't do nothing to me except tack on a few more names to Sarah. It don't fret me, Miss Jasmine, and it needn't fret you."
"All the same, I am going to get you your money, Poppy. I have absolutely made up my mind. I don't know how to do it, but do it I will. I had to come here to-night to tell you what had really happened; but now I am going home. You won't have to wear that dreadful boot and shoe together much longer."
After this Jasmine managed to walk through the hall without being detected by Miss Slowcum; and very tired and weary, in process of time she found her way back to the Palace Beautiful. She drank a glass of milk which Bridget had laid ready for her, and ate two or three slices of bread and butter. Then she went into the little bedroom, with its three pretty white beds, and opening her own special trunk began to examine its contents. She was dreadfully frightened at what she was about to do, but all the same she was determined to do it. She would pawn or sell what little valuables she possessed to give Poppy back her wages.
When the girls left Rosebury, Primrose made a very careful division of her mother's possessions. To Jasmine's share had come some really beautiful Spanish lace. Jasmine had not particularly admired it, but Primrose fancied that it would some day suit her speaking and vivacious face better than it would herself or Daisy. Jasmine had jammed the lace into a corner of her trunk, and but for the memory of dear mamma which it called up, would have made it a present to anybody. But one day it so happened that Miss Egerton caught sight of it; she exclaimed at its beauty, and said that it was really worth a considerable sum of money.
The lace consisted of a handsome shawl of black Spanish, and what was more beautiful, and also rarer, two very lovely flounces of white.
Miss Egerton was quite right when she spoke of the lace as valuable, but her ideas of value and Jasmine's were widely different. Jasmine would have thought herself well repaid if any one had given her Poppy's wages for the old lace; she would indeed have opened her eyes had she known at what sum Miss Egerton valued it. In addition to the lace Jasmine had a little thin gold ring which Mrs. Mainwaring had worn as a guard to her wedding-ring. Jasmine much preferred the ring to the lace, but she slipped it on her finger, intending to part with it also, if the lace did not fetch enough money. She knew that Primrose would be deeply hurt at the lace being sold, for she had over and over said that come what might, they would not part with their few little home mementoes; but Jasmine was past caring even for what Primrose said to-night. With her lace wrapped up in an untidy parcel she slipped downstairs. Bridget came into the hall to speak to her.
"Look here, missie, is it not a little late for you to be going out?"
"Oh, not at all, Biddy, dear. I am going a little way. I won't be long."
Then Jasmine went up to the old servant and spoke in her most coaxing and fascinating tones.
"Biddy, what did you say was the sign of a pawnshop?"
"A pawnshop, Miss Jasmine? Why, bless us and save us, miss, what have you got to say to such places?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, Bridget, only I thought I would like to know. I am always trying to get information on every kind of subject. Is the pawnshop the sign of the three balls, Biddy?"
"Yes, yes, miss—what a curious young lady! There, run out and take your walk quick, and come back as soon as possible, for though it's close on Midsummer Day we'll have the night on us before you return if you are not quick."
Jasmine left the house, nodding brightly to Bridget as she did so, and the old servant returned to her interrupted work.
"She's a bright bonnie girl," she said to herself, "and hasn't she got a winsome way? I hope she drank up her milk, for she is looking a bit pale, and I hope she won't stay out late, for it may turn damp when the dew begins to fall."
Bridget was busy over her work, and was thinking of Jasmine after all in only a very lazy and comfortable fashion when a cab drew up to the door, and Miss Egerton most unexpectedly returned. She was not in the house a moment before she asked for Jasmine.
"She's just gone out, ma'am," answered Bridget. "She had a parcel in her hand, and she said she was going out for a run. No, ma'am, I don't say she's looking at all particularly well. She's very white and worried looking, and she is scarcely ever in the house. She says she must improve her mind, and that is why she is out, and she do ask the funniest questions. Just now it was to know what was the sign of a pawnshop."
"The sign of a pawnshop?" echoed Miss Egerton; "and did you tell her, Bridget?"
"Why, of course, ma'am. She said she wanted to know for the improving of her mind. She had a little parcel in her hand, and she said she would be back again in no time. Shall I get you a cup of tea, ma'am?"
"No, thank you, Bridget. I cannot eat until I find out about Miss Jasmine. I do not like her asking you those questions, Bridget, and I do not like her taking a little parcel with her. The child may be in want or trouble. I must see to it at once. Bridget, have you any idea which is the nearest pawnshop to this?"