Jane Denton had a hard fight for her life. For days she hovered between this world and the next. Two or three doctors came to see her. She had two trained nurses; bulletins were put up at the door; no one was allowed to come in. The girls who were staying with Mrs. Brett were strictly forbidden to have any communication with the infected house; Rosamund and Irene were equally forbidden to go near Sunnyside.
But at last there came a day when there was a decided improvement. The diphtheria was gone, and the young patient began slowly to pass from danger to convalescence. Then a load seemed to be lifted from every one's breast; and Rosamund really turned, as she expressed it, to consider her future life. During the time of waiting she had a certain influence over Irene; not, perhaps, so much as on the first day, when that young lady, charmed, bewildered, and amazed by Rosamund's firmness, had followed her lead unflinchingly. Rosamund now had to consider herself. She wrote, therefore, a long letter to her mother.
"I could not do so," she thought, "while Jane lay between life and death, when there was a strong chance of the school at Sunnyside not existing any more. But now I must write to dear mother and tell her the truth."
Accordingly, the following letter reached Mrs. Cunliffe on a certain morning early in July:
"My Darling Mother,—You know all about Jane, of course, and that she is now better—in fact, quite out of danger. In a short time they will take her away, probably to some seaside place, the house will be disinfected, and the girls will come back to their work. Miss Archer, the English governess, will be as strict and as unsympathetic as ever, and Mademoiselle Omont will teach excellent French, no doubt.
"Now, mother darling, you may have heard, or you may not have heard, that I am in disgrace at Sunnyside. I could not give up Irene, and in consequence the Professor says that I am not to return to the school. He means by that that I am to be in a sense expelled. I felt his words very acutely when he uttered them, for I didn't wish to do anything contrary to your desires; but I felt that I could not give up Irene. I was the first person who had any influence over her, and she was running wild and becoming a torment to her neighbors. I don't know what she would have come to in the end. So I elected, mother darling, to go straight to Lady Jane's instead of to Mrs. Brett, when dear Jane was so ill. Now I am established here at The Follies, and I am not allowed to go back to Sunnyside. Doubtless you know that, and perhaps you are angry with your own Rosamund. But I asked your leave to stay, and you gave it, although you did not know all the circumstances. Will you, dear mother, write to Professor Merriman and ask him to tell you exactly why he wishes to expel me? He will probably give you a very sorry story; but you must believe it or not as you please. I think you know your Rosamund better than he does. I am not going back to Sunnyside, for they would not accept me; but, at the same time, I do not feel at all a disgraced girl; and I should like the Merrimans to be friends with me, and I should still like sometimes to see Jane and Laura Everett, and some of the other girls—not Lucy Merriman, for she is not in the least to my taste; but even she does not greatly matter now that I am no longer living in the house with her. The fact is, dear mother, I could not have been a good girl had I stayed long in the house with Lucy, for she managed in some extraordinary manner to rub me the wrong way. She was so extra good, so punctilious, and so proper; she didn't suit me one bit, and I didn't suit her one little bit either. I was becoming quite a naughty girl. I never was too good—was I, mother dear? Perhaps, darling, I'd have become an awfully naughty Rosamund had it not been for Irene—poor little wild Irene; but she was really and truly much naughtier than I ever thought of being, and her example shocked me and pulled me up, and I resolved to try to be good for her sake.
"But I do like Professor Merriman, although I know he does not like me; and I believe they are very poor. So I wish you would find another pupil in my place—some ordinary kind of girl, who would pay about the same sum; or perhaps, mother, as you are so very well off, you might pay the money for her. What do you say to that? It is just a notion of mine. There is my cousin Anice: you know how her mother frets because she is not well educated. Well, she would be well educated at the Merrimans', for the two governesses, as well as the masters who come for occasional lessons, are first-rate. Now, just think that over, only don't let my name appear in the matter.
"Well, dearest, that's all about the Merrimans for the present. I am staying with Irene; but she knows that if she plays any very serious pranks I go. Meanwhile you must not suppose that I am letting my lessons alone. I am working very hard with Miss Frost. She is a dear creature when you get to know her, and she is very fond of me. I told you about those dreadful insects that that wicked child made her swallow. Well, she is all right again now, and isn't a bit afraid of them, and she believes the doctor, and is perfectly happy. As to Irene, nothing would induce her to do anything of the kind to Miss Frost now, for she would get it hot from me if she did. I should like to stay with Irene for the next few months at any rate, and if you want me to get on very fast indeed with my music, and to take up my drawing systematically, some of the masters who attend at the Merrimans' could come on here, couldn't they? I think that could be arranged. Dear Lady Jane is so fond of me, and I really think I am doing a little bit of good in the world, so you won't be angry even if the Professor writes you a horrid letter about your own
"Rosamund."
When this letter was despatched Rosamund felt quite light and happy, and she went out into the garden to talk to Miss Frost. Miss Frost looked already quite six or seven years younger than she had done on the day of Rosamund's arrival. She was no longer in terror of her life. Rosamund suggested to her that she should lock her door at nights, which the poor lady did very willingly. She told her there was not the slightest danger of anything happening, as nothing would induce Irene to give her any more frights.
"But if you are nervous, do lock your door," she said; "and if you really want pills for your indigestion, I will keep them for you, and see they are not meddled with."
Miss Frost had attended to all Rosamund's directions, for this masterful young woman was really ruling the entire house. The servants, too, seemed very much brighter and better. Lady Jane was heard to laugh constantly, and was even induced to play some old-fashioned music on the old piano in the drawing-room.
As to Irene, she wore white dresses and blue dresses and pink dresses, and was not once seen in the obnoxious red.
"That dress you can put on the day I leave The Follies," Rosamund had said to her young friend. "No, I am not going to hide it or put it away. It can hang in your wardrobe; but you are not to wear it while I am here, for I dislike it. I want you to be pretty and beautiful, and an influence for good, as God meant you to be."
Now, all these things told upon Irene; but most of all was she amazed and lifted out of herself when both Miss Frost and Rosamund discovered that she had as quick and clever a mind as she had a beautiful face. It is true she hardly knew anything. She could read and write, and had read a great many books; but all the ordinary subjects of education had been set aside by the willful child.
Rosamund now suggested that they should both compete for a small prize. She chose a subject which she herself knew nothing about, therefore she said they were very nearly equal. They both did compete, and perhaps Rosamund did not exactly put forth her full powers; but, anyhow, in the end Irene won, and her delight was beyond bounds. She rushed down to her mother's boudoir and showed her the beautifully bound volume of Kingsley's Water Babies which was the prize she had won.
"I have got it through merit," she said. "Think of my getting anything through merit!"
Lady Jane very nearly cried, but she restrained herself, for Rosamund followed; whose face, with its slightly flushed cheeks and its eyes full of light and happiness, showed Lady Jane what a splendid character her young friend possessed. How could she ever thank God enough for having sent such a girl to her house?
Yes, lessons went on well, and Irene especially made great progress in her musical studies. She had always been fond of music as a little child. In her wildest moods, when Lady Jane had played for her she had become quiet, and crept close to her mother, laid her charming little head against her mother's knee, and listened with wide-open eyes. As she grew a little older she began to practice for herself, inventing her own melodies—nonsense, of course, but still with a certain promise in them.
Now Rosamund suggested that Irene should give up music with Miss Frost, for Miss Frost's style was by no means encouraging, and should take her lessons from the first-rate master who came twice a week from Dartford. It was amazing how quickly Irene made progress under this tuition. In the first place, Mr. Fortescue would not hear of any nonsense. He did not mind Irene's airs or her little attempts to subdue him; he simply desired her to do things, and when she failed he pounded her soundly on her knuckles.
"That is not the way to bring out that note," he would say; and then he would sit down to the piano himself, and ring out great melodies in the most splendid style, until the enthusiastic child almost danced with pleasure.
"Oh, is there any chance of my playing like that?" she once exclaimed.
"Every chance, and a great deal better, if you really take to it with all your heart and soul," was his response.
Rosamund was also intensely fond of music, and the girls were happy over their musical studies; in short, Irene, from having an aimless life, in which she did nothing but torment others, was now leading a full and happy existence. She had her distinct hours for work and distinct hours for play. She had a companion who delighted her; and toads, wasps, spiders, and even leeches lost their charm.
One day, to Rosamund's great delight, Irene suggested that Fuzz and Buzz and all their children should go back to the nearest chemist. This was no sooner thought of than done. Certainly it was a very great step in Irene's reform; but it must not be supposed that such a character could become good all of a sudden. It takes a lifetime, and perhaps more than a lifetime, to make any of us really good, and Irene was not by nature a very amiable child. She had been terribly spoiled, it is true, and but for Rosamund might have been an annoyance and a torment to every one as long as she lived. But she had splendid points in her character, and these were coming slowly to the fore.
Still, there were times when she was exceedingly naughty. Rosamund, having written to her mother, and so set her mind completely at rest, thought no longer of the sort of disgrace in which she was living as regarded the Merrimans. She was now anxious that Irene should make friends.
"There is no use whatever," she said, "in shutting a girl like Irene up with me. She ought to know the Singletons. I will ask Lady Jane if we may drive over some day and see them. Why shouldn't we go to-day? Irene has been quite good this morning. I dare say I could manage it. She won't like meeting Miss Carter; but she must get over that feeling. There's nothing for it but for her to live like ordinary girls. If she refuses, I shall beg of Lady Jane to take us both from The Follies, to take a house somewhere else for at least six months, and to let us make new friends. But that does seem ridiculous, when The Follies is such a lovely place, and Irene's real home. Of course, I can't always stay with her, although I mean to stay for the present."
Rosamund ran up to Lady Jane, who was pacing up and down on the terrace. Irene, as usual, was in her boat. She was floating idly about the lake. The day was intensely hot. She wore a graceful white frock and her pretty white shady hat; her little white hand was dabbling in the water, and her graceful little figure was looking almost like a nymph of the stream.
Lady Jane turned with a beaming face to Rosamund.
"What is it now, my dear?" she said.
"Well, of course, you have heard the good news. Everything is all right at the Merrimans', neither Irene nor I have taken the infection, none of the other girls have taken it, Jane is getting well again, and I have written a full account of everything to mother."
"That doesn't mean, my darling Rosamund, that you are going to leave us? I really couldn't consent to part with you. I can never, never express all that you have been to me," said poor Lady Jane, her eyes filling with tears.
"Well, I can only part from you by going back to mother, for they won't receive me any more at the Merrimans'."
"But why not, Rosamund?"
"Because I have taken up with Irene. But we needn't go into that now. What I want to know is, may Irene and I have the governess-cart, and may Miss Frost go with us, and may we drive over to the Singletons'?"
"Of course you may, Rosamund. But I am afraid it will be you and Miss Frost alone, for nothing would induce Irene to set foot inside that place. She has always refused, notwithstanding every effort of our dear clergyman to invite her to visit them. I have asked the children here, for they are nice children; but they are too much afraid of her to come. I do not think you will find the visit a success, even if you do induce Irene to accompany you."
"But I think I shall," said Rosamund calmly. "You know," she added, "Irene is not what she was."
"Indeed she is not. She is very different. I am beginning at last to enjoy my life and to appreciate her society. How beautiful she is, and how you have brought out her beauty!"
"Her beauty was given her by God," said Rosamund. "But, of course, now that she is learning, and becoming intelligent, and thinking good thoughts instead of bad thoughts, all these things must be reflected on her face. I want her to have other friends besides me, for I cannot always be with her, and I cannot tell you what a splendid girl I think Maud Singleton is."
"But then there is poor Miss Carter. Irene nearly killed her."
"Miss Carter is quite well and happy at the Singletons', and they just adore her, and Irene ought to apologize to her. I mean to make her when I get the chance. Perhaps not to-day. Anyhow, may we go?"
"You certainly may, and I wish you all success."
Rosamund danced away, and ran down the winding path to the edge of the lake.
"Irene, I want you to come in," she said. "I want to speak to you."
Irene rowed lazily back to the shore. She still sat in her boat and looked up at Rosamund.
"Will you get in?" she said. "There is a little breeze on the water; there is none on the land. What are you looking so solemn about?"
"I am not solemn at all. I want us to have fun this afternoon. It is rather dull here, just two girls all by themselves. I don't think that I can stay with you much longer unless you allow me to have other friends."
"Good gracious!" said Irene. "Perhaps I'd better get out. You look so very solemn."
"No, I'm not solemn exactly; but I want to have other friends. Will you get out, and may I talk to you?"
Irene jumped with alacrity out of the boat, and Rosamund helped her to moor it.
"Now, what is it?" said Irene.
"Well, Irene, it is just this: I want to go and see the Singletons this afternoon, and your mother says we may have the governess-cart, and if they ask us to stay to tea we may stay."
"We? What do you mean by 'we'?"
Irene backed away, her face crimson, her eyes dancing with all their old malignancy.
"I mean," said Rosamund, "you and I and Miss Frost."
"You mean that I am to go to the house where Carter is—Carter, whom I nearly killed?"
"I want you to come with me. Won't you, darling?"
"I wish you wouldn't speak in that coaxing voice. People don't speak in such a tender way to me. But no, I can't go. I really can't. I'd be afraid. I can't meet Carter."
"But if you come with me you needn't say much. We'll go together, and you'll find it quite pleasant. I do want to talk to other girls, for you know I've given up all my friends for you, or practically given them up for your sake."
"I wish you wouldn't throw in my face all that you have done for my sake. You had better go, and let me get back to my wild ways. I had great fun with my toads and frogs and spiders and leeches, and having everybody looking at me with scared faces. On the whole, I had much more fun than I have now. I was thinking about that as I was floating in the boat, and the thought of Frost came over me, and I wondered what she would do if I took her into a current in the middle of the lake and frightened her as I frightened Carter. Perhaps even the thought of her little brother and sister wouldn't keep her here any longer. Well, I was thinking those thoughts; but then I thought of you, and somehow or other I felt it worth while to be good just for the sake of your presence; and in many ways you have made my life more interesting. But if you want me to be friends with those Leaves; if you want me to see that dreadful, that terrible Carter again; and then if you want me to go to the Merrimans', and shake hands with that Lucy, and be agreeable to all those people, I really can't."
"Very well, Irene, you can please yourself."
Rosamund turned on her heel and walked away. Irene stood and watched her. She stood perfectly still for a minute, her face changing color, her lips working, her eyes flashing. Then she took up a great sod of wet grass and flung it after Rosamund, making a deep stain on her pretty muslin dress. Rosamund did not take the slightest notice. She walked calmly back to the house, went up to her own room, and sat there quite still. Irene got back into the boat.
"I do wish Frost was somewhere near," she thought to herself. "I won't go and see those Leaves; nothing will induce me to. Horrid, affected creatures! And then to see Carter's frightened eyes looking at me! Haven't I seen them in my dreams until I am sick of the sight of them? And Rosamund wants me to go and see them again! Why, Carter, poor thing! would nearly die of fright, and every one of the Leaves would get into their native trees and disappear from view! Oh, Rosamund is all very well, but she isn't worth that! I wish I hadn't given those leeches back to the chemist. He wasn't a bit grateful, either, and I spent a whole pound on them. I can be just as obnoxious as ever. I know more than I did, and that will help me to be even more wicked than I used to be. I can clear the entire house now of every single servant, and I will, too, if Rosamund goes."
If Rosamund goes! Rosamund with the bright, resolute eyes, the cheerful, fearless face, the kind, soothing hand, and gentle manner; Rosamund, who was not in any way goody-goody, and yet had exercised such a softening influence on wild Irene!
"She will go. Of course she will go. She always keeps her word," thought the child, and tears filled her bright eyes.
She ceased to paddle, bent slightly over the boat, and looked down at her reflection in the water.
"She says I am beautiful, too. I wish I wasn't beautiful. I don't want to be anything; only I like pleasing her. If Rosamund goes there'll be nothing worth knowing or caring for in Irene. If Rosamund goes!"
The girl suddenly dashed the tears from her eyes. What did the Leaves matter? Why shouldn't she endure a bad quarter of an hour looking at Miss Carter's terrified eyes? She couldn't live without Rosamund!
Accordingly, she pulled rapidly back to the shore, moored her boat, and rushed helter-skelter up to the house. Her mother met her in the hall.
"What is the matter, Irene dear?" she said.
"Nothing," said Irene. "Don't keep me. I want to speak to Rosamund."
Like a whirlwind, the wild little girl dashed through the house, up the winding stairs, down the corridor, until she burst into Rosamund's room. There she flung herself on the ground at her friend's feet, twined her arms round her waist, laid her head on her knee, and burst into tears.
"I will do anything you wish, for I can't live without you!" sobbed Irene.
Rosamund was wonderfully wise for her years. She did not make a great fuss over Irene's tears. She did not soothe or pet her overmuch; she merely said, "I am glad you have come to your senses," and then she got up and began to prepare for lunch; so that Irene, feeling like a beaten child, and yet with a sense of happiness which she had never experienced before in the whole course of her life, went off to her own room, smoothed out her tangled hair, tidied her dress, and came down to lunch also, looking quite like a little ordinary Christian child—the sort of child who might have been first to a kindergarten and then at a good school—not the wild, obnoxious, terrible little creature whom every servant and every governess alike dreaded.
James was looking fat and strong, because for the last fortnight Irene had not taken the slightest notice of him. The other servants were becoming happy once more. They all worshiped Rosamund; and, truth to tell, Rosamund could not but enjoy her meed of popularity. Still, to-day she was feeling rather nervous. Nevertheless, she was quite determined to carry out her scheme.
As soon as lunch was over, therefore, she went up to Miss Frost. Irene had danced away into the garden. She was the sort of girl who, having once made up her mind to do a thing, did it thoroughly. Now, she hated the Leaves beyond measure; she dreaded Miss Carter beyond measure; but she dreaded Rosamund still more. Accordingly, she secured a basket and a pair of scissors, and cut and cut from the choicest flowers until her basket was full. One of the gardeners came out and began to remonstrate with Irene on picking so many roses with buds attached to them; but Irene told him in a very tart voice to mind his own business, and in some fear the man withdrew. Then she went into the fruit-house and secured the earliest peaches which were coming into their finest bloom. And having collected what she considered her peace-offering, she sat down on a little wooden bench to wait for Rosamund and her governess.
Meanwhile Rosamund was having a talk with Miss Frost.
"Do you know where we are going to-day?" she asked.
"No," replied Miss Frost.
"Well, you have got to do exactly what I wish. I am most anxious that Irene should have other friends besides me."
"Oh, she will never, never under any circumstances have a friend in the very least like you," said Miss Frost. "You have made her! You have saved her! You are her idol! I am sure we all love you most dearly; but as to Irene, it is wonderful the influence you have over her."
"We needn't talk of that now," said Rosamund. "I can't give up every one in the whole world for Irene. Besides, although I shall always be a great friend of hers, I do not think it would be good for her to have me always by her side. I want her to make fresh friends, and I have been considering that in the whole neighborhood there are no people quite so nice as the Singletons for her to know."
"The Singletons! Why, it is there that unfortunate Miss Carter is—that poor woman who nearly lost her life in order that Irene might get rid of her. Oh, how often have I heard that terrible story! I have seen the girl in church. They look nice, but very stand-off and distant. You know Irene will never go to church. We cannot make her; but I go when I can in the evenings, and I always see the Singletons there with Miss Carter. But for my own little brother Hughie and my little sister Agnes, I would never have stayed here as I have done."
"But now it is all right, dear Miss Frost. Anyhow, Irene has consented to come with me to see the Singletons this afternoon, so don't make a fuss; and if you see Miss Carter, will you tell her that Irene is so much changed that you are able to stay? And, please, don't say anything against her, will you, dear Frosty?"
"I say a word against her? No, that I won't."
"And don't say too much about me. I want her to get all the credit she can. The fact is, she has become so exceedingly naughty because people talk so much of her naughtiness, and she is rather proud of it. Now, I want her to be thoroughly ashamed of it; and when that takes place, and she loses all sense of satisfaction in terrifying people to death and in getting rid of servants and governesses, she will become an ordinary girl—or rather, I should say, never an ordinary girl, but a girl very much above the ordinary. You know you must help me."
"I will, on one condition," said Miss Frost. "This expedition frightens me very much. I will do anything you wish on one condition."
"And what is that?"
"That you don't leave The Follies at present."
"I have no intention of leaving it before the holidays. The holidays will take place at the end of July, and then mother will be sure to want me to join her; but still we have a few weeks left, and there is already a great improvement in Irene. Now, please, go upstairs and get ready, for the governess-cart will be round in a few minutes."
The cart did come round, and, without a word, Irene herself stepped into it. She not only stepped into it, but she took the reins with a determined hand.
"I mean to drive Bob," she said. "I suppose no one objects."
She looked back with her bright, dancing eyes, first at Rosamund and then at Miss Frost.
"Certainly; he is your pony," said Rosamund. "You have every right to drive him."
Miss Frost did not speak. They both entered the governess-cart, and Irene, making a cracking noise with the whip, as she had learned from one of the grooms, started off at a break-neck speed down the somewhat steep avenue. Poor Miss Frost felt inclined to cry out, but Rosamund took one of her hands and pressed it.
After a minute Rosamund's hand was lightly laid on Irene's arm.
"Irene, pull Bob in; he is going much too fast for safety. You don't want his knees to be broken, and we don't want to be tossed out of the cart. Do what I wish you to do instantly."
Irene's eyes wore for a moment almost a wicked expression; then they softened. She put on a check with some vigor, and soon Bob was trotting along the country roads like an ordinary pony.
Many people looked at the three as they saw them in the cart. Never in the entire memory of man had Irene been seen driving with any of her family. There were times when she had gone herself to the stables, had harnessed Bob, who was a very wild and spirited little pony, and had driven off at a furious rate all by herself. She had then left the beaten track, and gone on the moors, bringing home the pony and cart much dilapidated from the exercise. But, strange to say, the wild child herself never seemed to come to any grief.
A mad desire to go right away from the Leaves, to dash on to the moors, and defy Rosamund and Miss Frost, had just for a moment taken possession of her. But again gentler thoughts had come to her, and by-and-by she found herself driving in at the gates of the Rectory.
Now, it so happened that on this very day Mr. Singleton was giving a feast to the poor children of the neighborhood; and when the governess-cart, containing Rosamund, Miss Frost, and Irene, arrived on the premises, there were no less than a hundred children enjoying tea on one of the lawns. In consequence, Maud, Alice, Bertha, Mary, Ivy, and Jasmine, and last, but not least, Miss Carter herself, were all busily engaged, when the sound of wheels caused them to raise their heads. Miss Carter gave utterance to one piercing scream, laid the cup which she had been filling from a huge urn hastily on the table, and disappeared from view. Maud, in some astonishment, her face rather pale, but her eyes bright and resolute as usual, came forward to greet her visitors.
"How do you do?" she said to Rosamund. Then she looked at Irene, whom she had never spoken to before.
"This is my great friend Irene Ashleigh," said Rosamund; "and this is her governess, Miss Frost. We have come to pay you a visit. I see you are busy. That is quite delightful. May we help you?"
"Of course you may, if you will."
Maud held out a gracious hand to Irene, whose little mouth, satirical enough at first, broke now into a gentle smile, while her eyes became tranquil and even happy. She had enjoyed a moment of exquisite bliss when she saw Miss Carter, after that first terrified glance, hurry into the house.
"I can stand the Leaves," she said to herself, "but I hope Carter will keep out of the way."
They all three got out of the cart. A groom came to take the pony to the stables, and the girls and Miss Frost were invited to help the Singletons to entertain their guests.
"We are ever so short of hands," said Maud, "and your coming is quite a blessing. You know, of course, that no one from Sunnyside can come near the place. Mrs. Brett won't allow the girls even to come over from Dartford, which father says is a pity; but still, one must err on the safe side. Isn't it jolly, Jane being quite out of danger? She is to go away at the end of the week, and next week the house will be disinfected, and then everything will be as it was before."
As she spoke she glanced at Irene, who dropped a little behind, keeping hold of Miss Frost's hand.
"Frosty," she said, "can you bear a little pain?"
"I suppose so, dear," said poor Miss Frost in a timid voice.
"I mean this: I must have some outlet for my feelings, and if a Leaf comes too near me I will just squeeze your hand. I won't really hurt you if I can help it, but if I can squeeze your hand I'll be civil to the Leaf; if not, I'll be awfully rude. Do you understand, and will you endure it?"
"I will try to," said Miss Frost; "but I have got very thin hands, Irene."
"Indeed you have, exceedingly bony and exceedingly ugly; but that can't be helped. Just let me hold this hand for the present."
"Do you mind," said Miss Frost after a moment's pause—"do you mind if I take off the rings I have on this hand and put them on the hand you are not going to squeeze? If you were to squeeze it with the rings on I might be forced to cry out, and then all would be up."
"You may do that, and then I'll be quite comfortable."
Miss Frost did so, and Maud and Rosamund walked on a little in front.
"I can't tell you how astonished I am," said Maud, dropping her voice, "to see her here. We heard of your extraordinary behavior—I mean your noble behavior, for father said you were most noble; but to think of your bringing her here! How did you induce her to come?"
"She will one day be a splendid girl, one of the best in the world," said Rosamund; "and the fact is, I wanted your help. I can't quite manage her alone. I want your help, dear. Will you give it?"
Maud's frank blue eyes looked into Rosamund's dark ones, and over Maud's face there came a softened gleam.
"When I look at you I can believe almost anything," she said. "But to think of that girl ever being what you say! Did she not nearly kill our Cartery dear?"
"I know that; but remember she is very young, and could not realize what she was doing. However, I ask you to trust me, and to help me now with the task I have undertaken. I mean to reform her, and to give her back to her mother, not, as she considers herself, a changeling, but a beautiful, strong, and splendid character, the sort of woman God meant her to be."
"Then I think you are very noble," said Maud, "and I will help you all I can; but you must not expect poor Cartery to appear too. That is more than can be endured. She has rushed into the house, and is probably in hysterics. Yes, I am sure she is, for Bertha has disappeared too, and Bertha is her devoted slave."
"Never mind about Miss Carter now. Let us attend to our duties. I will manage Irene. Shall she and I take a table and help to give these children as much food as they want?"
This plan worked fairly well for a short time, until it was gradually whispered that the person who was helping them to slices of cake and bunches of bread-and-butter was no less than that dreaded creature Miss Irene Ashleigh of The Follies. Then the boys and girls shrank away, for had they not heard of her pranks, and might they not expect toads and frogs to come out of their mouths, and other horrors to happen if Miss Irene had anything to do with them? They therefore began to decline Irene's cake, and to say, "No, thank you, miss," in a very timid voice when delicious-looking pieces of bread-and-butter and jam were offered to them. On the other hand, when Rosamund offered any food it was gratefully accepted.
Rosamund felt the situation was growing critical. She by no means wanted an exhibition of Irene's wrath. The girl was really making a very great effort to control herself, and must not be tried too far. Accordingly, when one little girl refused a slice of bread-and-jam from Irene, and eagerly held out her hand to take it from Rosamund, Rosamund motioned Irene back again.
"That bread-and-jam is much nicer than this," she said. "If you don't take that you won't get any other;" and she insisted on the child taking a slice from the plate which Irene offered.
The little girl turned crimson. She put the bread-and-jam upon her plate, but evidently did not intend to eat it. Irene's face was changing color from moment to moment. She liked Maud; Alice, Mary, Ivy, and Jasmine were as nothing to her. Bertha was nowhere to be seen, and where was "Cartery dear"? That one glimpse she had caught of the terrified woman, who had disappeared like a flash into the house, had whetted Irene's desire to behold her again. Accordingly, when Rosamund's back was turned she slipped away toward the house. In a moment she was in the house, and in another moment she had climbed the stairs. Compared to The Follies, the Rectory was small, although it was really quite a large house. It did not take long for Irene to peep into each empty bedroom, until at last she found one occupied. It was occupied by a woman who was being devotedly attended to by Bertha Singleton. Bertha was bathing her head with aromatic vinegar, and soothing her with loving words. But the next moment the poor woman uttered a cry, for Irene herself was in the room.
"Oh, do go away! Don't, I beseech of you, do anything to me. Do go away!" cried the terrified woman.
Instead of going away, Irene marched straight to the bed.
"Look here, Miss Carter," she said; "you have been exceedingly silly in running away from me as you have done. As to me, I was a perfect fiend that time at The Follies. I wanted to get rid of you, and I could think of no other way. But now that Rosamund is here I see things from a different point of view. Will you trust me?"
"I don't know," said poor Miss Carter, looking at Irene with those absolutely terrified eyes which the girl detested. Perhaps she would have given up her efforts to make friends with Miss Carter had she not at that moment glanced out of the window and seen Rosamund resolutely doing her duty, and looking unlike any one else—even Maud, who was sweet enough to attract any one's attention.
"I am going to confess the simple truth," said Irene; and she came back and stood at the foot of the bed. "I have been a very wicked, bad girl. I used to think that I wasn't to blame, because I was a changeling; but Rosamund says I am not a changeling, and that I am just like anybody else, and ought to be good. I don't expect I'll ever be specially good; but anyhow, I want to be good. At least I sometimes want to be good. I once hated you all"—here she turned to Bertha. "I used to think you so affected, and I used to call you the Leaves. You don't mind, do you?"
"Not in the least," said Bertha; "it doesn't matter to us. But why should you call us Leaves?"
"Because you wear green. You have a green sash on now, and a green ribbon round your hat."
"Mother was fond of green, and mother is dead," said Bertha.
A kind of dewy moisture came to her eyes which did not amount to tears.
"Well, if that is the reason, pax!" said Irene.
Suddenly she held out her hand. Now, naughty as she was, there was no one who could be quite so charming as Irene when she chose; and the next minute, Bertha had not only shaken that hand, but had drawn Irene forward and kissed her on her lips.
"You are so very beautiful," she said. "I never saw you before. If you were good you'd be delightful. You'd be such a help to us all. We want some one lovely just to look at. Oh! wouldn't it be sweet, Cartery dear, to try and make pictures of her little face?"
"That will do. I hate people to praise me," said Irene. "I am not at all good at present; and if I am beautiful, why, there's an end of it. What I want to say now is this: Miss Carter, will you forgive me?"
"I—I'll try to."
"Are you still very much afraid of me?"
"I confess that I am."
"It's rather silly of you, isn't it? For you are quite protected from me."
"I know that; but you gave me a great shock."
"Dear Cartery," said Bertha, "she did, to be sure; but she is changed, and you never told us she was so beautiful."
"You don't think much of a beautiful face, my dear, when you are being dashed to pieces on the rocks," said Miss Carter.
"Oh yes! oh yes! but still, she is never going to do anything of that sort again. Are you, Irene dear?"
"I haven't any present intention of doing so, Bertha dear," replied Irene in a deliberate tone. "Now, Miss Carter, I want to know if you will forgive me. It will help me to be good if you will forgive me. Will you?"
"Then I will," said Miss Carter.
"Then there is only one way to prove it. You must get right up off your bed and come downstairs with me, and let me rest on your arm, and come out with me on to the lawn, where all the children are having their tea, and you and I between us are to offer them bread-and-jam and cakes and biscuits. Will you or will you not?"
"Of course you will, Cartery dear."
"Are you certain that you mean what you say?" said Miss Carter. "I have got a sort of headache."
"Oh no, you haven't," retorted Bertha. "You are always imagining things, Cartery dear."
"Will you come or will you not, Miss Carter?" said Irene. "Is it to be peace or is it to be war? I offer peace now. Do you accept it?"
"I do," said Miss Carter; and she got off her bed, and went downstairs by Irene's side.
Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the school children, the Leaves themselves, and even of Rosamund, when they witnessed this sight. Rosamund's first impulse was to fly up to Irene, kiss her passionately, and assure her that she was a darling, and that nothing would induce her ever to forsake her. But on second thoughts she decided that it was best to take no notice. Accordingly, the children pursued their games, for now tea was almost a thing of the past, and Irene found herself enjoying life as she had not yet enjoyed it. Never was any one more daring seen. She was the centre of attraction. From being dreaded, she was adored. Who but she could climb to the very highest branch of the tallest tree? Who but she could swing so high that she seemed almost to turn a somersault in the air before she came down again? Who but she could invent the most daring games? And then, when all other things failed, who but she could tell such weird stories? Her eyes shone; her lips were wreathed in smiles. She looked the very essence of beauty and happiness. Was this the ogre of The Follies, the terrible girl who kept every one away from the place, whom the servants dreaded, whom the governesses fled from?
Both Miss Carter and Miss Frost, standing side by side, watched the young heroine of the hour as she won her way to popularity. What was the matter? What was wrong? Or, rather, who had put wrong right?
Rosamund, who was herself a very gay, resolute, determined girl, kept more or less in the background on this occasion. She wanted Irene, as she said afterward, to win her spurs. The two governesses stood together and talked.
"Of all the wonderful things I have ever seen, the behavior of Irene Ashleigh beats them," said Miss Carter, turning to Miss Frost. "How do you account for it?" she added.
"How do I account for it?" replied Miss Frost. "I account for it because a blessed angel came to the house in the shape of Rosamund Cunliffe, the most splendid girl I have ever met. She came, and showed not a scrap of fear, even though that child—that terrible child—took her into the middle of the stream, just where she took you, you poor thing!"
"Don't speak of it. Don't mention it," began poor Miss Carter, trembling all over.
"Well, she took Rosamund there, and Rosamund was strong and got the upper hand with her at once, and from that hour Irene has been different. It is true she has done terrible things. She behaved almost as badly to me as she did to you."
"Shall we walk down this shrubbery?" said Miss Carter. "The children are all quite happy. Every one who comes to the Rectory is happy, and you can hear by the shouts of the village children that they are in the very acme of bliss. Shall we walk down here and talk together? I have always been so amazed at your remaining on at The Follies, Miss Frost."
"I have a little sister called Agnes, and a little brother Hugh, and they are the dearest little children. They are only my step-brother and sister, of course; but they are to me just as though they were my very own. They depend on me altogether for their maintenance. I buy everything for them. I spend my holidays with them, and they love me. My darlings! They are like my own children. Were I to give up so good a situation my little ones would starve. You understand, Miss Carter, do you not, that under such circumstances one would endure a great deal?"
"But even under such circumstances," said Miss Carter, in astonishment, "I do not think people would put up with Irene Ashleigh as she used to be. Oh, never, never shall I forget how the boat dashed against the rocks! I thought my last moment had come."
"How did you escape drowning, dear?" said Miss Frost. "I never heard that part."
"It is more than I can tell you myself. I suppose I lost consciousness. When I came to myself I was on dry land, and Irene was dragging me back to the house; and then I had a terrible—most terrible—interview with Lady Jane. I told her that I would go at once, that nothing would induce me to stay. She was nearly in despair, and, metaphorically speaking, went on her knees to me. But I remembered my promise to that dreadful child, and stuck to my word. Go I would. I never saw Lady Jane in a temper before, but she was then. She refused to let me have a carriage. She said Irene's conduct was past bearing, and that I ought to stay if only to support her. But I couldn't, for my nerves were frightfully shattered. I went away as quickly as ever I could that very afternoon, intending to send a porter from the railway station for my luggage. Before I got half-way there I nearly fainted, and the dear, kind rector found me on the road. I told him my story, and he brought me home—yes, home, for this is indeed a complete and absolute home to me. I cannot tell you how kind they have been."
"I have lived through my horrors too; but I will not speak about them to-day," said Miss Frost. "Irene is immensely improved. I believe as long as Rosamund remains with her she will be a really good girl. She is making great efforts."
"She is; that is the astonishing part of it," said Miss Carter. "She came up to my room—I will confess to you that I was hiding from her, absolutely hiding, and shaking from head to foot, scarcely knowing what to do—and she came in as bold as brass, and yet with a new sort of humility about her, and she said to me, 'Will you forgive me? And if you forgive me, will you come downstairs and let me put my hand inside your arm?' And somehow, although it was the very last thing on earth that I wanted to do, I did it; and now here I am, and I don't feel nearly so much afraid of her as I used."
"It is all owing to Rosamund," said Miss Frost again. "She is the most wonderful girl I have ever met. I know one of her objects now is that you and I, Irene, herself, and the Singletons should be friends. She means Irene to invite you all over to The Follies to-morrow or the next day, and I hope you will have the courage to come."
"Indeed I don't know how I can. It is one thing to have Irene here; it is another thing to look at that terrible lake and reflect that the boat is at hand. Oh, of course, she will excuse me."
"But I don't think she will. If you come I will look after you, and we will both firmly refuse to go in the boat. It wouldn't hold us all, so there is no fear of that."
"But she is very ingenious. There is no end to her resources."
"At present her mood is different. You and I, who are so much older, ought to try to encourage her; for, after all, she has been a most sadly mismanaged child, allowed even from her earliest days to see that people were afraid of her, and thus the spirit of cruelty gained a strong hold; but there is a great deal of good in her nature."
Miss Carter was called loudly by Maud, who requested her to help the little ones to play Puss-in-the-corner. The group broke up into different detachments, and by-and-by the time came when Rosamund whispered to Irene that it was necessary to order the governess-cart so that they might go home.
"But I am so happy," said Irene, who had been helping some of the little girls to climb up and tumble down cocks of hay, and otherwise disport themselves. "I didn't know other children could be so nice; but I find poor children are much nicer than rich ones. They have no manners, which I detest, and just say what they think. They have been telling me some home-truths, and I have been laughing like anything. I didn't know I was such an ogre; but it is great fun to hear it from the lips of the children."
"We must go home; it is time," said Rosamund. "But before we go, Irene, will you kindly ask the Singletons to come to see us on Thursday? They might come to lunch, and spend the time until after tea. Thus we should have a long afternoon."
"But if they must come, why not to-morrow?" said Irene. "I didn't know that other children could be so charming."
"They can't come to-morrow. We have our music lessons with Mr. Fortescue to-morrow."
"Can't we put him off?"
"Of course we can't. His time is all engaged. Ask them for Thursday, or, if you prefer it, for Saturday. Anyhow, will you ask them?"
"Oh yes, I'll ask them, and for Thursday."
Irene's flushed face, her speaking eyes, her lips apart in smiles, looked such a different creature from the somewhat pale, queerly dressed little inmate of the woods, that Mr. Singleton, who came out at that moment, did not know her.
"Who is this little lady?" he said, going straight up to her and holding out his hand.
"I am the ogre," was Irene's instant response.
This answer amazed Mr. Singleton, but he kept looking at her and smiling.
"I am sure, my dear, that is not your name. You look more like an angel than an ogre."
"But I am the ogre—the ogre of the whole place. I am Irene Ashleigh."
The clergyman's astonishment was seen now on his face. Rosamund hastened to interpose.
"Irene is my friend," she said, "and I think she is going to turn into a very fine sort of woman, if not into an angel. Anyhow, here she is, and I hope you bid her welcome."
"I do most heartily," said Mr. Singleton. "You must come and see us often. I am very glad you have broken the ice at last. What good news," he continued, turning to Rosamund, "this is about your young friend! It is such a relief to the Merrimans that she is getting on so well."
"And a great relief to me," said Rosamund.
Irene moved away to talk to three little red-haired girls, who made a charming group, standing under an oak-tree. She soon had them in fits of laughter; and Mr. Singleton, just glancing at her, spoke again to Rosamund.
"What a miracle you have performed!" he said. "She is a changed creature. But I suppose there is a great deal of the old Adam in her still."
"Yes; but she will change still more. The fact is, she was so terribly naughty because people used to be afraid of her."
"And you are not?"
"I certainly am not."
"My dear, there is something I want to say to you. Do you know that I have had a conversation with Professor Merriman, and he gave me a very queer account of your conduct? He seemed greatly distressed at the way you have behaved."
Rosamund shrugged her shoulders.
"The Merrimans did not suit me," she said. "Life at The Follies does suit me. At the Merrimans' I was growing to be a very naughty girl myself. I could not stand Lucy, although I liked the Professor; and I liked Laura Everett and one or two of the other girls. But at The Follies, you see for yourself, rector, I have done no harm."
"Harm! Indeed, you have done most blessed good. I never could have believed in such a change in any one. Why, that child is quite lovely."
"And by-and-by she will have a lovely mind," said Rosamund. "But, Mr. Singleton, it is only right to tell you that I am practically expelled from the Merrimans' school."
"That is a very grave matter. It ought not to be allowed," said the rector. "The Professor cannot understand. His eyes must be blinded. You have done a noble work."
"But I don't mind; and, besides, I could not go back."
"But you could if it were just and right, could you not?"
"I don't really think I could."
Just then the pony-cart came round. The rector said no more for the time being; and a few minutes later, the young Singletons and Miss Carter having promised to arrive at The Follies on Thursday, Irene, Rosamund, and Miss Frost took their leave.
"Well, now, wasn't I a darling? Didn't I behave well?" said Irene. "Aren't you pleased with me, Rose—dearest, sweetest, red, red Rose?"
"Yes, on the whole, I am quite pleased with you," said Rosamund; but she leaned back in her seat. She felt tired and sad. She had done a good work, and she knew it, and yet she had injured her reputation; and her mother would be annoyed, and her father displeased. What was to be done?
There was some one else who was very much troubled on Rosamund's behalf, and that was the Rev. John Singleton. It was not his habit to consult any of his children, not even Maud, whom he relied on almost as he had relied on his wife; but he went straight over that very evening to the Merrimans' house; and although he could not go inside for fear of infection, he had a conversation with the Professor in the garden. There he spoke with such verve and enthusiasm with regard to Rosamund, and the marvelous change she had already wrought in the naughtiest girl in the entire district, that he induced that gentleman to change his mind.
"If you think it absolutely necessary, I will give her a chance."
"You must give her a chance. It would be culpable to allow such a girl to enter on the world with such a stigma as being expelled from school would mean. You must give her a chance, sir. I hope you will not hesitate to do so."
Professor Merriman explained that his pupils would not return for at least another fortnight, that Jane would be sent away in a little over a week, that the house would be thoroughly disinfected, and the school would continue.
"Perhaps it would be best for Rosamund to remain where she is for the present," he said, "and come back to us at the beginning of next term. I acknowledge that she is a fine girl; very good-looking, too, and with a most taking way. But she must learn obedience. She would not obey when she was with us. It was for the sin of disobedience that I dismissed her. She also broke her word of honor."
"Give her a chance. Believe me, there are circumstances which overcome all ordinary conditions," said the good clergyman; and he went away feeling assured that Professor Merriman would keep his word.
This was the beginning of July. Towards the end the school would break up and the holidays would begin. The young Singletons were going to the seaside, and every one was about to have a merry-making of one sort or another.
In the past Irene and her mother had lived on in a dull sort of fashion at The Follies. Lady Jane had never the heart to leave home, therefore Irene knew nothing of the delights of traveling. But as the time approached for the holidays Rosamund spoke once or twice of the fun which ought to be before them.
"Where would you like to go?" she said to her young friend. "There are ever so many places where you can have amusement—you and Lady Jane."
"You want to tame me down," said Irene. "I don't think I can be altogether tamed. There is something in me here"—and she put her hand on her breast—"a wild sort of thing that will assert itself now and then. I can't help myself. I can't, for instance, sit still in a drawing-room, or be a very good little girl in church, finding out the hymns and the lessons for the day, and the right psalms. I could not teach in the Sunday-school—no, I couldn't, for all the world. I could do none of those things, because I have a wild living creature that seems to be inside me. I don't know what it means; I don't understand it myself. It is rampant when you are not here; but when you are present it stays quiet mostly, just because I love you. That is the whole reason."
"Aren't you very much happier since I came to you?" said Rosamund.
The two girls were pacing up and down in front of the lake, about a week before the holidays were to begin.
Meanwhile, at Sunnyside, school had recommenced. It is true that Jane, far too delicate to resume her lessons, was away at the seaside; but Lucy, Laura, Annie Millar, Phyllis Flower, and Agnes Sparkes had all returned to their studies. Miss Archer and Mademoiselle Omont were also very much to the fore. The kind Bretts had found rooms for the two governesses at Dartford; but they could not manage to take them in themselves. The girls had therefore gone, after a certain manner, through their lessons; but now the holidays were approaching.
"What a queer term it has been!" said Rosamund, talking to Irene as they walked by the water-side. "I, who belonged to the Merrimans' party, spending all my time with you; you working hard at your daily lessons and enjoying them; Miss Frost and Miss Carter the best of friends, and meeting Sunday after Sunday; and you having quite a fancy—yes, and more than a fancy—for Maud Singleton!"
"I am fond of her," said Irene, "just because she is like yourself, so brave. I wanted brave people. I never came across a brave person until I met you."
"Well, now we have to think of the holidays," said Rosamund. "I have something to tell you, Irene. You have been good—very good; but all our goodness is worth nothing until it has been tried. Yours has not been tried yet."
"What do you mean by that?" said Irene, in some terror, raising her lovely, wild, bright eyes to Rosamund's face.
"Well, it hasn't, darling—has it?"
"I don't understand. I can't tell you what an effort it has been not to collect worms and toads, and frogs and newts, and wasps and bees, and blue-bottles and spiders. I did so adore frightening the servants, particularly James; and there are such heaps of darling wasps this season. I just longed to stick one down his neck; but I refrained when I looked at you."
"You ought not even to speak of these things; they mean downright cruelty, and aren't the least bit funny."
"Aren't they, now? Are you sure? They used to seem very funny to me—the way James used to start at table; because I generally managed, when he attended, to put a spider on my plate when I handed it to him. I used to keep a little collection of them in my handkerchief, and generally popped one on my plate; and he used always to say 'Oh!' and he would generally drop and break the plate, which was a valuable china one, and mother was quite annoyed."
"Well, all those things are past. We needn't talk of them any more. I want to know what you are going to do in the holidays."
"What are you going to do, Rose?"
"I am very sorry, Irene, but I am afraid I must go away from you. I have to visit my parents; and there is something else they want me to do. They want me to go back to the Merrimans' school in the autumn, and stay there for at least a term. They say that in no other way can I get over the disgrace of having, as it were, run away from school. I don't mind a bit having done that, for I know that you wanted me; but I think I ought to go back to the Merrimans' for at least a term."
"Even with Lucy, odious creature?"
"Well, now, you don't know her."
"But you do; and do you like her?"
"I can't honestly say that I do."
"It is Sunday to-morrow; can't we both go to church, and then I can look at Lucy in the distance and see what I think of her?"
"You ought not to go to church in that spirit."
"Well, perhaps something else will happen. Maud Singleton is always asking me to go to church. I think I will, if you will come with me. We can go to the evening service. I have never been. Maud says I wouldn't feel so like a changeling if I could pray like other people, and sing hymns like other people. But then I'm sure I can't. May we sit near the door, and if I feel it impossible to remain quiet any longer, do you mind if I rush out?"
"We will certainly go to church, and we can sit near the door, and you shall rush out if you feel inclined, and I will come with you," said Rosamund. "But this is rather starting away from our question. What do you want to do during the holidays? You wouldn't, for instance, think of spending them with the Singletons at the seaside?"
"I will tell you another time," said Irene. "I can't make up my mind on that point quite so soon. Now, let us come in, and you shall read me some more from those wonderful Arabian Nights fairy-tales. They are so beautiful; I feel they were written for me. Afterwards we will have Hans Andersen."
"For my part, I like Hans Andersen best," said Rosamund.
The two girls went towards the house. Rosamund read, as was her wont, for half-an-hour to Irene, during which time that young person grew very sleepy, and soon afterwards went away to bed. Rosamund was about to follow her when Lady Jane came into the room.
"My dear Rose," she said, "I have had a letter from your mother. She says that you are to join them in Switzerland during the first week of the holidays. I suppose you wouldn't think it possible that Irene and I should accompany you?"
"I should like it very much," said Rosamund. "But I don't know that mother would think it quite fair. Mother is not accustomed to a girl like Irene, and although she is wonderfully good to what she used to be, you can scarcely call her a good girl yet—not an ordinary good girl, I mean."
"I suppose not, but she is quite sweet to me. Only I feel certain that when your influence is withdrawn we shall have the old dreadful things occurring again."
"I don't think so, indeed. But do tell me what mother has said."
"She says that you are to go back to the Merrimans' for the next term; but after that you can come and live with us if we want you. She suggested that we should take a house for the winter in town, so that you and Irene should have the advantage of the best masters possible to be obtained, and the best literature classes, and the best concerts. I am quite agreeable, for I am tired of living at The Follies."
"You ought to take Irene away for the holidays, and of course Miss Frost will go with you," said Rosamund. "I wish I could stay. I would with a heart and a half; but I know father and mother would be terribly put out."
"I feel very despondent," said Lady Jane; "for although Irene is very much improved, there is a lot of the old nature in her still; and when you are gone, even the Singletons will be away, for they are going to the seaside for the month of August—to Herne Bay, I believe. We shall have no one at home, and Irene and I alone at the seaside would make a terrible pair."
"I will write to mother. Something ought to be done," said Rosamund very thoughtfully. "Leave it to me," she continued. "What I have been thinking is this: that Irene ought to come with me to the Merrimans' for one term."
"You mean that I am to part with her—that she is not to live with me? Besides, would the Merrimans take a child with such a character?"
"She is quite a good character now, and it would be just the very thing. It would be the making of her. Then, perhaps, afterwards we might go together to a good foreign school and learn languages properly. I am sure it would do her a lot of good. But I will think about the holidays."
Rosamund felt rather old and worn. A very heavy burden had been laid on her young shoulders. She, a girl of only fifteen years of age, was more or less responsible for the entire life, the entire future, of a brilliant little sprite like Irene Ashleigh.
The next day was Sunday, and it arose in great beauty and majesty. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky, the flowers bloomed everywhere, the birds sang, the heat was excessive, the gardens looked their best. Visitors came and went. Irene, no longer in the objectionable red frock, but now dressed as a pretty young girl of her age ought to be dressed, walked by Rosamund's side and chatted about books, about music, about all sorts of things, the existence of which she had scarcely known a few weeks ago. Her intellect was of such a keen and brilliant order that she grasped knowledge almost as easily as she imbibed her food. Rosamund felt more and more proud of her.
"With such talent and such beauty, what might she not aspire to?" thought the elder girl. The younger looked at her with a light in her eyes.
"What are you thinking about, Rose?" she said.
"I was wondering about something. You have promised to come to church with me this evening. I will tell you after church."
Rosamund went away to her room, and there she sat down and wrote a long letter to her mother. She did not tell any one the contents of that letter; but it took her a long time to write, and when she had finished her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brighter than ever.
At last the sweet bells ringing out the time for evening service smote upon the summer air, and the two girls, in their white dresses, started off to walk to the pretty church, which was in reality not far away. Irene had not been in church since she was a tiny child, when she had screamed loudly, uttered naughty words, declared that the clergyman had no right to come in in his night-gown, and, in short, disgraced herself so thoroughly that she was carried out amidst a tempest of tears and protestations.
Now the older and wiser Irene, beautifully dressed all in white, looking more like an angel than a naughty, wayward, disagreeable girl, entered the old building and sat down near Rosamund in a pew at the end of the church. One of the churchwardens invited the two young people to come up higher; but Rosamund requested to be left where they were, and presently the rest of the congregation streamed in.
Irene was all excitement. She was, in fact, trembling all over. The quiet grayness and the age of the building impressed her, she knew not why. Then the boys in their white surplices excited her wonder; then she watched the congregation. The Singletons, as usual, were in their simple white and green; as usual their beautiful fair hair flowed down their backs; as usual they walked up the old aisle in pairs, two, and two, and two; and last of all came Miss Carter.
"She doesn't look nice at all," said Irene to herself.
"How well I remember all about her: that rather crooked back of hers, those sloping shoulders, that ill-made dress, and that hat put on always at the wrong angle. She is rather like Frosty. I wonder why I never had a stylish governess? But I'd have hated her worse than ever. Well, now I have got Rosamund—my dear, darling Rosamund—and she is beautiful as well as good."
Irene gazed with adoring eyes at her friend. Miss Frost was not present at the evening service.
By-and-by the Merriman party made their appearance, and took their seats in the large square family pew. There was the Professor, with his slightly bent figure and his white hair; there was Mrs. Merriman, round and cherubic, looking as though no care had ever troubled her; and there was Lucy, fair almost as the Singletons, with that particularly prim face which aggravated Rosamund, and which would certainly drive Irene to distraction. None of these three even glanced at Rosamund Cunliffe and her friend; but when Laura Everett and one or two other girls appeared, they did see the pair seated in a pew all alone at the end of the church, and Laura nodded with a bright glance at Rosamund, who colored with pleasure in reply.
"Is that stiff un, all prunes and prisms, Lucy?" whispered Irene in a loud voice.
"I'll talk to you afterwards," said Rosamund. "The service is going to begin. This is the right place. I will find all your places for you to-night. You will find the service so nice. Remember, we are here to pray to God, and not to think evil of our fellow-creatures."
"You're getting quite too goody-goody," laughed Irene in an excited voice.
The service began; the music, of the simplest kind, but quite sweet and true, filled the little church. Irene fidgeted, turned first white, then red, and finally, grasping Rosamund's arm, said in a choking voice, "I don't like it. I can't stand the music. The wild, wild thing in me is just as though it would tear me in pieces. I must get out. Come! You promised to come with me."
Rosamund took her eccentric young friend outside the church.
"What is the matter, Irene? You ought to try to control yourself."
"I do as a rule. I am much better as a rule; but it came over me in church how proper people were, and they all of them talk about being miserable sinners, and every one looks so good and righteous, and knowing down deep in their hearts that every single one of them is a miserable sinner, except your darling, precious self; and they all repeat the words, not feeling them a bit. I couldn't be like that. If they'd all lie flat on their faces, and cry and tear their hair, or do anything to show that they were really sorry, I could sympathize with them. But I can't sympathize with the proper sort of people who fill a village church."
"They have learned to control themselves. They very likely do feel that they are miserable sinners in the sight of God. We must learn not to judge people. Oh, Irene, what am I to do with you? What will you do when I am gone?"
"I know what I will do when you are away," said Irene. "I have thought it all out. I'll have a wild, wild time. I have been good long enough. I'll go back to my frogs and toads and leeches, and spiders and wasps and bees. I'll terrify the servants again, and scare mother, and send Frosty off her head. That's what I'll do; and I'll wear my little red dress, and I'll get Frosty into the middle of the lake, and I'll make her promise to go away, and if she refuses to go—I know she won't, for even those children won't keep her when such a thing as that is thought of"——
"Oh, I have such a splendid thought!" said Rosamund suddenly. "Suppose you make Frosty happy instead of miserable? You can if you like. Suppose you allow her to ask the two children, Agnes and Hughie, to spend the holidays at The Follies?"
"The two children—Frosty's two children?"
"Yes, her little brother and sister. She was telling me the other day she didn't know what to do with them. It would be such a splendid opportunity, and there is really no necessity whatever for you to leave The Follies. You could be there, and they would look up to you. They don't know that you are naughty—they need never know. I would be with you for the first two or three days, for their different schools break up before most schools, so they could come next week, and I could help you with them. What do you think? You wouldn't be without companions, and it would be a tremendous trust to repose in you, Irene. Do you think you would be worthy of it?"
"These were those words the clergyman said—Mr. Singleton, I mean—'I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him: Father, I have sinned.' They made such a lump come in my throat; and when you talk to me a great lump comes in my throat too, and I feel that I have done nothing but sin all my life. Oh, I can't be sure of myself; that's about the end of the matter, Rosamund."