A FAILURE.
There are seasons that come into the lives of all people which are full
of perplexity, of doubt, of difficulty. Such a time came now to that
most admirable woman, Jane Faithful. She was dismayed. She wondered if
she had been over-boastful about her little school; if she had acted
rightly towards the children who were committed to her care. It is
true she had from the very first strongly objected to the arrival of
Henrietta and Daisy. They, she considered, had stepped a little beyond
the bounds. Before now she had restored troublesome, obstinate, idle
girls to their parents or guardians with completely changed characters.
These girls were no longer troublesome and wilful; they were no longer
idle and defiant. But the Mostyns had gone far beyond these ordinary
kinds of naughtinesses, and Mrs. Faithful honestly did _not_ wish for
them. She said so plainly to the Rector, but the Rector had looked so
pale, so sad, so ill, so terribly troubled that, because she loved him,
as all others loved that good man, she made an exception in his favour.
She would keep these wild girls _on a condition_. Maureen was to come
to her. The Rector, looking sadder and more mournful than usual,
consented to Mrs. Faithful's plan, for he did not know how to refuse.
He simply did not know what to do with his step-daughters, and he felt
that he must save them at any personal cost.
Then, most unluckily, Mrs. Faithful, knowing nothing of their queer
characters, set to work the wrong way. There were certain rooms at the
top of the spacious house, which were seldom, indeed hardly ever, used.
They were rooms of extreme punishment and a special sort of dress was
required to be worn by the girls who occupied these rooms.
Mrs. Faithful determined, very wrongly as it turned out, to put the
obstreperous girls there until Maureen O'Brien arrived. They would be
under the special care of Dawson, a most faithful Scotswoman and an old
servant in the school, and of Miss Joan Pinchin.
Now Mrs. Faithful, knowing that Miss Pinchin had treated naughty and
unmanageable girls before in a truly excellent manner and had soon
in fact effectually brought them round to the laws of discipline and
goodness, never imagined that Miss Pinchin, contrary to her wont, would
treat this pair of rebels with extreme and unnecessary severity, and
that Dawson, faithful Dawson, would take a violent dislike to them
when she saw them. When the girls were put into Miss Pinchin's care,
she made a request. It was this: would Mrs. Faithful allow her, Joan
Pinchin, to have the entire care of the Irish girls for the first
week? She even ventured the request that Mrs. Faithful should not see
them during this short time.
"I can manage them," she said. "I am certain I can manage them, but
I can do it more easily if no one interferes with me. Believe me,
dear Mrs. Faithful, that the Mostyns will be removed from the Hall
of Discipline to the cheerful Hall of Contrition on the next floor
before the week is up. Soon after that they will have opportunities of
mingling with their fellow-students."
"Remember," said Mrs. Faithful, "I wish for no harshness. The girls are
like wild, unbroken colts, and must be treated accordingly. Gentleness,
dear Joan, and all kindness that is possible. Remember, I trust you."
"You may, you may," said Miss Pinchin.
And now all might have gone well, for Miss Pinchin had most assuredly
managed very naughty girls before. Her scheme in the plan of the
school was to manage naughty girls. But it so happened with regard to
the Mostyns that this admirable woman lost her temper completely over
Henrietta and Daisy. The moment this happened she also lost her power
over them. They openly rebelled. They jeered at her to her face. Daisy
mimicked her to the life. Henny screamed and choked with laughter. The
poor governess was reduced to despair; but she would not, she could
not, give in.
She tried measures more and more severe, and more and more openly did
the girls defy her, until at last there came that climax which has been
described in the last chapter.
Daisy Mostyn might best be described as an imp or a minx. There was
no doubt whatever that her character was most daring. She made up her
mind to refuse her food; she also made up her mind, if Miss Pinchin had
recourse to the cane again, to snatch it from the governess herself and
try it on her very thin person. What a glorious uproar that would make.
She confided her plan to Henrietta, and Henrietta applauded.
"I'll help ye, acushla mavourneen," she cried. "Lawk a massy me, what a
fuss there'll be when Pinchin is under the rod."
But alas for the wildest and naughtiest preparations, Daisy, although
she had a queer strength of character, in a very naughty direction, it
is true, was sadly weak in body. Her starvation did not suit her.
On retiring to rest the night before she intended to begin her
persecution of Pinchin, she turned most deadly sick. Henrietta thought
nothing of this, and pulled her out of bed in the morning. The sequel
has been told.
Daisy was very ill indeed--quite delirious. She talked incessantly
of Fly-away, of the medicine glass and the laudanum bottle. She also
talked of the dark lantern. She chattered unceasingly. Her little
white face looked whiter and more pinched each moment; her small eyes
more dazzlingly bright, and as the day advanced to its close, her wild
mutterings became incoherent. Dr. Halsted was seriously alarmed about
her, and two nurses were appointed to take charge of the sick girl.
Towards evening there came a short and refreshing telegram from Maureen
O'Brien to Mrs. Faithful: "Expect me the morning after next.--Maureen
O'Brien."
"Little dear--oh, how welcome she will be," thought the harassed
mistress.
She got everything in readiness for the girl. She sent for Henrietta
and told her the good news.
"What! _That_ brat coming here," said Henrietta. "I'm sure I don't want
her. It was because of herself, no less, that all this trouble came."
"Henrietta," said Mrs. Faithful, "do you mean deliberately to go on
with your wicked ways?"
"Oh yes, I quite mean to," said Henrietta.
"Are you aware that your sister is dangerously ill?"
Henrietta stared for a minute.
"I like my hair fuzzy-wuzzy," she said, and she rumpled it up with
both her hands, then stood with her arms akimbo, looking hard at Jane
Faithful. "I have the promise of becoming a handsome woman, haven't I?"
she continued.
"Oh, Henrietta," said poor Mrs. Faithful, "when you talk like this at
such a moment, you break my heart."
Henrietta continued to stare very hard.
"I can't cry about '_Dysy--give me your answer, do_,'" she remarked,
"but somehow I don't mind old Dinah with her 'thees' and her 'thous.'
Of course, I said from the first that Dysy would hop out. She was
always a delicate little thing. We used to fuss about her a lot when we
were in a proper school. Then poor mumsie broke her neck. We never saw
mumsie after she married the Rector, so naturally we didn't much mind;
but we did mind the loss of our fortune. It was an awful blow to us. It
was beastly unfair; don't you think so, Mrs. Faithful?"
"I don't think about it, child. In the Country where poor Daisy is
going money is of no account."
"Poor old Dysy! Well, to be sure, she had lots of fun in her! I
declare, you look as though you were sorry for her."
"I am, my child--most bitterly sorry!"
"And are you, perhaps, a bit sorry for me?"
"Yes, Henrietta; oh, yes." And Jane Faithful, that sternest of women,
gave way utterly and began to weep.
Henrietta continued to stare at her, then she said in a low voice:
"Dear, goodness gracious! _What_ a fuss about nothing! _I_ don't mind
staying with Dinah. Her 'thees' and 'thous' are so funny. I take them
off like anything. I imitate her like fun, and she never answers back."
"Henrietta, have you _any_ heart?"
"Dunno. 'Spect I have a bit. Here's my hanky-panky. Let me wipe your
tears. I don't like to see you crying for _us_."
"If you are not sorry for your sister and yourself, will you at least
be sorry for me?" said Mrs. Faithful.
"What earthly good will that do you?"
"But can you try to be sorry for me?"
"Well, I never! Yes, I'll try. You don't look at all pretty when you
sob, you know. There, now, I have wiped away your tears. I think you
have a dear old face, after all. If only I could manage to smack
Pinchin, I might learn to love you."
"Come, Henrietta, we have had enough of this. You look sadly tired, my
little girl. Dinah will take you to your bedroom."
"Oh, I say, must I sleep alone in the Room of Penitence? I'll be
dreaming of Dysy all night."
"No; there is another room got ready for you."
Henrietta remained quite silent while Mrs. Faithful got up and rang the
bell in a peculiar way. She had a method of her own for calling the
special people she required to come to her.
Dinah now entered the room. Dinah smiled quite benignly upon Henrietta.
"Thy hair is in a mop," she said. "Curly hair is what we in our Body
call a Desecration."
"Oh Dinah, honey, how can I help it when God gave it to me!"
"Don't scold her now, Dinah," said Mrs. Faithful. "Be very gentle with
her. I am relieved to tell you that Miss Maureen O'Brien is coming. She
is the daughter of that dear Mr. Maurice O'Brien whom we all so loved."
"Ah, indeed, and we truly loved him!" said Dinah. "Thou art wearing
thyself out, dear Jane Faithful."
"I am sad and anxious," said Jane Faithful.
"Might I take the liberty of returning to thee, Jane Faithful, when
this little perverse one is safe in her bed?"
"Yes, Dinah, I shall welcome you."
"Come, Henrietta," said Dinah. She held out her hand.
Henrietta went away with her at once. She did not wait to say
good-night to Mrs. Faithful. She forgot Mrs. Faithful in the presence
of Dinah.
"Why dost thou call me Henrietta?" she inquired. "Dost thou not know
that thou art taking a _great_ liberty? For I--I am a lady with a
fortune, although it is but a small one, and thou art only a poor
serving maid."
"In our community," replied Dinah, "we never call anyone except by the
baptismal name. There is no Mrs., no Miss, no Mr. in _our_ community.
Now come; I have something nice for thy supper."
"Feel my tummy-tum," said Henrietta. "It is ever so empty. I hope
thy supper will prove to be a true supper, large in quantity, rich in
quality, and fit for a Christian maid."
"But, my dear, thou art not a _Christian_ maid. Nevertheless, thy
supper is sufficient. Come now to my room and eat."
Henrietta went. The supper was of the very best: Green peas, roast
duck, new potatoes, a glass of milk, and some stewed peaches.
"Upon my word," said Henrietta, "I like thy calm ways, Dinah. I,
too, will become a Quaker and say 'thee' and 'thou,' not because of
spiritual guidance, but because the Quakers nourish their little
tum-tums so well."
"Henrietta, thou must not speak like that."
"Dinah, thou art not to scold me. The woman here, called Faithful,
said I was to be dealt gently with. Dost thou know, dear Dinah, that a
dreadful trouble is coming on me?"
"Indeed, I fear it," said Dinah.
"Oh, I don't mean about Dysy--poor little snippet! I mean something far
worse."
"I fail to understand thee," replied Dinah.
"I will whisper it to thee, Dinah. My _direst_, _darkest_, most
_fearful_ enemy is coming on the scene--she whom I hate. Couldst thou
not hide me from her?"
"What dost thou mean, Henrietta?"
"The one they call Maureen is coming. She is coming very soon, the day
after to-morrow--quite early."
Dinah was silent.
"Couldst thou not hide me from her, dear Dinah?"
"Dost thou mean the young daughter of Maurice O'Brien of blessed
memory? Ah, but to look into _his_ eyes was to look into the Joy of
Life, and the Peace of Heaven combined. It is impossible for thee,
Henrietta, to hate that blessed child."
"And wilt thou also join the band of her worshippers?" asked Henrietta.
"I only worship the Lord my God, and Him only do I serve."
"Then thou wilt hate her?"
"Hate?" said Dinah. "I know not the word."
"Ah, but I can teach it to thee. It is so jolly nice to hate."
"Henrietta, it is far, far nicer to _love_. Now thou hast consumed this
large meal and much work awaits me. I will take thee to thy chamber and
see thee into bed, poor little one!"
"Thou hast a sweet voice, Dinah. It is such a pity that thou canst
not hate. Well, I will do it for us both, and then it will be jolly
fearsome."
Dinah made no remark, but, taking Henrietta's hand, led her to the
Chamber of Love.
"Is it here I am to sleep?" said the girl. "Why, how pretty! Wilt thou
lie beside me on this bed, Dinah? Why, the walls are all pale blue
like the sky; even the bed is blue. Why am I put here?"
"Because of Love," said Dinah. "See what is written on the door; and
commune well with thine own heart, before the Angel of Sleep visits
thee. Can one who _hates_ have sweet dreams in this Chamber where Love
dwells?"
"Then I hate the room; I won't stay in it," said Henrietta.
"Dear little girl, wilt thou not for my sake?"
"I'd do a great deal for thee," said Henny, "only I wish those words
weren't written over the door." For reply, to the unbounded amazement
of Henrietta, Dinah fell on her knees; she folded her soft, white hands
and raised her gentle, dovelike eyes so that they looked out, as from a
summer sky. Henrietta longed to fly from the room, but the sight of the
kneeling woman restrained her.
After an interval of profound silence, the woman began to speak: "Lord,
Thou art here! Come close, Lord, close, and fold--yes, fold--this
little tempestuous being in Thy embrace! Lord, have mercy, have
pity----"
She suddenly stopped, for there came a resounding smack on her cheek.
"Stay here, Quaker woman!" said Henrietta. "This room is not fit for
me. I am going out!"
Before poor Dinah could rise from her knees, Henrietta had dashed away,
had flown down the quiet, orderly house and out into the soft, summer
night. She ran fast, as though furies were pursuing her. She soon left
the precincts of Felicity and still ran on and on, with panting breath,
cheeks on fire, and a little rumpled head of fiery hair.
She saw a wood in the distance, and got into it. The dew lay heavy on
the grass--oh, how cool, how delicious! She flung herself on the grass
and fell sound asleep.
Poor distracted Dinah came down in a state of anything but peace to
Mrs. Faithful.
"She's gone, m'm."
"Gone! Who? Which?"
"I don't know anything about Daisy, Jane Faithful. It's Henrietta.
She's very queer, and when I tried to comfort her and offered up a
few words of prayer, directed assuredly by the Blessed Spirit, she
smacked me on the cheek. Not that I mind that--thou knowest it is but a
trifle--but before I could stop her, she had flown, I know not where.
She was quite tractable until I took her to her beautiful bedroom, and
then the name sent her wild. I'm afraid we shall have trouble with her,
dear Jane Faithful."
"Dinah," said Mrs. Faithful, "do you think she has gone out?"
"I apprehend that she has done so," said Dinah.
"In that case, Dinah, you and I will go and seek for her. We will go
alone, for she cannot have gone very far."
Mrs. Faithful and Dinah found Henrietta sound asleep on the wet grass
in the wood nearest to Felicity. She was dragged to her feet, and the
two women brought her back.
The remainder of that night she slept warm and snug in the arms of
Dinah.
"Thou art a good sort, Dinah," was her last remark, as she dropped off
into the land of dreams.