The dark green blind flapped lazily to and fro against the lower part
of the open window, letting in occasional streaks of golden light, and
stirring the delicate fronds of the fern that, with a pot of heliotrope
and some bowls of flowers, stood on the table at the foot of the bed.
Caroline lay and watched for those fugitive glimpses of sunshine and
sun-bathed trees.
It must be very lovely out in the garden, so she mused, dreamily; only
it was such a long, long way to get there, and here it was so
pleasantly restful, so calm, so conducive to dreams.
A great many birds had congregated on the big beech tree close to her
windows; there was a swallow's nest just under the eaves of the roof,
and a great twittering went on every now and then. Caroline could
picture the cluster of yellow, wide-open beaks, and the industrious
mother voyaging backwards and forwards, always with some toothsome
morsel for one of those hungry mouths in her own beak.
"I think tiny swallows are very greedy," she said to herself, sleepily.
"They are never satisfied."
And some one answered her--a small voice, from the floor, apparently.
"Caloline ... Caloline ... is you going to wake up.... Oh, _do_ wake
up, Caloline!"
The voice was plaintive almost to tears.
Caroline opened her eyes, paused, and then, with an effort, pushed
herself forward, resting on her elbow.
"Is there somebody there?" she asked, in such a funny, wavering voice.
For answer a very hot and a very small hand came creeping over the
white sheet like a little mouse.
"It's me ... Babsy.... They've sented me away all the time, nasty
unkind peoples. But I crawled in, and I _do_ want you, Caloline."
"Climb up," said Caroline, faintly.
It was a stupendous undertaking, entailing much slipping and dragging
at the bed-clothes, but at last a small, hot, dishevelled little person
had crawled close to the pillow and was kissing the white face lying
there and cuddling a weak hand and arm as if it were a doll.
And then confidences followed.
"Betty's dog has comed; he's a awful duck, but she won't let me have
nothing of him. Isn't she selfish?"
"I will give you a dog, sweetheart."
"A really one?"
"A real one."
"Nice, _dear_ Caloline!"
The little soft face pressed close to the white one.
"But not a wool-fur dog?"
"No, a real one."
Baby lay and stared dreamily about the room.
"I'll give him jam," she said.
Caroline laughed.
"Fancy a real dog eating jam!"
"Fancy a real growned-up thing going to sleep for all the days."
"I am very sorry," said Caroline, humbly.
The door was pushed open here in the softest way possible, and a voice
whispered cautiously from the aperture----
"Baby.... Baby...."
Baby giggled, and put her finger up in a warning fashion, but Betty was
not deceived.
"I know you're here," she said, "and you didn't ought to come. You know
what Aunty Brenny said. You was to leave Caroline alone."
"Nasty thing!" said Baby, suddenly, in abusive fashion.
Caroline said, "Hush!" but this brought Betty straight to the bed. It
took her just a minute to climb and nestle down on the other side.
"How long has she been here, little pickle?" she demanded.
The wooliness had gone from Caroline's brain.
"Don't tease her, darling," she urged, and she smoothed Baby's downy
cheek soothingly as she spoke.
"She _is_ a pickle," retorted Betty. "A horrid pickle."
Caroline made haste to avert a battle.
"Watch the blind," she said, "and you will see the sunbeam fairy sail
into the room."
But Betty had no use for fairies this afternoon.
"My dog's got a silver collar. He's called Box."
"Who brought him?" asked Caroline, in a low voice.
"Oh, Rupert, of course!"
The girl's heart gave a bang. She tried to remember when it was that
she had staggered into this cool, restful bed with that aching torture
in her brow and eyes.
"He will bite," said Betty.
And Baby whispered eagerly----
"Mine will, too, won't he?"
"I think I will get up," said Caroline; but Betty at once assumed a
sitting posture.
"You can't," she said, "you're clothes have all been took away."
"Then I'll wear yours," said Caroline.
She was trembling all over! How stupid of her to have been ill. How
long had she been shut up in this room?
The children began with bursts of laughter to dress her up in
imagination in their garments.
She listened to them, hearing nothing; then she began to question
again----
"You're the grown-up young lady, Betty," she said. "What has been going
on downstairs? Did ... did ... Rupert really come?"
"Really and truly," said Betty. "He said he was awful sorry you was
ill. Aunty Brenny's been 'plaining, too. Oh, Caroline, you _must_ get
well by Saturday! Cook's sister Flo is going to be married. Cook's
making a cake. You will let me and Baby go, won't you? We want to carry
her train."
"Is that all the news?" asked Caroline.
The child puckered her brow and nodded her head, and then said----
"Oh no. Somethin' else. Mummy sent us each a watch; a real living
watch, Caroline; and she's gone to some mountains, and she's very well,
and she's got a new name, and it isn't Rupert's and she wants us to say
our prayers for her every night."
The little voice on Caroline's right began to murmur these devotional
offices, but she stopped sharply halfway, because Betty exclaimed----
"Rupert's going to send my pony down here, and a donkey for Baby. Do
you want your letters?" suddenly asked Betty. "There's a 'eap waiting."
The heap turned out to be two. One with a foreign postmark, and one
with the address of a London club stamped on the envelope.
"I know who that's from," said Betty, with a laugh, "that's Sammy. Oh,
he's been down here, too! And what do you think? Baby asked him for a
shilling!"
A voice from the staircase called both children to attention.
They slid off the bed like two culprits.
"Please ask Dennis if she will come to me," Caroline said, and Betty
paused to shrug her shoulders.
"Can't! Dennis is went to mummy." Then she said--"When did she go,
Baby? I don't remember 'xactly."
"I think it was the day after this day," said Baby, after some
reflection.
"Well, please," said Caroline, "I should like my clothes."
The moment she was alone she sat forward, and with trembling fingers
tore open Broxbourne's letter, the other she slipped under her pillow;
she was not strong enough to read what Camilla had written just yet.
Sir Samuel was not skilful with his pen; his letter was brief.
"Dear Miss Graniger,
"I ran down as I said I should, and was awfully sorry to hear you were
knocked over. I'll be down again soon, but I thought I would scribble
you a word to say I shall keep my promise till I see you again."
Caroline's hand closed over the letter, and she lay back and let the
nervous beat steady down in her heart and pulses.
The blind still flapped to and fro, but the golden streak had moved. A
blackbird was piping in the clear air; she could hear the children's
voices from the garden. The room had the same tranquil air as before,
but the soft reposeful element had passed away; Caroline's eyes were
closed, but she neither slept nor dreamed.
Remembrance was with her again, and with remembrance, heartache,
yearning, and regret.