THE BURNT ARM.
After supper the excitement waxed fast and furious. The boys, aided by
the farmer and one of his men, proceeded to send off the fireworks. This
was done on a little plateau of smoothly cut lawn just in front of the
best sitting-room windows. The girls pressed their faces against the
glass, and for a time were satisfied with this way of looking at the fun.
But soon Nancy could bear it no longer.
"It is stupid to be mewed up in the close air," she said. "Let's go out."
No sooner had she given utterance to the words than all four girls were
helping the boys to let off the squibs, Catherine-wheels, rockets, and
other fireworks. Pauline now became nearly mad with delight. Her shouts
were the loudest of any. When the rockets went high into the air and
burst into a thousand stars, she did not believe that the world itself
could contain a more lovely sight. But presently her happiness came to a
rude conclusion, for a bit of burning squib struck her arm, causing her
fine muslin dress to catch fire, and the little girl's arm was somewhat
severely hurt. She put out the fire at once, and determined to hide the
fact that she was rather badly burnt.
By-and-by they all returned to the house. Nancy sat down to the piano and
began to sing some of her most rollicking songs. Then she played dance
music, and the boys and girls danced with all their might. Pauline,
however, had never learned to dance. She stood silent, watching the
others. Her high spirits had gone down to zero. She now began to wish
that she had never come. She wondered if she could possibly get home
again without being discovered. At last Nancy noticed her grave looks.
"You are tired, Paulie," she said; "and for that matter, so are we. I
say, it's full time for bed. Good-night, boys. Put out the lamps when you
are tired of amusing yourselves. Dad has shut up the house already. Come,
Paulie; come, Amy; come, Becky."
The four girls ran upstairs, but as they were going down the passage
which led to their pretty bedroom, Pauline's pain was so great that she
stumbled against Becky and nearly fell.
"What is it?" said Becky. "Are you faint?"
She put her arm around the little girl and helped her into the bedroom.
"Whatever can be wrong?" she said. "You seemed so lively out in the open
air."
"Oh, you do look bad, Paulie!" said Nancy. "It is that terrible fasting
you went through to-day. My dear girls, what do you think? This poor
little aristocrat, far and away too good to talk to the likes of
us"--here Nancy put her arms akimbo and looked down with a mocking laugh
at the prostrate Pauline--"far too grand, girls--fact, I assure you--was
kept without her food until I gave her a bit of bread and a sup of water
at supper. All these things are owing to an aunt--one of the tip-top of
the nobility. This aunt, though grand externally, has a mighty poor
internal arrangement, to my way of thinking. She put the poor child into
a place she calls Punishment Land, and kept her without food."
"That isn't true," said Pauline. "I could have had plenty to eat if I had
liked."
"That means that if you were destitute of one little spark of spirit
you'd have crawled back to the house to take your broken food on a cold
plate like a dog. But what is the matter now? Hungry again?"
"No; it is my arm. Please don't touch it."
"Do look!" cried Amy Perkins. "Oh, Nancy, she has got an awful burn!
There's quite a hole through the sleeve of her dress. Oh, do see this
great blister!"
"It was a bit of one of the squibs," said Pauline. "It lit right on my
arm and burned my muslin sleeve; but I don't suppose it's much hurt, only
I feel a little faint."
"Dear, dear!" said Nancy. "What is to be done now? I don't know a thing
about burns, or about any sort of illness. Shall we wake cook up? Perhaps
she can tell us something."
"Let's put on a bandage," said one of the other girls. "Then when you lie
down in bed, Pauline, you will drop asleep and be all right in the
morning."
Pauline was so utterly weary that she was glad to creep into bed. Her arm
was bandaged very unskilfully; nevertheless it felt slightly more
comfortable. Presently she dropped into an uneasy doze; but from that
doze she awoke soon after midnight, to hear Nancy snoring loudly by her
side, to hear corresponding snores in a sort of chorus coming from the
other end of the long room, and to observe also that there was not a
chink of light anywhere; and, finally, to be all too terribly conscious
of a great burning pain in her arm. That pain seemed to awaken poor
Pauline's slumbering conscience.
"Why did I come?" she said to herself. "I am a wretched, most miserable
girl. And how am I ever to get back? I cannot climb into the beech-tree
with this bad arm. Oh, how it does hurt me! I feel so sick and faint I
scarcely care what happens."
Pauline stretched out her uninjured arm and touched Nancy.
"What is it?" said Nancy. "Oh, dear! I'd forgotten. It's you, Paulie. How
is your arm, my little dear? Any better?"
"It hurts me very badly indeed; but never mind about that now. How am I
to get home?"
"I'll manage that. Betty, our dairymaid, is to throw gravel up at the
window at four o'clock. You shall have a cup of tea before you start, and
I will walk with you as far as the wicket-gate."
"Oh, thank you! But how am I to get into my room when I do arrive at The
Dales? I don't believe I shall be able to use this arm at all."
"Of course you will," said Nancy. "You will be miles better when cook has
looked to it. I know she's grand about burns, and has a famous ointment
she uses for the purpose. Only, for goodness' sake, Paulie, don't let
that burn in the sleeve of your dress be seen; that would lead to
consequences, and I don't want my midnight picnic to be spoilt."
"I don't seem to care about that or anything else any more."
"What nonsense! You don't suppose I should like this little escapade of
yours and mine to be known. You must take care. Why, you know, there's
father. He's very crotchety over some things. He likes all of you, but
over and over again he has said:
"'I'm as proud of being an honest farmer as I should be to be a lord. My
grandfather paid his way, and my father paid his way, and I am paying my
way. There's no nonsense about me, and I shall leave you, Nancy, a tidy
fortune. You like those young ladies at The Dales, and you shall have
them come here if they wish to come, but not otherwise. I won't have them
here thinking themselves too grand to talk to us. Let them keep to their
own station, say I. I don't want them.'
"Now you see, Paulie, what that means. If father found out that your aunt
had written to me and desired me to have nothing further to do with you,
I believe he'd pack me out of the country to-morrow. I don't want to
leave my home; why should I? So, you see, for my sake you must keep it
the closest of close secrets."
"You should have thought of that before you tempted me to come," said
Pauline.
"That is just like you. You come here and enjoy yourself, and have a
great hearty meal, and when you are likely to get into a scrape you throw
the blame on me."
"You can understand that I am very miserable, Nancy."
"Yes; and I'm as sorry as I can be about that burn; but if you'll be
brave and plucky now, I'll help you all I can. We'll get up as soon as
ever the day dawns, and cook shall put your arm straight."
As Nancy uttered the last words her voice dwindled to a whisper, and a
minute later she was again sound asleep. But Pauline could not sleep. Her
pain was too great. The summer light stole in by degrees, and by-and-by
the sharp noise made by a shower of gravel was heard on the window.
Pauline sprang into a sitting posture, and Nancy rubbed her eyes.
"I'm dead with sleep," she said. "I could almost wish I hadn't brought
you. Not but that I'm fond of you, as I think I've proved. We haven't yet
made all our arrangements about the midnight picnic, but I have the most
daring scheme in my head. You are every single one of you--bar Penelope,
whom I can't bear--to come to that picnic. I'll make my final plans
to-day, and I'll walk in the Forest to-morrow at six o'clock, just
outside your wicket-gate. You will meet me, won't you?"
"But---- Oh! by the way, Nancy, please give me back that beautiful
thimble. I'm so glad I remembered it! It belongs to Aunt Sophia."
"I can't," said Nancy, coloring, "I lent it to Becky, and I don't know
where she has put it. I'll bring it with me to-morrow, so don't fuss. Now
jump up, Paulie; we have no time to lose."
Accordingly Pauline got up, dressed herself--very awkwardly, it is
true--and went downstairs, leaning on Nancy's sympathetic arm. Nancy
consulted the cook, who was good-natured and red-faced.
"You have got a bad burn, miss," she said when she had examined Pauline's
arm; "but I have got a famous plaster that heals up burns like anything.
I'll make your arm quite comfortable in a twinkling, miss."
This she proceeded to do, and before the treatment had been applied for
half an hour a good deal of Pauline's acute pain had vanished.
"I feel better," she said, turning to Nancy. "I feel stronger and
braver."
"You will feel still braver when you have had your cup of tea. And here's
a nice hunch of cake. Put it into your pocket if you can't eat it now. We
had best be going; the farm people may be about, and there's no
saying--it's wonderful how secrets get into the air."
Pauline looked startled. She again took Nancy's hand, and they left the
house together.
Now, it so happened that the the morning was by no means as fine as those
lovely mornings that had preceded it. There was quite a cold wind
blowing, and the sky was laden with clouds.
"We'll have rain to-day," said Nancy; "rain, and perhaps thunder. I feel
thunder in the air, and I never was mistaken yet. We must be quick, or
we'll both be drenched to the skin."
Accordingly the two walked quickly through the Forest path. But before
they reached the wicket-gate the first mutterings of thunder were
audible, and heavy drops of rain were falling.
"I must leave you now, Paulie," said Nancy, "for if I go any farther I'll
be drenched to the skin. Climb up your tree, get into your bedroom, and
go to bed. If you can manage to send that white dress over to me, I will
put on a patch that even your aunt will not see. Put on another dress, of
course, this morning, and say nothing about the burn. Good-bye, and good
luck! I'll be over about six o'clock to-morrow evening to talk over our
midnight picnic."
"And the thimble," said Pauline. "You won't forget the thimble."
"Not I. Good gracious, what a flash! You had best get home at once; and I
must run for my life or I may be struck down under all these trees."
Pauline stood still for a minute, watching Nancy as she disappeared from
view; then slowly and sadly she went up to the house.
She was too tired and depressed to mind very much that the rain was
falling in showers, soaking her thin white muslin dress, and chilling her
already tired and exhausted little frame. The rattle of the thunder, the
bright flash of the lightning, and the heavy fall of the tempest could
not reach the graver trouble which filled her heart. The way of
transgressors had proved itself very hard for poor Pauline. She disliked
the discomfort and misery she was enduring; but even now she was scarcely
sorry that she had defied and disobeyed Aunt Sophia.
After a great deal of difficulty, and with some injury to her already
injured arm, she managed to climb the beech-tree and so reach the gabled
roof just under her attic window. She pushed the window wide open and got
inside. How dear and sweet and fresh the little chamber appeared! How
innocent and good was that little white bed, with its sheets still
smoothly folded down! It took Pauline scarcely a minute to get into her
night-dress, sweep her offending white dress into a neighboring cupboard,
unlock the door, and put her head on her pillow. Oh, there was no place
like home! It was better to be hungry at home, it was better to be in
punishment at home, than to go away to however grand a place and however
luxuriant a feast.
"And Nancy's home isn't grand," thought Pauline. "And the food was rough.
Aunt Sophia would even call it coarse. But, oh, I was hungry! And if I
hadn't been so naughty I'd have been very happy. All the same," she
continued, thinking aloud, as was her fashion. "I won't go to that
midnight picnic; and Renny must not go either. Of course, I can't tell
Aunt Sophia what I did last night. I promised Nancy I wouldn't tell, and
it wouldn't be fair; but see if I do anything wrong again! I'll work like
a Briton at my lessons to-day. Oh, how badly my arm hurts! And what an
awful noise the storm is making! The thunder rattles as though it would
come through the roof. My arm does ache! Oh, what lightning! I think I'll
put my head under the sheet."
Pauline did so, and notwithstanding the tempest, she had scarcely got
down into the real warmth of her bed before sleep visited her.
When she awoke the storm was over, the sun was shining, and Verena was
standing at the foot of her bed.
"Do get up, Paulie," she said. "How soundly you have slept! And your face
is so flushed! And, oh, aren't you just starving? We only discovered last
night that you hadn't touched any of your food."
"I'm all right," said Pauline.
"You will try to be good to-day, won't you, Paulie? You don't know how
miserable I was without you, for you are my own special most darling
chum. You will try, won't you?"
"Yes, I will try, of course," said Pauline. "Truly--truly, I will try."