THE NET.
On Monday Pauline's troubles began over again. She ought to have been
very happy on this special day, for the birthday--the great, important
birthday, her very own, when she would reach the completion of her
fourteenth year--was near at hand. But although Pauline was perplexed and
unhappy, there was nevertheless a birthday feeling in the air. In the
first place, there was a great and exciting sense of mystery. The girls
were seen darting quickly here and there; in every imaginable corner
there were whispered consultations. Aunt Sophia, in particular, never
looked at Pauline without smiling. She was kindness itself. It seemed to
the poor little girl that her aunt had taken a great fancy to her. This
was the case. Miss Tredgold was interested in all her nieces, but even
Verena with her daintiness and pretty face, and Briar with her most
charming personality, did not attract Miss Tredgold as did the
blunt-looking, almost plain child who called herself Pauline.
"She has got character and independence," thought the good lady. "She
will be something by-and-by. She will always be able to hold her own in
the world. She is the kind of girl who could do much good. It hurt me
very much to send her into Punishment Land, but she is all the better for
it. Oh, yes, she must taste the rough as well as the smooth if she is to
be worth anything. She will be worth a good deal; of that I am
convinced."
Miss Tredgold, therefore, had compassion on Pauline's late indisposition,
and made lessons as easy as possible for her. Thus Pauline had very
little to do, except to think of that mystery which was growing thicker
and thicker. In one way it helped her own dilemma. With her sisters
walking in twos and threes all over the place, it would not be at all
remarkable for her to slip down at the appointed hour to the wicket-gate.
Even Penelope would not notice her, so absorbed was she in assisting
Adelaide to make a special present for Pauline.
As the day advanced the little girl became terribly nervous. She felt a
sense of irritation when one of her sisters looked at her, whispered to
her companion, and then turned away. She would almost have preferred Miss
Tredgold to be as stern as she was before. Her whole mind was in a state
of tumult. She felt the net closing tighter and tighter around her. Even
the birthday was scarcely interesting while such a weight rested on her
heart. Miss Tredgold had said during the afternoon as they were all
sitting together on the lawn:
"This is to be a great birthday. This is the very first birthday I have
spent under your roof. You must all remember it as long as you live."
"Oh, can I ever forget it?" thought poor Pauline. "But Aunt Sophy little
knows that I shall not remember it for its kindness and its sunshine and
its presents; I shall remember it always because I am such a wicked
girl."
Now as evening approached she could not help whispering to herself:
"The net is closing--closing round me. It is gathering me up into a heap.
My legs and arms are tied. Soon the wicked, dreadful thing will press my
head down, and I shall be powerless and lost."
She thought out this metaphor, and it seemed to haunt her footsteps.
"It is right that a girl who told a black lie should be cramped up in
it," thought Pauline. "Oh, why hadn't I courage to tell Aunt Sophy the
truth? She might have been angry, but in the end she would have forgiven
me. I would far rather have no notice whatever taken of my birthday than
be as miserable as I am now."
"That child isn't well," said Miss Tredgold to Verena, as Pauline was
seen slowly creeping in a subdued sort of way in the direction of the
lower shrubbery. "Why is she always stealing off by herself? I have a
good mind to call her back and take her for a drive. It is a lovely
evening, and a drive would do her good."
"So it would, Aunt Sophy. You know how busy all the rest of us are
finishing her presents. I am sure she would love to drive with you, for I
think she is getting very fond of you."
"Perhaps, my dear; but I have made up my mind not to have favorites. As
long as you are all good I shall love you all.--Pauline--yes, Verena, I
shall offer her a drive--Pauline, come here."
Pauline hated to be called back, but she could not do otherwise than
obey. She approached lingeringly.
"Yes, Aunt Sophy," she said.
"Would you like to take a drive with me? We might go and find out how
soon Peas-blossom and Lavender will be ready to come to their new home."
At another time such a request on the part of Miss Tredgold would have
enraptured Pauline; but she knew that it only wanted five minutes to six,
and she doubted if Nancy would consent to be kept waiting long.
"No," she answered slowly; "my head aches. Please, I would rather not
take a drive."
She did not wait for Miss Tredgold's response, but continued her slow
walk.
"The poor child is certainly ill," said the good lady. "If she continues
to look as poorly and as sadly out of sorts next week I shall take her to
the seaside."
"Will you, Aunt Sophy? How lovely! Do you know that Paulie and I have
never been to the sea? We do so long to see it!"
"Well, my dear, I shall take you all presently, but I can't say when.
Now, as Pauline does not want to drive with me, I shall go into the house
and finish some of my arrangements."
Miss Tredgold went indoors, and Verena joined Briar and Patty, who were
in a great state of excitement.
Meanwhile Pauline had reached the wicket-gate. She opened it and went
out. Nancy was waiting for her. Nancy's cheeks were flushed and her eyes
bright. She looked as if she had been quarreling with somebody. Pauline
knew that look well. Nancy's two friends Becky and Amy were standing at a
little distance. There was a small governess-cart drawn up not far away,
and Becky was stroking the nose of a rough little Forest pony.
"Father gave me the cart and pony this morning," said Nancy. "There's
nothing he wouldn't do for me. The pony and cart aren't much, perhaps,
but still it is fun to have them to fly over the place. Well, and how
goes her little high-and-mightiness? Frumpy, I can see. Grumpy, I can
guess. Now, is Pauline glad to see poor old Nance--eh?"
"Of course, Nancy; but I have come to say----"
"We'll have no 'buts,' darling, if you please."
"I can't come to the picnic, Nancy; I really cannot."
"How white poor little Dumpy looks! Wants some one to cheer her up, or
she'll be dumped and frumped and grumped all in one. Now, darling, I'm
going to put my arm round your waist. I am going to feel your little
heart go pit-a-pat. You shall lean against me. Isn't that snug? Doesn't
dear old Nancy count for something in your life?"
"Of course you do, Nancy. I am fond of you. I have always said so,"
replied Pauline.
"Then you will yield, darling, to the inevitable."
"I am yielding to it now," replied Pauline. "I am not going with you
because I can't."
"And you are going with me because you must," Nancy responded. "For
listen, Pauline. Although I am affectionate, I can be--oh, yes--dangerous.
And if you don't come, why, I can keep my word. Wednesday is your
birthday. I wonder when the crown of the day will come?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, there always is a crown to a birthday. There is a time, either in
the evening or in the morning, when the queen receives the homage of her
subjects. She gets her presents, and there are pretty speeches made to
her, and she has her dainty feast and her crown of flowers. Yes, that
time is the crown of the day, and that is just the moment when the poor
little queen shall topple down. The throne shall be knocked from under
her; the presents will vanish; the sovereignty will cease to exist. Poor,
poor little queen without a kingdom! How will you like it, Paulie? Do you
think you could bear it? To have no kingdom and no crown and no presents
and no love, and to be bitterly disgraced as well! How will you like it,
Paulie?"
"I know that you can do all that you say," answered Pauline. "I know you
can be dreadful, and everything is against me. You can ruin me if you
like, but I want you not to do it, Nancy."
"And if you don't come with us I want to do it, dear; and I rather think
that my will is stronger than yours."
"But if it kills me?"
"It won't do that, Paulie. You will feel bad, and, oh! as though somebody
had crushed you; but you won't die. There's only one way out."
Pauline was silent.
"It is quite an easy way," continued Nancy. "It is easy and safe, and
there's a deal of fun to be got out of it. You have got to come to the
picnic. Once you are there you will enjoy yourself tremendously. I
promise to get you home in the morning. You will come, and you will bring
two of your sisters with you. Two will be enough. I have yielded that
point. You will meet us here, at this very spot, at eleven o'clock on
Wednesday night. We are going some distance away, so that no one in the
neighborhood of The Dales need hear our singing and our fun and our
jollity. We will come back before daybreak and deposit you just outside
the wicket-gate. You may think it very unpleasant just now, and very mean
and all the rest, but it is the only possible way to save yourself. You
must come to the picnic, and bring two of your sisters."
"But suppose they won't come?"
"They will if you manage things properly. It needn't be Verena. I expect
Verena, for all she is so soft and fair, is a tough nut to crack; but you
can bring Briar and Patty. My father will be quite satisfied if three of
you are present. The fact is, he is awfully hurt at the thought of your
all thinking yourselves too good for us. He says that the Dales and the
Kings were always friends. My father is a dear old man, but he has his
cranks, and he has made up his mind that come you must, or he'll make
mischief. It won't be only me; it will be my father as well. He will
appear at The Dales, and if I go straight to Miss Tredgold, he will go
straight to Mr. Dale. Now, what do you think of that? I am determined to
have you for reasons of my own, and I shall poke up my father to do no
end of mischief if you don't appear. Now don't be a goose. Get up a
little dash of courage and a little dash of your old spirit and
everything will be as straight as possible."
Pauline stood quite still. Nancy danced in front of her. Nancy's face was
almost malicious in its glee. Pauline looked at it as a child will look
when despair clutches at her heart.
"I didn't know--I couldn't guess--that you were like that," she said in a
sort of whisper.
"Couldn't you, dear little duckledoms? Well, you do know it now; and you
know also how to act. Don't you see by the lines round my mouth and the
expression in my eyes that I can be hard as hard when I please? I am
going to be very hard now. My honor is involved in this. I promised that
you would be there. There are presents being bought for you. Come you
must; come you shall."
Pauline stood quite silent; then she flung her arms to her sides and
faced her tormentor.
"There was a time," she said slowly, "when I loved you, Nancy. But I
don't love you now. By-and-by, perhaps, you will be sorry that you have
lost my love, for I think--yes, I think it is the sort that doesn't come
back. I don't love you to-night because you are cruel, because you have
already got me into a scrape, and you want to push me into a yet deeper
one. I am not the sort of girl you think me. However grand and stately
and like a lady Aunt Sophia is--and compared to you and me, Nancy, she is
very stately and very grand and very noble--I would not give you up. Aunt
Sophy is a lady with a great brave heart, and her ideas are up-in-the-air
ideas, and she doesn't know anything about mean and low and vulgar
things. I'd have clung to you, Nancy, and always owned you as my friend,
even if Aunt Sophy had taken me into good society. Yes, I'd have stuck to
you whatever happened; but now"--Pauline pressed her hand to her
heart--"everything is altered. You are cruel, and I don't love you any
more. But I am in such trouble, and so completely in despair, that I will
come to the picnic; and if I can bring two of the girls, I will. There is
nothing more to say. You may expect us at eleven o'clock on Wednesday
night."
"But there is more to say," cried Nancy.
She flew at Pauline, and before she could stop her Nancy had lifted the
younger girl into her strong arms. She had not only lifted her into her
arms, but she was running with her in the direction where Becky and Amy
were minding the pony.
"Hurrah! I have won!" she cried. "She yields. Come and kiss her, the
little duck.--Pauline, you silly, if you don't love me, I love you; and
you will soon find out for yourself what a good time you are going to
have, and what a goose you have made of yourself with all this ridiculous
fuss. What a grand birthday you are going to have, Paulie! A birthday for
a whole twenty-four hours--a whole day and a whole night! Remember, there
will be presents, there will be surprises, there will be love, there will
be sweetness. Trust us, you will never get into a scrape for this. Now
run along home as fast as you can."
Pauline did not run. She closed the wicket-gate and walked soberly to the
house. Strange as it may seem, once she had made her decision, the fact
that she was to deceive her aunt, and do the thing that of all others
would fill Aunt Sophia with horror, did not pain her. The conflict was
over; she must rest now until the time came to go. She was a clever
child, and she thought out the situation with wonderful clearness. She
must go. There was no help for it. The sin must be sinned. After all,
perhaps, it was not such a very great sin. Aunt Sophia would be happier
if she never knew anything at all about it.
"If I go she will never know," thought the child. "Nancy is clever, and
now that I have yielded to her she will not fail me. If I go it will
never be discovered, and what has happened before will never be
discovered; and Aunt Sophy will never have reason to distrust me, for she
will never know. Yes," thought Pauline, "it is the only possible way."
She saw Penelope coming to meet her. The other girls were still busy with
their birthday surprises, but Penelope had just deposited her own small
and somewhat shabby present in Verena's keeping, and was now, as she
expressed it, taking the air. When she saw Pauline she ran to meet her.
"I suppose you are feeling yourself monstrous 'portant, and all that sort
of thing," she said.
"No, I am not," said Pauline.
Penelope gave her a quick glance out of her sharp eyes.
"Does you like me to be nursery or schoolroom child?" she asked.
"Oh, I like you to be just what you are, Pen; and I do beg of you not to
worry me just now."
"You is most ungrateful. I has been spending my teeny bit of money on
you. You will know what I has done on your birthday. You are going to get
a most 'licious present, and it will be I who has gived it to you.
Sometimes I does wish I was two years older; but Aunt Sophy has got
monstrous fond of me, Paulie, and of you, too. I know it. Shall I tell
you how I know it?"
"How?" asked Pauline.
"I was standing near her when you said you wouldn't go for a drive, and
she gave a big sigh, just as though she was hurted. I was hurted, too,
for I thought I might perhaps sit on the little back-seat and hear more'n
is good for me. People always say that little girls like me hear more'n
is good for them. I love--I love hearing things of that wicked sort.
Well, you didn't go, and I couldn't have my nice drive on the little
back-seat. But Aunt Sophy did give a pained sigh. She loves you, does
Aunt Sophy. She loves me, too."
"Do you love me, Pen?" said Pauline suddenly, for it occurred to her that
perhaps Penelope was the child who would have to accompany her to the
midnight picnic. She knew enough of Penelope to be sure that she could be
bribed. She was not so certain about the others.
"Do you love me, Pen?" she repeated.
"When you speak in that softy, sympathisy voice, I feel that I could just
hug you," said Penelope.
"Then would you really help me?"
"Really and really. What am I to do? If you will whisper secrets to me, I
will even forget that I am certain you know something most 'portant about
that thimble, and I will cling to you like anything. You will be the oak,
and I will be the ivy. It will be most lovely to be the close friend of
the birthday queen. I do--oh, I do hope you are going to tell me a great
secret!"
"Perhaps I am, but I can't tell you now."
"When will you tell me?"
"If I ever tell you, it will be before midday on my birthday. Now run
away. Don't whisper a word of this."
"Not me," said Penelope. "I was borned to keep secrets."
She marched away in her usual stalwart fashion.
"I may have to take her with me," thought Pauline again. "If the others
won't be bribed, I must fall back on her."
She felt a curious sense of relief, for of course Penelope could be
bribed. A shilling would do it. Penelope would go to the end of the earth
for a shilling, particularly if it was given to her all in pence. Twelve
separate pence would send Penelope off her head.