THE CONFERENCE.
It was late on the following evening when Pauline found herself alone
with Briar and Patty. Both these little girls had plenty of character;
but perhaps Patty had more of that estimable quality than her sister.
They were both straightforward by nature, upright and noble, and were
already benefiting by the discipline which had at last come into their
lives. The glories of the birthday which was so near were already
beginning to shed some of their rays over Pauline, and her sisters felt
themselves quite honored by her company.
"To think," said Briar, "that you are really only Paulie! I can scarcely
bring myself to believe it."
"Why so?" asked Pauline.
"In twelve hours' time--in less--you will be a queen."
"It is rather like the Lord Mayor," said Patty. "It's all very grand, but
it lasts for a very short time. Aunt Sophy was telling us to-day about
the Lord Mayor and the great, tremendous Show, and I began to think of
Pauline and her birthday. I could not help myself. It is a pity that a
birthday should only last such a very short time!"
"Yes, that is the worst of it," said Pauline. "But then it comes every
year. Perhaps it is all for the best that it should have a quick come and
a quick go. Of course, I shall be very happy to-morrow, but I dare say I
shall be glad when the next day arrives."
"Not you," said Briar. "I have known what the next day meant, even when
we had only shilling birthdays. The others used to cry out, 'Your
birthday is the farthest off now.' I used to keep my head covered under
the bedclothes rather than hear them say it. Adelaide and Josephine
always said it. But don't let's get melancholy over it now," continued
Briar in a sympathetic tone. "When you lie down to-night you won't be
able to sleep much; but you will sleep like a top to-morrow night. I
expect you will wake about every two minutes to-night. Oh, it is exciting
the night before a birthday! Even when we had shilling birthdays I used
to wake the night before every few minutes. Once I got up at four o'clock
in the morning. I went out. I had a cold afterwards, and a bad sore
throat, but I never told anybody how I got it. If I was excited about my
poor little birthday, what will you be to-morrow?"
"I don't know," said Pauline. "Listen, girls. I am so excited in one
sense that I couldn't be any more so. I am so excited that I'm not
excited. Can you understand what I mean?"
"No, I'm sure I can't a bit," said Briar.
"And it's quite likely," continued Pauline, "that I shall have no sleep
at all the night after my birthday."
"What do you mean now?" asked Briar.
Pauline looked mysterious. The two girls glanced at her. Suddenly Pauline
put one arm around Briar's neck and the other arm round Patty's neck.
"You are the nicest of us all--that is, of course, except Verena," she
said. "I have always been fonder of you two than of Adelaide or Josephine
or Helen or Lucy. As to Pen, well, I don't suppose any of us feel to Pen
as we do to the rest. She is so different. Yes, I love you two. I love
you just awfully."
"It is sweet of you to say that; and, seeing that you are to have a
birthday so soon, it makes us feel sort of distinguished," said Briar.
"How old are you, Briar?"
"I'll be thirteen next May. That's a long time off. I do wish my birthday
had waited until Aunt Sophy came on the scene."
"And my birthday comes in the winter," said Patty--"near Christmas; but I
dare say Aunt Sophy will give us a good time then, too."
"I do like her awfully," said Pauline. "Now, girls, I want to ask you a
question. I know you won't tell, for you are not the sort to tell."
"Of course we won't tell, Paulie."
"And you love me, don't you?"
"Yes," echoed both little girls.
"This is my question. If I do something that is not just exactly
absolutely right, will you still love me?"
"Why, of course. We're not so wonderfully good ourselves," said Briar.
"I know what you are thinking of," said Patty. "You are thinking of
Punishment Day. But we have forgotten all about that."
"I was thinking of Punishment Day. And now I want to say something. I
want to make the most tremendous confidence. I want to tell you the most
tremendous secret."
"Oh!" echoed both.
"Light that candle, Briar," said Pauline.
Briar crossed the room, struck a match, lit the candle, and then turned
to see what her darling Paulie wished further.
"Bring it right over here," said Pauline. "Put it on this table."
Briar did so.
"Kneel down, Briar, so that the light from the candle falls full on your
face."
Briar knelt. Her eyes were beaming with happiness.
"Look at me," said Pauline.
Briar raised two honest and pretty brown eyes to her sister's face.
"I think," said Pauline slowly, "that you are the sort of girl to make a
promise--a solemn, awfully solemn promise--and stick to it."
"Yes; you are right. I am made that way," said Briar proudly.
"I see you are. Patty, will you kneel so that the candle may shine on
your face?"
Patty hurried to obey.
"I am made like that, too," she said. "I always was like that. When I
said I wouldn't tell, you might pinch me black and blue, but it didn't
change me. Pen has tried to run pins into me sometimes to make me tell.
Pen is the only one who would tell when she promised not."
"I think so," said Pauline decidedly. "Pen would not do at all. Girls, I
shall come to you to-morrow evening. To-morrow evening, very late, I will
come to you here. Perhaps you will have gone to bed, but that won't
matter. I will come to you whether you are in bed or whether you are up;
and I will claim your promise. You will do what I ask, and you will
never, never, never tell. You must help me. You will--oh, you will!"
"Of course," said Briar. "Darling Paulie, don't cry. Oh, how the pet is
trembling! Patty, she's trembling like anything. Do kiss her and hug her,
and tell her there's nothing we wouldn't do for her."
"There's nothing in all the world we wouldn't do for you," said Patty.
They both kissed her so often and with such deep affection that she found
herself leaning on their innocent strength. She would not tell them yet;
she would tell them just before the time to-morrow evening. Of course
they would go with her. Pen would never do. It would be madness to
confide in Pen.
Notwithstanding her excitement Pauline did sleep soundly that night
before her birthday. No sooner had her head touched the pillow than sweet
unconsciousness visited her. She slept without dreaming, and was at last
awakened by the shouts of her sisters.
"Paulie, get up. It's your birthday. Oh, do dress yourself fast! There's
such a lot of fun going on! We are to have a whole holiday, and Aunt
Sophy is so delightful. And what do you think? She has dragged father out
of his study, and he is standing in the very middle of the lawn. He has a
huge, untidy-looking parcel in his hands, and he looks as if he didn't in
the least know what to do with it. He is trying each moment to escape
back into the house, but Aunt Sophy won't let him. She says he must not
stir until you come down. Poor father does look in misery. Be quick and
dress and come downstairs."
At this moment there was a shout from below, and the three girls who had
summoned Pauline from the land of dreams rushed off, dashing through the
house with whoops of triumph.
Pauline rose and dressed quickly. She put on the pretty pale lavender
print frock that Aunt Sophia had decided she was to wear, and went
downstairs. When she joined the others Mr. Dale greeted her with one of
his slow, sweet smiles.
"How are you, darling?" he said. "I have a sort of idea that I am kept
standing here on this lawn, exposed to the heat of a very powerful sun,
on your account."
"Of course it is on Pauline's account, Henry," said Miss Sophia. "It is
her birthday. Kiss me, Pauline, dear. Many happy returns of the day.
Henry, give your daughter her present. She is fourteen to-day."
"Fourteen! Ah!" said Mr. Dale, "a charming age. The ancients considered a
woman grown-up at fourteen."
"But no one is so silly in these days," said Miss Tredgold. "We know that
a girl is never more childish than at fourteen. Henry, open that parcel
and give Pauline what it contains."
Mr. Dale dropped the brown-paper parcel at his feet. He looked at it in
bewilderment.
"It is heavy," he said. "I haven't the least idea what is in it."
"It is your present to your daughter."
"Ah!" said Mr. Dale, "I forgot; and I packed it myself last night. My
child, I wonder if you are worthy of it."
"I don't suppose I am, father," said Pauline.
"For goodness' sake open it, Henry, and don't torture the child's
feelings."
"I put it in an old bandbox," said Mr. Dale. "I couldn't find anything
else. Pauline, in giving you what I am about to give you, I show a high
appreciation of your character. I remember now what my present is. I had
an awful night in consequence of it. I felt as though one of my limbs was
being severed from my body. Nevertheless, my dear, I don't retract nor go
back, for that is not my way. I give you this most noble gift with a
distinct object. I have lately been examining all your foreheads.
Although I have appeared to take little notice of you, I have watched you
as day by day I have enjoyed the excellent food provided by your most
worthy aunt. While my body was feeding, my mind was occupying itself, and
I have at last come to the decision that you, my child, are the only one
of my young people who has been blessed with a classical brow. As yet you
have not even begun to learn the language of the ancients; but now that
you have reached the mature age of fourteen, I shall be pleased to
instruct you myself for one hour daily, in both that Latin and Greek
which delighted our forefathers."
"But the Romans and Greeks were not our forefathers," said Miss Tredgold.
She snapped out the words quite angrily, and the look on her aunt's face
caused Pauline to go closer to her father and take one of his long white
hands and hold it close to her heart.
"It doesn't matter whether we are descended from them or not, does it,
Padre?" she said.
"All that is noble in thought, all that is original, all that partakes of
inspiration, has come down to us from the classics," said Mr. Dale. "But
take your gift, Pauline. Now, my dear children, I beseech of you, don't
keep me any longer from my important work."
He was striding towards the house, when Verena got in front of him, Briar
stood at his left hand, Patty at his right, and Adelaide, Josephine,
Lucy, Helen, and Penelope came up in the rear.
"You don't stir," they cried, "until Paulie opens her parcel."
So Pauline knelt down on the grass, untied the clumsy cord, and removed
the brown paper. She then lifted the lid from a broken-down bandbox and
revealed a musty, fusty tome bound in old calf.
"It is my precious annotated edition of Cicero," said Mr. Dale. "I have
written your name in it--'Pauline Dale, from her affectionate father.' It
is yours now, and it will be yours in the future. If you like to leave it
on the shelf in my study, I shall not object, but it is yours to do what
you like with."
He sighed profoundly, and turned away with his lip trembling.
"Good gracious!" Miss Tredgold was heard to exclaim. Then she spoke to
Adelaide.
"Run into the house and bring out a cup of coffee. The precious man gets
queerer each moment. What a present to give the child!"
Pauline raised the big book and clasped it against her neat lilac frock.
"Thank you, father," she said. "I will learn to read it. Thank you very
much."
"And you don't object to its occupying its old place on my shelf?"
"No. Shall I run and put it there now?"
"Do. You are really a wise child. Sophia, as I have given Pauline her
present, I presume I need not stay out any longer wasting my precious
time and running the risk of sunstroke."
Miss Tredgold nodded and laughed. Adelaide appeared with the coffee. Mr.
Dale drank it off at a single draught. Pauline ran into the house with
the treasure which was hers and yet not hers. For surely never during his
lifetime would Mr. Dale allow that special edition of Cicero out of his
study. She put it gravely and quietly into its accustomed place, kissed
her father, told him she appreciated his present beyond words, and then
went back to her sisters and aunt, who were waiting for her.
What a day it was! What a wonderful, magnificent day! The weather was
perfect; the air was sweet; the garden was full of perfume. And then the
presents. Every imaginable thing that a little girl could want was poured
at the feet of the birthday queen. The story-books she had longed for;
the little writing-desk she had always coveted but never possessed; the
workbox with its reels of colored silks, its matchless pair of scissors,
its silver thimble, its odds and ends of every sort and description; the
tennis-bat; the hockey-club; the new saddle that would exactly fit
Peas-blossom: all these things and many more were given to Pauline. But
besides the richer and more handsome presents, there were the sort of
pretty things that only love could devise--that charming little
pin-cushion for her dressing-table; that pen-wiper; that bag for her
brush and comb; that case for her night-dress. Some of the gifts were
clumsy, but all were prompted by love. Love had begun them, and gone on
with them, and finished them, and Pauline laughed and had brighter eyes
and more flushed cheeks each moment as the day progressed.
After breakfast Miss Tredgold took her nieces for a drive. The little
party were all packed into the wagonette, and then they went off. They
drove for miles and miles under the trees of the Forest. Miss Tredgold
told more interesting and fascinating stories of her own life than she
had ever told before. The girls listened to her with the most absorbed
attention. As a rule Miss Tredgold's stories carried a moral with them;
but the birthday stories had no moral. Pauline waited for one. She waited
with a sort of trembling dread. She expected it to intrude its sober face
at each moment, but it did not put in an appearance anywhere. It stayed
out of sight in the most delightful and graceful manner. Soon the girls,
Pauline amongst them, forgot to look out for the moral. Then Verena began
telling anecdotes of the past, and Pauline joined her; and the children
laughed, and nearly cried with delight. That drive was the happiest they
had ever enjoyed.
But it was somewhat late in the afternoon when the birthday treat came to
its culmination. They were having tea on the lawn, a most fascinating
tea, with a frosted cake in the middle of the table, on which Pauline's
name was inscribed in golden letters, and round which were lighted
fourteen little wax candles, denoting that she had now come to that
mature age. The candles were protected by tiny glass shades, so that the
soft summer air could not blow them about, and all the girls thought they
had never seen such a wonderful sight. Mr. Dale was abducted from his
study--there was really no other word to describe the way in which he was
carried off bodily--and requested to light the candles. He did so looking
very confused, and as though he did not in the least comprehend what he
was doing. Nevertheless he was there, and he was obliged to seat himself
in the centre of the group; and then garlands and garlands of flowers
suddenly made their appearance, and Pauline was conducted to her throne,
and a crown of tiny roses was placed on her dark head, and wreaths of
flowers were laid at her feet.
"Now you are queen, Pauline," said Miss Tredgold. "Your father and I and
your sisters are bound to obey you from now until ten o'clock to-night.
This is your reign. It is short, but full of possibilities. What are we
to do for you, fair queen? In what way do you wish to employ us?"
"May I wish for anything?" asked Pauline eagerly.
She had a flashing thought as she uttered the words--a quick, terrible,
agonized thought. Oh, if only she might claim her birthright! If only she
might put into use her grand privilege and ask for the one thing she
really wanted--a free, absolute pardon! If she might confess her sin
without confessing it, and get her aunt and father to say that, whatever
she had done in the past, she was forgiven now! Just for an instant her
black eyes looked almost wild; then they fixed themselves on Miss
Tredgold, who was looking at her attentively. She glanced beyond her, and
met the great black eyes of Penelope. Penelope seemed to be reading
Pauline. Pauline felt a sudden revulsion of feeling.
"That would never do," she said to herself.
"Why don't you speak?" said Verena in her gentle voice.
"I was considering what to ask," replied Pauline.
"It isn't to ask, it is to command," said Miss Tredgold. "What sort of a
queen would you make, Pauline, if you really had a kingdom? This is your
kingdom. It lasts for a few hours; still, for the present it is your own.
Your sway is absolute."
"Then let us have hide-and-seek in the garden," she said.
She laughed. The spell was broken. Penelope's eyes lost their watchful
glance. The girls were all agreeable. Mr. Dale rose to his feet.
"I have had my tea," he said, "and the queen has received her crown. I am
truly thankful that birthdays don't last longer than a day. I presume
there is no reason why I may not return to my study."
"No, father, you mustn't stir," said Pauline. "You are my subject, and I
command you to play hide-and-seek. You and Aunt Sophy must hide together.
Now let us begin."
The games that followed were provocative of mirth. Even Mr. Dale was
heard to chuckle feebly. This was when Josephine put her hand into his
pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. He made a scholarly remark the next
moment to Miss Tredgold, who replied:
"For goodness' sake, Henry, come down from the clouds. This is your
child's birthday. It is all very well to know all that musty stuff, but
there are times when it is fifty times better to be full of nonsense."
Mr. Dale groaned, and then Lucy seemed to spring out of the ground. She
laughed in his face, and cried out that she had found him.
So the merry game proceeded. It had nearly come to an end when Pauline
and Penelope found themselves alone.
"I waited for you at twelve o'clock," said Penelope, "but you never
comed. Why didn't you?"
"I didn't want to, Pen. I have changed my mind. Think no more about what
I said."
"I can't never forget it," replied Pen.
But then she heard a whoop from a distant enemy, and darted to another
part of the garden.
The game of hide-and-seek was followed by another, and then another and yet
another, and the cries of mirth and laughter sounded all over the place.
Even Betty forgot the tragic end of the Duke of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton,
who was killed by a brigand in Italy while defending his fair duchess.
Betty had been weeping scalding tears over the tragedy when the sound of
mirth called her forth. John accompanied her, and the other servants looked
on in the distance.
"There never was such a rowdy family," said Betty.
"Rowdy do you call it?" cried John.
"Yes; and the very rowdiest is Miss Tredgold. For mercy's sake look at
the way she runs! She's as fleet as a hare."
"She have very neat ankles," said John. "I call her a neat figure of a
woman."
"Don't tell me," said Betty. "Much you know what a neat figure of a woman
means. Miss Tredgold's a haristocrat. Now, if you'll believe me, she's
the moral image of the duchess."
"What duchess?" cried John.
"The Duchess of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton--her that's just made a widow,
and is crying her eyes out over the murdered remains of the poor dook."
"Sometimes," said John, "I think that you have gone off your head, Betty.
But I can't stay to listen to any more of these nonsenses. I have my
garden to look after."
The final delight before the curtain of that birthday was dropped down
for ever found its vent in music--music in which Mr. Dale took a part,
and in which Miss Tredgold excelled herself. It was the music that awoke
Pauline's slumbering conscience. It was during that music that her heart
truly began to understand itself.
"I am wicked--a coward and a liar," she thought. "But, all the same, I am
going on, for I must. Aunt Sophy loves me, and I love her, and I wouldn't
have her love turned to hate for all the world. She must never find out
what I did in the past, and the only way to keep it from her is to go on
as I am going on."