Miss Margaret's room was on the third floor, and did service both as a
bedroom and as a sanctum to which its owner could retire in rare moments
of leisure. The bed stood in a corner, curtained off from the rest of
the room; pictures hung on the walls; little bookcases fitted into the
angles; while before the window was an upholstered seat, so long and
wide, and luxuriously cushioned, as to make an ideal sofa. In the
girls' estimation Mardie's room was a paradise, and it seemed almost
worth while having a headache, when one could be tucked up warm and cosy
on that delightful seat, shaded from the sun by the linen blind outside
the window, yet catching delicious peeps at the garden beneath its
shelter.
Mildred made straight for the coveted position and leant back against
the cushions, her hands clasped round her knees in an attitude rather
comfortable than elegant. For once, however, Miss Margaret had no
reproof to offer. She had nothing to say about the awful consequences
of curving the back and contracting the chest; she did not even inquire,
with a lifting of the eyebrows, "My dear Mildred, is that the way in
which a young lady ought to sit?" She only gazed at the girl's face and
wrinkled her brows, as if puzzled how to open the conversation.
"Go on, Mardie, dear?" said her pupil, encouragingly. "What is it--have
I done anything wrong? I don't know what it is, but I'm awfully sorry,
and I'll never do it any more. Don't scold me on the last day! I'll
promise faithfully--"
"Don't, dear! It isn't anything like that." Miss Margaret straightened
herself with an expression of resolution and went boldly forward.
"Mildred, are you brave? Can you bear a great disappointment?"
Mildred raised her eyes with a start of apprehension. There was a
moment's silence, during which a curious change came over the girlish
face. The colour faded from the cheeks, the eyes hardened, the lips set
themselves in a thin, straight line.
"No," she said sharply, "I can't!" and Miss Margaret looked at her with
gentle remonstrance.
"Oh, Mildred, don't take it like that! I have had to bring other girls
into this room, dear, and tell them of troubles compared to which this
disappointment of yours is as nothing--nothing! Poor little Effie
Browning, looking forward to her parents' return from abroad, and
counting the hours to their arrival--I had to show her the telegram
announcing her mother's death. And Mabel, and Fanny--But your mother is
well, quite well and safe. Doesn't that make you feel thankful to bear
any lesser trouble?"
"No!" said Mildred again, more obstinately than before; "No!" She
stared at Miss Margaret with unflinching eyes. "If Mother is well,
there is only one other trouble which I could feel just now. If--if it
is anything to prevent me going home, I can't bear it--it will kill me!
I shall break my heart!"
"Nonsense! You are far too strong, and brave, and sensible to break
your heart over a disappointment of a few weeks, however hard it may be
to face. Come, Mildred, you know I rely upon you to be my helper in
difficulties; you must not quarrel with me, for we shall have to keep
each other company. Your little brother Robbie has taken scarlet fever,
and you will not be able--"
She did not finish the sentence, for her pupil interrupted with a cry of
bitter grief, and buried her face in her hands. It was one thing to
imagine a thing, and another to know that it was true in solemn earnest.
Mildred had spoken of the possibility of not being able to go home as
of some appalling imaginary calamity, but she had never, never thought
it could be true. Not go home! Stay at school all through the
holidays!--the prospect was so terrible that it was impossible to
realise all that it meant. Nevertheless some of the first miserable
consequences were clear enough to poor Mildred's mind:--to unpack all
her boxes, to put her clothes back in drawers and cupboards; to sleep by
herself in the deserted dormitory; to spend the days lounging about
empty school-rooms, feeling doubly lonely because of the remembrance of
the friends who had been by her side but a few days before, and who had
now dispersed to their own happy homes. Effie Browning had spent the
holidays at school once or twice, and Mildred had pitied her so much
that she had sent weekly letters and boxes of country flowers and
mosses, to cheer her solitude. And now she herself was to undergo this
awful experience! To-morrow morning the other girls would fasten their
boxes and drive off to the station, but for her there would be no
excitement of farewell, no railway journey, with the delightful sense of
importance in travelling by herself all the way from the junction, no
dear little mother waiting to greet her in sailor hat and blue serge
suit! Her heart swelled with passionate longing, but she could not cry;
the blow was too sudden, too severe. Miss Margaret's eyes were wet,
however, as she looked down at the curly, golden head. She did not
speak for a few minutes, then she laid her hand on the girl's arm and
pressed it to attract attention.
"I am so sorry for you--so sorry, my poor girl. See, dear, here is a
letter which came inclosed in one to my sister. Your mother wished us
to break the news--"
Mildred seized the letter in an almost savage grasp. It was in her
mother's handwriting, and ran as follows:--
My darling Mildred,
When you get this letter, Miss Chilton will have told you of the
trouble at home. Poor little Robbie has been very poorly for two
days, and this morning the doctor pronounces it to be scarlet fever.
I could not help crying when he told me, for so many things came
rushing into my head, and it all seemed so dark and difficult. I was
anxious about Robbie, and couldn't think what to do with the rest of
the children; and you, my darling, with your holidays just beginning!
It broke my heart to think of you. I seem to have lived a month in
the last few hours, but everyone has been so kind, and help has come
from all directions. Mrs Bewley and Mrs Ross are to take the
children to stay with them, as they have no little ones of their own,
and are not afraid of infection. I will nurse Robbie, and if any of
the others fall ill, they will be sent home at once, and we will make
a hospital of the top floor. I suppose, even if all goes well, and
Robbie is the only patient, it will be six weeks before we are out of
quarantine. Oh, my dearest child, I am so grieved for your
disappointment, coming upon you in the midst of your preparations; but
there is no help for it, you must stay on at school, for there is no
other place to which I can send you. I can't ask either Mrs Bewley
or Mrs Ross to take you in addition to the other children, and even
if you were here we could not see or speak to each other, and it would
be dreadful to know that you were so near, and not be able to be
together.
I am as disappointed as you, can be, dear, for I can't tell you how I
was looking forward to having my dear, big girl back again, but this
is a trouble which has come to us, and which we cannot help, and we
must try to be as brave as possible. Robbie is very hot and feverish
to-day. He asked when you would be at home, and I was obliged to tell
him that you could not come now. A little time afterwards I went back
and found him crying, "'Cause Millie will be angry wif me!" Poor wee
man! if he only gets on well we must not mind any disappointment which
his illness has caused.
I shall not be allowed to send you letters, dear, but please write to
me as often and as cheerfully as you can. We shall be shut off from
all our friends, and letters will be eagerly welcomed. I send you a
postal order for a sovereign for pocket-money during the holidays. It
is all I can afford, darling, or you should have ten times as much.
You know that.
I have not another minute to spare, so goodbye, dearie. I shall think
of you every hour of the day. Help me by being brave!
Mother.
Mildred read the letter through, folded it away, and looked up at Miss
Margaret with bright, dry eyes.
"Can I go to my own room, Miss Margaret, please?"
"You can if you like, Mildred, but the other girls will be there in a
moment, getting ready for tea. Wouldn't you prefer to stay here? I
will give you my writing-case, and you can write to your mother; she
will be longing to hear. You shall have tea up here, a nice little
tray, and Bertha shall have it with you, unless you prefer to be alone."
"I don't want to see anyone. They are all going home. It would make me
feel worse than ever. They are all happy but me--"
"They will feel your disappointment almost as much as you do yourself.
We are all so grieved; but I will do my best to make the holidays
pleasant for you, dear."
"Don't be kind to me, Mardie, please. I can't bear it--I feel as if I
hated everyone! Why need Robbie take ill just now of all times in the
year? He is a tiresome little thing. It is always the same way,--there
is more trouble with him than with all the five girls. Why can't Mother
stay with us and send him away to be nursed? There are five of us, and
only one of him. I wasn't home at Easter, though almost all the girls
went. I can't live six whole months longer without seeing Mother. It
makes me wild even to think of it!"
"Don't think of it, Mildred. Six months is a long way ahead; a hundred
things may happen before then. Don't worry yourself about months, think
only of to-day, and try to be bright, and brave, and patient."
"It would be horrid of me to be bright when Mother is in trouble. I
can't be brave when everything goes wrong; I can't be patient when my
heart is breaking."
"It is hard, dear, but there are harder trials than this, which we have
to bear as we go through life, and you know--"
"Mardie, don't preach! Don't! I can't bear it. How can it make it
easier to know that other people have worse troubles? It makes it
harder, for I have to be sorry for them as well as myself. It's no use
trying to reason; you had better leave me alone. If you say another
word I--I--I shall--" Mildred's voice broke, she struggled in vain
against the rising sobs, and burying her face in her hands, burst into a
storm of bitter weeping.
Miss Margaret did not try to check her, for she knew that tears would be
a relief, and that after this outburst Mildred would be calmer and more
reasonable. She patted her heaving shoulders and murmured caressing
words from time to time.
"Dear Mildred! poor girl! I am so sorry,--we are all so sorry for you,
dear. You know that--don't you?"
Mildred cried on unrestrainedly, but by and by she nestled nearer to
Mardie's side, and a few broken phrases began to mingle with her sobs.
"Oh, Mardie, I don't want--to be--so horrid! I'll try--to be good.--But
you don't know--how--I feel--inside! All raging, desperate! It seems--
as if--it can't be true. I was so happy. It was so--near."
"Yes, dear, yes; but, Mildred, listen to me. I know that nothing can
make up for home or Mother, but I am not going away for two or three
weeks, and we will have some cosey little times together--you and I.
You shall sleep with me, we will have our meals in the south parlour,
and we will go little expeditions on our own account, have tea in
village inns, and botanise in the fields. The doctor's daughter will be
at home from school, she shall come and spend the day with you as often
as you like, and you must help me to pick fruit and make jam. We will
get some nice books too, and read aloud in the evenings. It won't be so
dreadful--will it, dear? Come, Mildred, if you cry like this I shall
think you don't care for me at all."
"Oh, Mardie, I do! I love you, and I know you will be kind, but
I'm--_tired_ of school. I want Mother! I want Mother!" And down went
the curly head once more, and Mildred burst into fresh floods of tears.
It was indeed a sad ending to a day which had dawned with such radiant
promise.