The next morning Mildred awoke with a wail of despairing remembrance.
She hid her face in the pillow and wondered how she was to live through
the day, to see the different batches of girls leave the house at ten
o'clock, at eleven, at one, at half a dozen different times, while she
was left alone in solitary misery.
Her friends, however, were too considerate of her feelings to let her
experience such a trial. Immediately after breakfast Miss Chilton
announced that she was going to spend the day in a neighbouring
township, and requested Mildred to get ready to accompany her. Now,
Miss Chilton was a majestic person, with a Roman nose and hair braided
smoothly down each side of her face; and none of the girls dared to
argue concerning her decrees, as they did, on occasion, with the more
popular Miss Margaret.
So Mildred marched meekly upstairs, to put on hat and jacket, without
uttering a single protest. She would have liked to say, "Oh, do leave
me alone! I would far rather stay at home and mope;" and Miss Chilton
probably guessed as much, though she took no notice of her companion's
downcast expression, and sat with the same unconscious smile upon her
face all the length of the journey.
She had some shopping to do, in preparation for her own holidays, but
when that was over, she and her pupil repaired to the house of a friend,
where they were to lunch and spend the afternoon.
The friend had two daughters about Mildred's own age,--bright, lively
girls, who carried her away to their own rooms, showed her their
possessions, confided secret plans, and were altogether so kind and
friendly that she forgot to be unhappy, and chatted as gaily as they did
themselves. Miss Chilton had probably sounded a note of warning in the
letter which announced her coming, for no one said a word to Mildred on
the subject of the holidays, but when she was leaving, the mother
invited her to spend another day with the girls, and the girls
themselves kissed her with sympathetic effusion.
It was nearly eight o'clock when the travellers reached school again, to
find the house transformed from its usual bustling aspect. The
classrooms were closed, supper was laid in the cosy little south
parlour, and when Mildred tried to enter the dormitory which she shared
with two other girls she found that the door was locked, and Miss
Margaret came smilingly forward to lead the way to her own room.
"I have been as busy as a bee all afternoon. Come and see how nicely I
have arranged it all," she said brightly, and Mildred, looking round,
saw her own chest of drawers in one corner, her dresses hanging neatly
in the wardrobe, while a narrow bed stood out at right angles from the
wall.
Her heart swelled at the sight, and a hundred loving, grateful thoughts
arose in her heart. She longed to thank Miss Margaret for sparing her
the painful task of unpacking, and for letting her share this pretty,
luxurious room, but it seemed as if an iron band were placed round her
lips, and she could not pronounce the words.
"The bed spoils the look of the room!" she muttered at last, and even in
her own ears her voice sounded gruff and ungracious; but Miss Margaret
only smiled, and slipped one arm caressingly round her waist.
"Ah, but I sha'n't think that when I wake in the morning and see my
little goldilocks lying beside me, with her curls all over the pillow
like the princess in the fairy tale!" she said, and at that Mildred was
obliged to laugh too, for she was like most other mortals--marvellously
susceptible to a touch of flattery!
"A very grumpy princess!" she said penitently. "I am really awfully
grateful, Mardie, but I can't show it. You will excuse me if I am nasty
for a day or two, won't you, dear?"
Mardie raised her eyebrows and pursed up her lips in comical fashion.
She was always unusually lively for a school-mistress, but already it
seemed to Mildred that she was quite a different person from the "Miss
Margaret" of term time. She wore a pretty blue dress, with lace
frillings on the bodice, and walked about with an airy tread, as though
released from a weight of responsibility.
"Well," she said, nodding her head, and looking as mischievous as a girl
herself, "I'll make allowances, of course, but I hope you won't try me
too far. I am a delightful person out of school time, and mean to enjoy
every day of the holidays to the full--unless you prevent me I shall be
dependent upon you!"
"I prevent you,--I!"
That seemed to put the matter in a new light, and Mildred was overcome
at the thought of her own selfishness. Whatever she might have to
suffer, she must not spoil poor Mardie's pleasure in her well-earned
rest. That would be inexcusable. She determined to do her utmost to be
brave for Mardie's sake.
The next day Miss Chilton departed on her travels, and a letter arrived
from Mrs Ross giving a serious account of the little invalid's
condition. She evidently tried to write as cheerfully as possible, but
Mildred read anxiety between the lines, and was full of compunction.
She had never imagined that Robbie would be really ill, but had looked
upon the fever as a childish complaint which would make him hot and red
for a few days, and put everyone else to inconvenience for as many
weeks. She had not only felt, but said, that it was very "tiresome" of
him to have taken ill at such a time; but now the remembrance of poor
wee Robbie lying in bed crying, "'Cause Millie would be angry wif him,"
cut her to the heart. The day seemed endlessly long and dreary, and the
next morning's news was worse instead of better. Robbie's life was in
danger. The doctor hoped, however, that a change might take place
within the next twenty-four hours, and Mrs Ross promised to telegraph
in the afternoon to allay his sister's anxiety.
Miss Margaret looked very grave, but she said little, and did not
attempt to follow when Mildred fled upstairs, leaving the letter in her
hands. There are times when we all prefer to be alone, and this morning
Mildred could not have brought herself to speak to anyone in the world
but her mother. She lay motionless on the window-seat, her head resting
on the open sill, the summer breeze stirring the curls on her forehead,
while the clock in the hall chimed one hour after another, and the
morning crept slowly away. For the most part she felt stupefied, as if
she could not realise all that the tidings meant, but every now and then
her heart swelled with an intolerable ache.
It was true that Robbie had caused more trouble than his five sisters
put together, but his exploits had been of an innocent, lovable nature,
and when the temporary annoyance which they caused was over, she and her
mother had laughed over them with tender pride. He was such a manly
little fellow! Many a boy would have been spoiled if he had been
brought up in a household composed exclusively of womenkind, but nothing
could take the spirit out of Robbie. He had begun to domineer over his
sisters while he was still in petticoats, and now that he was promoted
to sailor suits, he gave himself the airs of the master of the house!
Mildred recalled the day when he had been discovered standing before a
mirror, making wild slashes at his curls with a pair of cutting-out
scissors. The explanation given was that some boys had dared to call
him "pitty girl!" and he couldn't "'tand it!" When his mother shed
tears of mortification, Robbie hugged her with sympathetic effusion, but
sturdily refused to say that he was "torry!"
A vision of the little shaggy head rose up before Mildred's eyes: she
saw the chubby face, the defiant pose of the childish figure, and
stretching out her hands, sobbed forth a broken prayer.
"Oh, God! you have so many children in Heaven--so many little boys. We
have only one... Don't take Robbie!"
The morning wore away, the blazing sun of noon shone in through the open
window, Mildred's head throbbed with pain, then gradually everything
seemed to sink away to an immeasurable distance, and she was lost in
blessed unconsciousness.
When she awoke the church bell was chiming for afternoon service, and
Miss Margaret knelt by her side, holding an open telegram in her hand.
"I opened it, darling!" she said; "I thought it would be better. It is
good news, Mildred--good news! Robbie is better. The doctors think he
will get well now!"
Ah! that was a happy afternoon! Mardie took Mildred in her arms and
kissed and petted her to her heart's content, then the door opened and
in came old Ellen, the cook, carrying a tea-tray with freshly-made
scones, a plate of raspberries from the garden, and a jug of thick,
country cream. The kind old soul had been so full of sympathy that she
had insisted upon carrying it up the three flights of stairs herself,
although her breath was of the shortest, and she gasped and panted in
alarming fashion. Mildred laughed and cried in one breath, and lay back
against the cushions, drinking tea, and eating raspberries in great
contentment of spirit.
"I was awfully hungry, though I didn't know it. I feel as if I had been
ill. Oh, Mardie, isn't it a lovely feeling when the pain goes, and you
can just rest and be thankful! ... It's worse to have a pain in your
mind than in your body. I feel ashamed now that I made such a fuss
about staying at school--it seems such a little thing in comparison, but
don't say `I told you so!' Mardie, or that will make me feel horrid
again. It really _is_ big, you know, only the other was so much
bigger... Mardie, have you ever had a disappointment--as big a
disappointment as mine?"
A quiver passed over Miss Margaret's face, and for a moment she looked
very sad.
"Oh, Mildred, yes!" she cried. "Everyone has, dear, but sometimes I
have been discontented enough to imagine that I have had more than my
share. A disappointment, indeed! dozens,--scores,--hundreds! But of
course some are harder to bear than others."
"Tell me about one now!" said Mildred, leaning back against the cushions
and settling herself to listen in comfort. "Do, Mardie! I feel just in
the humour to listen to a story; and I know it will be interesting if
you tell it. `The Story of a Disappointment!' Something exciting that
happened to you when you were young. Now then, go along! Begin at
once!"
Mardie laughed, and then pretended to look indignant.
"When I was young, indeed! What do you call me now? When you are my
age you will be very indignant if anyone calls you old. Well now, let
me see! I'll tell you the story of a disappointment which happened to--
well--not exactly to me, but to a very great friend whom I had known all
my life. He tried to get on in business in England, but it seemed as if
there was no opening for him here, and at last he made up his mind to go
abroad. He heard through an advertisement of an opening in a tea
plantation in Assam (Assam, Mildred! You know where it is, of course),
and though he hated the idea of leaving home, he thought it was the
right thing to do. Well, he went. It was a long and expensive journey,
and when he arrived he found that things were not at all as they had
been represented. I can't enter into details, but the advertisement had
been one of those cruel frauds by which young men are tempted abroad,
and robbed of time and money. My friend was clever enough to see
through the deception, and refused to have anything to do with the
business. That was all right so far as it went, but there he was, alone
in a strange land, not knowing where to turn, or what to do to earn a
livelihood. It was just about this time that the planters in Ceylon
were beginning to grow the cinchona-tree, from the bark of which the
medicine known as quinine is made; and it happened one day that my
friend overheard two gentlemen discussing the prospects of the crops and
speaking very enthusiastically about it. He made inquiries in as many
directions as he could, and finally decided to go south to Ceylon and
prospect. He had some money of his own, and he was fortunate enough to
meet a man who had been in the island for years, and who had valuable
experience. They bought an estate between them, planted it with
cinchona, and worked hard to cultivate it; and it is very hard, Mildred,
for an Englishman to work in the open air in those tropical countries!
It was a difficult crop to raise, and misfortune befell all the estates
around. The roots `cankered', the leaves turned red and dropped off, so
that the trees had to be uprooted, and very little if any of the bark
could be used. My friend's estate, however, flourished more and more.
His partner was a clever planter, and they were not content to leave the
work to the care of an overseer, but looked after it themselves, night
and day. There was not a single precaution which they neglected; not an
improvement which they left untried, and as I say the place flourished--
people talked about it--it became well known in the island. It was all
the more valuable because of the failure of the other estates, and the
sum which the estate would realise, if all went well, would be a
fortune--large enough to provide both partners for life.
"Imagine how they felt, Mildred! How eager they were; how delighted.
They had been away from home for years by this time, and were longing to
return. They had each their own castle in the air, and it seemed as if
this money would build it on solid earth. For some time everything
flourished, then--one morning--"
Miss Margaret paused, and drew a difficult breath; Mildred stared at her
with dilated eyes.
"My friend wrote me all about it. They had finished breakfast and
strolled out together, talking of what they would do when the next few
weeks were over, and the money was paid down. They were to buy presents
in Colombo, take passages in the first steamer, and come home laden with
spoils. The partner--his name was `Ned'--was picturing the scene which
would take place at his home when he distributed the treasures which he
had bought for his sisters--amethyst rings, tortoise-shell brushes,
brass ornaments. He walked on ahead, gesticulating, and waving his
hands in the air. Suddenly he stopped short, started violently, and
stared at one of the carefully-guarded cinchona-trees.
"`What is it, Ned?' cried his partner, and at that the other turned his
face. It had been all bright and sparkling a moment before. It was
changed now--like the face of an old, old man. My friend looked and
saw: the leaves were shrivelling--it was the beginning of the red
blight!"
Miss Margaret jumped up from her seat and began to pace the room. Her
voice quivered; her eyes had a suspicious brightness; while Mildred was
undisguisedly tearful.
"Oh, Mardie! How awful! Oh, the poor, poor fellows! What did they
do?"
"There was nothing to be done. They knew that by experience. The
blight would spread and spread until the whole estate was destroyed.
They could do nothing to stop it. They went back to the bungalow and
sat there all day long--without speaking a word or lifting their eyes
from the ground. All the years of hard, unceasing work had been for
nothing--"
Mardie stopped abruptly.
"And after--afterwards?"
Mardie stood with her back to her companion, as if avoiding her glance.
Her voice had a curiously tired, listless expression.
"Oh!--they dug up the ground to plant tea, and began life over again."
"But, Mardie, dear, don't be so sorry! It was terribly hard, but after
all it is over, and it did not affect your own personal happiness!"
Mardie moved the ornaments on the dressing-table with nervous fingers.
"It is getting late," she said. "Put on your hat, Mildred, and let us
have a stroll in the garden before it is dusk."