It was two or three days after Fuzzy's running away with the
perambulator that nurse, who was now quite well again, came in to
breakfast in the nursery with a grave face, and without, as usual, Baby
Dolly in her arms.
"Where's baby?" said Leigh; and Mary, who was deeply engaged with her
bowl of bread-and-milk, looked up.
"Where's Baby Dolly, nursie?" she said, in turn.
"In bed," nurse answered, "in bed and fast asleep. She's had a bad
night, and she only fell really asleep when it was about time for
getting up. So of course I didn't wake her."
"Is she ill?" asked Leigh; and both he, and Mary and Artie, looked at
nurse so anxiously that she felt sorry for them.
"I hope not," she said. "I hope she'll be all right when she wakes up.
The best and strongest of babies have their little turns. Don't look so
troubled, my dears."
Just then Emma, who had had her breakfast before, came into the room,
and was crossing to the door which led into the night-nursery, when she
was stopped.
"I'll tidy the room myself this morning, Emma," said nurse. "I don't
want any one to go in. Miss Dolly's not very well."
"She's been very cross this day or two, crying enough to make herself
ill. You spoil her, nurse, that's what I say," said Emma, pertly.
Nurse made no reply, except to repeat her orders to Emma not to enter
the bedroom.
As soon as breakfast was over, the three children--Artie and Mary with
clean pinafores, and all with smoothed hair and nicely-washed hands--
went downstairs as usual to the dining-room for prayers. But to their
surprise their mamma was not there, nor was nurse. They did not wonder
much about nurse, however, for they knew some one would have to stay
beside baby in case she woke.
But to-day several things seemed strange and different from usual.
Instead of going up to the nursery again their father told them they
were all to go to the little study where Leigh and Artie did their
lessons with their tutor.
"For baby must not be disturbed," he said, "and if you were all playing
in the nursery the noise would go through to the other room."
"Mayn't I go up to the nursery, papa dear?" asked Mary. "Just me. I'd
be _kite_ quiet. I don't like to be away from nursie and baby," and her
voice sounded as if she were going to cry. "And I don't know what to do
when Mr Fibbetts comes."
"Mr _Phillips_," said papa. "You're getting too big to talk so
babyishly, Mary. And you mustn't be selfish, my dear. If you can play
quietly in the nursery you can play quietly in the study, or perhaps
I'll send Emma to take you out a little."
"I don't want Emma. I want mamma, and nursie and Dolly," said Mary.
She thought her papa was rather "c'oss," and she was not used to his
being the least cross. And she was unhappy about baby; and deep down in
her heart was a sort of fear she tried not to think about. Mary had
never been so unhappy in all her life before.
The fear was not in _her_ heart only. Leigh and Artie were feeling just
the same. At first when they found themselves alone in the study they
all three tried to pretend there was nothing the matter. They hid away
the fear, and covered it up, and told it to go to sleep. But fears like
that are very troublesome. They won't go to sleep; just as we think we
have got them safely shut in and all seems still, up they jump again,
and there they are knocking at the door, not only of our hearts, but of
our _consciences_.
"You have done wrong," they say, "and wrongdoing brings trouble."
And after a while the two little brothers and their sister left off
pretending. They sat down close together on the hearthrug and looked at
each other.
"Leigh," said Artie, in a strange hushed sort of voice, "do you think
Baby Dolly's _very_ ill?"
Mary did not speak; but she looked up in Leigh's face, so that he turned
his head away.
"How should I know?" he said roughly.
"You heard as much as I did. Babies are often ill."
But both the others knew quite well that he was just as unhappy as they
were.
"Oh, Leigh," said Mary at last, her voice trembling, "do you think it
can be 'cos of--" but here she stopped.
Leigh turned round sharply. His face was white, but still he tried to
be angry.
"Why can't you speak out, you silly girl?" he said. "Why don't you say
what you mean?--that I've made her ill by the tumbling out of the
perambulator? Nonsense, she fell on the top of Janie Perry, and Janie
said she came quite softly. How _could_ it have hurt her?"
"I don't know," said Mary, but she spoke very sadly.
"There's was a little boy," began Artie, "wot fell out of a winder, and
he jumped up and said he wasn't hurt, but then he was killed."
"What do you mean?" said Leigh. "How was he killed if he wasn't hurt?"
"I mean he died soon," said Artie. "P'raps it was the next day. He was
hurt inside his head though it wasn't blooding outside."
"And babies are so dellykid," said Mary.
Leigh gave a sort of angry grunt, something between a sob and a scold.
Certainly Mary and Artie were not comforting. But did he deserve
comforting? It was true he had meant no harm at all to dear baby. He
had thought it would be fun for her as well as for the others and
himself--most for himself, I am afraid--if Fuzz could be taught to draw
her carriage quite well, like the dogs papa had told them about. But,
had it been right to do it secretly, without anybody's leave? He had
turned it and twisted it so in his mind that he had persuaded himself he
only wanted to "surprise" everybody, for one reason; and for another,
that nurse was so silly and fussy; and for still another, that there was
no need to tease papa and mamma about every little plan for amusing
themselves that he and the others made.
But now, somehow, none of these reasons seemed any good; they all
slipped and melted away as if there was nothing real in them.
And then there was the second piece of concealment--the hiding about the
accident. There was no good excuse for that. Leigh's own first
feelings had been to tell at once, and Janie Perry had trusted that he
would. Why had he given in to Emma? Was it really out of pity for her
and her mother; or was it partly--a good big "partly"--that he was
afraid of being very much scolded himself? As he got to this point of
his gloomy thoughts Leigh gave another groan; it was much more of a
groan this time, as if he could not bear his own unhappiness.
Then, for he had covered up his eyes, he felt a little hand stealing
round his neck--it was Mary.
"Oh, Leigh, dear poor Leigh," she whispered. "I _are_ so sorry for you,
and I are so miderable."
Leigh drew the trembling, quivering little creature to him, and left off
trying to keep up. Artie crept near to them, and they all cried
together.
Then Leigh started up.
"I'll go and tell now," he said, "now, this minute. It's been all my
fault, and I don't care what Emma says, nor how I'm scolded. P'raps,
_p'raps_, the doctor'll be able to do something, even if her head is
hurt inside the way that boy's was."
He kissed the two others and started off. He seemed away a long time;
but, alas! when he came back there was no look of comfort or hope in his
face. It was only very white, and his eyes very red.
"It's no good," he said, flinging himself down on a chair and bursting
out crying. "It's no good. That's my punishment. Now that I want to
tell I can't."
Mary and Artie could not understand.
"Was you too f'ightened, poor Leigh?" said Mary. "Shall I go?"
"No, no, it's not about me. It's this way. Papa's gone, ever so long
ago. He's gone to the station, and I think he was going to see the
doctor on the way. And mamma and nurse are shut up in the night-nursery
with baby, not to be disturbed by _nobody_," said Leigh, forgetting his
grammar in his distress. "I saw Emma, but _she's_ no good, she'd only
tell stories to keep herself from being scolded. But I do think she
looks frightened about baby. Oh dear, what _shall_ I do? Darling Baby
Dolly, and it's all my fault. I see it now;" and Leigh flung himself on
to the floor and burst out sobbing again.
"Leigh, Leigh, poor Leigh," said Mary and Artie together.
"Mr Fibbetts will be coming," said Mary in a moment, "and then I'll
have to go out with Emma. Oh, I don't want to go."
Leigh looked up.
"Mr Phillips won't be coming," he said, "I forgot. Everything's been
so strange to-day. It's Saturday, Mary. He doesn't come on Saturdays.
You shan't go out with Emma if you don't want. She's a untrue bad girl;
it's a good deal her fault, though she's not been half so wicked as me."
"You've not been wicked, dear Leigh. You didn't mean any harm," sobbed
Mary.
"And we've _all_ been naughty for not telling," added Artie.
"Oh, but what _are_ we to do?" cried Leigh again. "The doctor'll be
coming and he won't know, and p'raps he'll give Dolly the wrong
medicines with not knowing, and baby will get worser and worser. Oh,
what _shall_ we do?"
"_I_ know," said Mary, in a clear, decided voice, which made both her
brothers look at her in surprise. "We'll hide somewhere, so that we can
jump out when the doctor passes and tell _him_. So then he must know
what to do for Dolly. Where shall we hide, Leigh?"
Leigh stopped crying to consider.
"Near the lodge would be best," he said. "The bushes are thick, and he
must pass there. But it's cold, Mary, and we can't possibly go upstairs
to get your things. Artie and I have got our caps and comforters in the
hall. And if we left you here Emma would find you."
"No, no," said Mary, dancing about in her eagerness, "don't leave me
here, Leigh. There's shawls in the hall. Can't you wrap me up in one
of them? I'll be _quite_ good. I won't fuss about at all."
So it was settled. The three set off as silently as they could to the
hall, where they caught up the best wraps they could find. Then they
made their way through the big drawing-room, which opened into a
conservatory, out by a side path to the drive.
Five minutes after they had left the study Emma came to look for them,
but found the birds flown. She took no further trouble; for, to tell
the truth, she was not sorry to keep out of the children's way; her own
conscience was not at all at rest, and she had made up her mind to write
to her mother asking for her to come home at once.
Though it was two miles to the village it did not take long to drive
there, and Mr Bertram luckily caught Mr Wiseman the doctor just as he
was starting on his rounds.
Mr Wiseman was driving a young horse; he went well, but he was rather
timid, and apt to shy when anything startled him. The lodge gates were
open; as the children's papa had told the woman that the doctor would be
coming, so he drove in without stopping. But, oh dear! Scarcely had he
got a few yards up the avenue before there was a great fuss. The young
horse was dancing and shaking with fear, and if the groom had not jumped
down and got to his head more quickly than it takes me to tell it, who
knows what might not have happened.
What had frightened him so?
Three funny-looking little figures had sprung out from among the bushes,
calling out in eager but melancholy tones--
"Mr Wiseman, Mr Wiseman, please stop. Oh please stop."
These were Leigh and Artie, one with an old squashy wide-awake of
papa's, that was much too big for him, the other with a cloth
deer-stalker cap which made him look like a Laplander, for in their
hurry they had not been able to find their own things.
And Mary, funniest of all, with a shawl mamma used on the lawn, all
huddled up round her, and the fringes trailing elegantly behind. For
half a minute the doctor thought they were gypsy children from the van
on the common.