Trouble at Greystone.
FOR once, Gerald had gone too far, as he discovered on the following
day, when, for punishment, his governess insisted on keeping him
locked up in his bedroom. In vain, he cried and protested against such
treatment, Miss Conway was like adamant, and the boy had perforce
to endure twenty-four hours of solitary confinement with no one to
speak to, no one to play with, and nothing to do. A more salutary
mode of punishment could not have been devised; and in consequence,
Gerald appeared at the breakfast-table on the morning following his
imprisonment, in a subdued and repentant frame of mind. He said he was
sorry for his past conduct; but he could not extract a promise from
either Miss Conway or Margaret that his father should not be informed
of the anxiety and trouble he had caused the whole household.
Margaret had caught a severe cold on the night of the storm, and spent
the next few days shivering over the schoolroom fire, too unwell for
lessons. Gerald's escapade had been a shock to her; she was overwrought
and languid, and when, on the morning of the day that Mr. and Mrs.
Fowler were expected home, she began to dress she felt so shaky that
she went back to bed again.
"Not up yet, Margaret?" asked Miss Conway's voice outside the door,
half-an-hour later.
"No," was the reply. "I am so sorry, but my cold is very bad, and I
have such a dreadful headache."
The governess entered the room immediately on hearing this and
approached the bed. After kissing Margaret with affectionate concern,
she felt her pulse and declared her to be a little feverish.
"Stay where you are, my dear," she said kindly. "Why, you're shivering.
Ross shall bring you a hot-water bottle for your feet and light the
fire; then, I have no doubt, if you lie in bed and nurse your cold, you
will soon be better."
"I am so vexed, because mother and father are coming home to-night,"
Margaret sighed.
"I daresay you will be well enough to get up by the evening," Miss
Conway responded hopefully. "I shall be with Gerald as usual, but
I shall tell Ross to devote herself to you. If you want me, do not
hesitate to send for me."
Margaret could eat no breakfast, but she took a few sips of the milk
Ross brought her a short while later, and afterwards fell into an
uneasy sleep. The maid, moving about softly, lit the fire and dusted
the room, then turned her attention to the flushed face on the pillow.
"Poor little thing, she does look poorly," she murmured. "And it's all
on account of that tiresome child, Master Gerald. 'Tis a shame of the
mistress to spoil him so; everyone can see but her that she's ruining
him, allowing him his own way as she does."
Margaret moved restlessly and began to mutter. Ross bent over her,
and caught the sound of Gerald's name. She laid her cool hand softly
against the little girl's cheek and felt how it burnt.
"She's very feverish," she thought. "I do hope she isn't going to be
really ill. A nice home-coming it will be for master, if she is. I
wonder if the mistress would trouble much?"
Roes moved away to the fireplace, and taking up some sewing-work,
stitched industriously, every now and again glancing towards the
restless sleeper.
Suddenly the little girl uttered a shriek and sprang up in bed,
whereupon Ross dropped her work and hastened to the bedside.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, putting her arms around Margaret's
quivering form. "You've had a bad dream, I expect—but it was only a
dream. See, now, don't tremble so, you're perfectly safe with Ross."
"Where's Gerald?" Margaret demanded in a strange, hoarse voice.
"Doing his lessons with Miss Conway."
"Where's Gerald?" the little girl reiterated.
Ross repeated her former answer, but it did not appear to satisfy
Margaret.
"Let me go and look for him," she said in a tone of distress.
"No, dear; you're not well, you must lie down again."
"You won't let me go!" Margaret struggled a minute in Ross' restraining
arms, then sank back on the pillow. "I know why you won't let me go,"
she cried; "he's dead. He's drowned."
"No, no, darling, he's perfectly safe. Dear Miss Margaret, you've been
dreaming."
"He's drowned!" the little girl insisted. "And who's going to tell
mother? Oh, it will kill her!"
"Miss Margaret, I solemnly declare Master Gerald's living and well,"
said Ross, growing more and more concerned. "I wouldn't tell you a
story, why should I? You're poorly, dear, and you've had a bad dream."
But Margaret wandered on: "Listen to the rain beating against the
window, and the wind howling. And Gerald is out in it all! If he is on
the beach, he will be blown into the sea. Look at that great wave! Oh,
it has carried him away!" and she uttered a heartrending cry.
"It is a lovely day," Ross assured her; "the sun is shining, and the
sea is quite blue and calm. You've been dreaming about the storm, miss,
and fancying all sorts of horrors that never happened."
Margaret's blue eyes, wide open, were fixed upon Ross' face, but she
evidently had not followed what the woman had said, for after a short
silence she began to mutter distressfully about Gerald again.
Ross was now exceedingly alarmed. She rang the bell, and sent for Miss
Conway, who, in her turn, tried to pacify the sick child. But Margaret
paid no more attention to her governess than she had to Ross.
"I am afraid she is going to be very ill," Miss Conway said in much
distress. "All her trouble seems to be about her brother. Fetch him,
Ross; perhaps the sight of him will satisfy her."
So Gerald was brought to his sister's bedside. He was somewhat
frightened when told Margaret was ill; but in obedience to Miss Conway,
he stooped over the bed to kiss her. She, however, pushed him away with
feverish strength, and covered her eyes with her hand.
"Take him away!" she cried. "What is that strange boy doing here?"
"It's Gerald, dear Margaret," said the governess softly. "Your own
brother come to show you that he is quite well, and—"
"No, no; Gerald's drowned, I tell you! Oh, what will mother say? She
loves him so."
At this point, Gerald, realising that there was something very strange
and unusual about his sister, began to cry, and was hurried out of the
room.
Thoroughly shocked, Miss Conway sent a groom to N— immediately, to
fetch a doctor; and within a few hours, the news had spread through
the village of Yelton that the little girl at Greystone was very ill.
Mr. Amyatt, as soon as he heard the tidings, considerately invited
Gerald to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage; and Salome
Petherick arrived at the back door of Greystone in the afternoon to
make inquiries.
The cook, who had been stewing beef-tea, insisted on Salome's coming
inside and resting in her easy-chair.
"Mrs. Moyle told me of Miss Margaret's illness," the lame girl said,
her face expressive of the deepest concern. "I hope it is nothing
serious?"
"I am afraid it is, my dear," was the grave rejoinder. "It's
inflammation of the lungs. Dr. Vawdry has been here from N—, and he's
coming again this evening. He says she's very ill; and if Mr. and Mrs.
Fowler had not been returning to-night, they'd have been telegraphed
for. Oh, dear, dear, I do trust the poor child's life may be spared!
She's not been well for days, not since the night of the storm, when
Master Gerald led us all such a dance after him. He's the one to be
blamed for this. For once, I should think the mistress would see that."
And the woman poked the fire viciously, as though the act was a vent
for her feelings. "She's the nicest, sweetest, little creature I ever
knew is Miss Margaret," she proceeded, "with always a kind word for
us servants. Ross says she doesn't recognise anyone; she didn't know
Master Gerald, and her incessant cry is that he is drowned. If only
Miss Conway had turned the key in his bedroom door on the night of the
storm. She kept him locked up the next day, and it broke his rebellious
spirit—quite. She'd soon get him under subjection if his mother didn't
pamper him so. Don't you take on, now, about Miss Margaret, my dear;
maybe she'll get over this attack all right. She's young and healthy,
and she'll have good nursing, and everything money can buy. I ordered
some lean, gravy beef the minute I heard she was ill, but the doctor
won't allow her anything but milk and soda water, so there's plenty of
strong beef-tea going begging, and you'd better have a cupful. Will you
have bread with it? Yes. I'm sure it will do you good."
Salome was very glad of some refreshment. She took the beef-tea,
whilst the cook talked on without waiting for replies; but when she
rose to go, having learnt all there was to know, her heart was very
heavy indeed. Her eyes were full of unshed tears as she passed out of
the Greystone grounds, and commenced her descent of the hill. As she
went by the church, she wondered if she would ever hear Miss Margaret
practising on the organ again.
And she was so engrossed with her sorrowful thoughts, that she was
startled when, on reaching the Vicarage gate, a voice addressed her
from inside. "Hi, Salome! Where have you been?"
She paused and looked at the speaker, Gerald Fowler, who was peering
at her laughingly between the bars of the gate. The boy was in high
spirits at being the Vicar's guest, and he had not been informed that
his sister was really seriously ill. He had been frightened when
Margaret had failed to recognise him, but the impression he had then
received had passed, and he was delighted at having this unexpected
holiday.
[Illustration: "YOU'D BETTER MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS,
SALOME PETHERICK."]
"I've been to Greystone, Master Gerald," Salome returned quietly.
"To see Margaret, I suppose? She's ill, you know."
"Yes, and I am so grieved and sorry."
"Oh, I expect she'll soon be better!" Gerald remarked confidently.
"I hope so," the lame girl replied dubiously. "But the doctor says she
has inflammation of the lungs."
"Does that ever kill people, Salome?"
"Yes, Master Gerald, very often."
"But Margaret won't die, will she? You don't think that, do you?"
"No one can tell—but God. We must ask Him to take care of her. Oh,
Master Gerald, see what has come of your ill conduct!"
"What do you mean?" he inquired in amazement. "It isn't my fault that
Margaret's ill."
"Oh, yes, indeed it is! If you had not gone down to the beach on the
night of the storm, she would not have got drenched to the skin and
have caught such a dreadful cold. Oh, yes, it was your fault!" And
Salome looked at him severely.
His blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and his rosy cheeks paled as he
gasped, "Oh, I never thought—I never thought—"
"No, I don't suppose you did, Master Gerald, or if you did, it was
yourself you thought of and no one else," Salome cried indignantly.
"You 're the most selfish little boy I know."
"You 're very unkind, and—and nasty."
"I daresay you think I am; but I love Miss Margaret, and I know you've
been the cause of her illness. I wonder what your mother and father
will say."
"Mother will say it was not my fault," Gerald declared stoutly. "I
couldn't tell Margaret would be silly enough to go to look for me; and
I think you'd better mind your own business, Salome Petherick," he
concluded.
He was impressed by the lame girl's plain speaking, and put on a show
of anger to hide the fact.
She shook her head at him gravely, as she turned away from the Vicarage
gate and went down the hill.
When she reached home, she lit the fire and boiled the kettle for
tea, and by that time her father had appeared upon the scene, having
had a good catch of fish. His face grew grave when Salome told him of
Margaret's illness, and he expressed great regret, for he was grateful
to the Fowlers for the notice they had taken of his child. And he
volunteered to go to Greystone later on and inquire for the poor little
sufferer. This he accordingly did, and brought back the news that
Dr. Vawdry had visited the patient again, and had declared her to be
dangerously ill, but that Mr. and Mrs. Fowler had not yet come. The
carriage had gone to N— to meet them at the railway station, as had
been arranged, and they were expected very soon now.
"Don't take on so, my dear," said Josiah kindly, as he noticed Salome's
brown eyes full of tears. "The little maid'll pull through, please
God. I am grieved about her though—s'pose 'twas you," and he looked at
his child with great affection as he reflected on the uncertainty of
life. And because it would please her, and with the laudable desire
of keeping her from dwelling too much on the thought of Margaret's
illness, he spent the evening in her company, and that night his
associates at the "Crab and Cockle" looked for him in vain.