THE SECOND CONQUEST.
The boys came home late for tea that night, bubbling over with joy.
Basil declared that they did not want any supper. "Mrs. Peyton gave us
some of her supper. I say, Cousin Margaret, isn't she bully?"
"Basil, if you _could_ find another adjective now and then! I cannot
imagine anything less appropriate to Mrs. Peyton than--the one you
used."
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter! She _is_ bully! She had broiled chicken, a
whole one, and she just took a little piece off the breast for herself,
and then she told Mert and me each to take a leg and run. And we did!
And Mert sat down in the china bath-tub with his, and smashed
it,--cracked it, at least,--and she said she didn't care."
"And the table-drawer was full of chocolate peppermints," chimed in
Merton, "and we ate so many, I don't feel very well now, I think,
p'r'aps."
"And she told us lots of things!" cried Basil again; he looked towards
Miss Sophronia, with sparkling eyes. "She told us about when she was a
little girl, and used to stay here, when Uncle John's puppa and mumma
were alive. I say! And you were here, too, she said, Cousin Sophronia.
And she said--lots of things!" The boy stopped suddenly, and gave his
brother a look of intelligence.
"Ho!" said Merton, "I know what you mean,--you mean about the ghost,
that scared--I say! You stop pinching, will you? I'll punch your--"
"Merton!" said Margaret, warningly.
"Well, he was pinching me!" whined Merton. "And it did scare you, didn't
it, Cousin Sophronia?"
Miss Sophronia looked disturbed. "Merton, you should speak when you are
spoken to!" she said, severely. "I am surprised that Mrs. Peyton should
have told you such things. There certainly were some very strange
occurrences at Fernley, Margaret, when I was a young girl. They never
were explained to my satisfaction; indeed, I never heard of their being
explained at all. Little boys, if you do not want any supper, you may as
well run away. I do not approve of their going to see Emily Peyton,
Margaret. I shall make a point of their not doing so in future. She was
always malicious."
She seemed much fluttered, and Margaret, wondering, hastened to change
the subject. "I wonder where Susan D. can be. I have not seen the child
since I came in, and she did not answer when I called her. Elizabeth, do
you--"
"Pardon me, Margaret, my love!" Miss Sophronia interposed. "Susan D. is
in bed; I sent her to bed an hour ago."
"Oh, Cousin Sophronia! Without her supper? What had she done?"
"She was disobedient, my dear,--disobedient and impertinent. I have no
doubt that this will have an excellent effect upon the child. Basil,
what do you want? I told you to go away."
"Cousin Margaret, could I speak to you a moment, please?" asked the boy.
"I will come to you, Basil," said Margaret, quickly. "Will you excuse
me, Cousin Sophronia, please? I have quite finished. Now, Basil, what is
it?"
She led the boy carefully out of earshot, for thunder and lightning were
in his face, and she foresaw an outburst.
"Susan D. is in bed!" cried Basil. "She has had no supper at all;
Elizabeth said so. That woman sent her. Cousin Margaret, I won't stand
it. I--I'll set fire to her clothes! I'll shoot her! I'll--I'll kill her
some way--"
Margaret laid her hand over the boy's mouth. "You will be silent!" she
said. "Not a word, not a syllable, till you can speak like a civilised
being. We will have no savages here."
Basil said no word,--he knew well enough when he must obey,--but he set
his teeth, and clenched his fists; the veins on his temples swelled, his
whole childish frame shook with anger. Margaret had never seen any one,
not even Rita, in such a passion as this. For a few moments, the two
stood motionless, facing each other. Then Margaret took the boy's hand
in hers, and led him out into the garden. Still holding his hand, she
paced up and down the green walk in silence, Basil following obediently.
The evening was falling soft and dusk; the last bird was chirping
sleepily; the air was full of the scent of flowers. Behind the dark
trees, where the sun had gone down, the sky still glowed with soft,
yellow light. "See!" said Margaret, presently. "There is the first star.
Let us wish! Oh, Basil dear, let us wish--and pray--for a good thing,
for strength to overcome--ourselves."
The boy's hand pressed hers convulsively, but he did not speak at first.
Presently he said, almost in a whisper, "She is so little,--and so thin!
I told Mother I would take care of her. But--I said--I would try not to
let go of myself, too."
Very tenderly Margaret drew the child down beside her, on a rustic
bench that stood under one of the great tulip-trees. In the quiet
darkness, she felt his heart open to her even more than it had done yet.
In the hour that followed, she learned the story of a wild, faithful
nature, full of mischief, full of love. The passionate love for his
mother, whom he remembered well; the faithful, scowling devotion to the
little sister, whom no one should scold but himself, and whom he shook,
and bullied, and protected with a sole eye to her good; all this, and
much more, Margaret learned. The two sat hand in hand, and took counsel
together. "Oh, it is so good to have some one to talk to," cried Basil.
"Isn't it, dear?" said Margaret. "Now you know how I feel with Uncle
John away; and--oh, Basil, before I had Uncle John,--when my father
died,--oh, my dear! But you are going to be my brother now, Basil,--my
dear, dear little brother, aren't you? And you will tell me how to make
Susan D. love me. I think you do love me a little already, don't you,
Basil?"
For all answer, Basil threw his arms round her, and gave her such a hug
as made her gasp for breath.
"Dear boy," cried Margaret, "don't--kill me! Oh, Basil! I tried to hug
Susan D. the other day, and I might as well have hugged the door! She
won't even let me kiss her good night; that is, she lets me, but there
is no response. Why doesn't she like me, do you think?"
"She does!" said Basil. "Or she will, soon as she can get out of
herself. Don't you know what I mean, Cousin Margaret? It's as if she had
a dumb spirit, like that fellow in the Bible, don't you know? Nobody but
me understands; but you will, just once you get inside."
"Ah, but how shall I ever get inside?" said Margaret.
Basil nodded confidently. "You will!" he said. "I know you will, some
time. Oh, Cousin Margaret, mayn't I take her something to eat? She's
always hungry, Susan D. is, and I know she won't sleep a mite if she
doesn't have anything. I--no, I won't let go again, but it _is_ the
meanest, hatefullest thing that ever was done in the world! Now isn't
it, Cousin Margaret? Don't you think so yourself?"
Sorely puzzled as to the exact path of duty, Margaret tried to explain
to the boy how ideas of discipline had changed since Cousin Sophronia
was a young girl; how, probably, she had herself been brought up with
rigid severity, and, never having married, had kept all the old
cast-iron ideas which were now superseded by wider and better knowledge
and sympathy. As to this particular point, what should she say? Her
whole kind nature revolted against the thought of the hungry child,
alone, waking, perhaps weeping, with no one to comfort her; yet how
could she, Margaret, possibly interfere with the doings of one old
enough to be her mother?
Pondering in anxious perplexity, she chanced to raise her eyes to the
house. It was brightly lighted, and, as it happened, the curtains had
not been drawn. "Look!" said Margaret, pressing the boy's hand in hers.
"Basil, look!"
One long, narrow window looked directly upon the back stairs, which led
from the servants' hall to the upper floor. Up these stairs, past the
window, a figure was now seen to pass, swiftly and stealthily; a portly
figure, carrying something that looked like a heaped up plate; the
figure of Frances the cook. It passed, and in a moment more they saw
light, as of an opening door, flash into the dark window of the corner
room where the little girl slept.
"Do you know, Basil," said Margaret, "I wouldn't worry any more about
Susan D.'s being hungry. There is one person in Fernley whom no one, not
even Uncle John, can manage; that is Frances."
An hour or so later, Margaret was coming down from the nursery. Merton
had announced, as bedtime drew near, that he "felt a pain;" and Margaret
had no difficulty in tracing it to Mrs. Peyton's careless indulgence.
She stole down quietly to the cheerful back room where Frances and
Elizabeth sat with their sewing, and begged for some simple remedy.
Frances rose with alacrity. "Checkerberry cordial is what you want,
Miss Margaret," she said. "I've made it for thirty years, and I hope I
know its merits. No wonder the child is sick. If some had their way,
everybody in this house 'ud be sick to starvation."
"I am afraid it was the other thing in this case, Frances," said
Margaret, meekly. "I'm afraid Master Merton ate too many rich things at
Mrs. Peyton's." Now in general, Frances could not abide patiently the
mention of Mrs. Peyton; but this time she declared she was glad the
child had had enough to eat for once. "'Twill do him no harm!" she said,
stoutly. "Give him ten drops of this, Miss Margaret, in a wine-glass of
hot water,--wait a minute, dear, and I'll mix it myself,--and he'll turn
over and go to sleep like a lamb. Treating children as if they was one
half starch and t'other half sticks! Don't tell me!"
Knowing that none of this wrath was directed against herself, Margaret
wisely held her tongue, and departed with her glass, leaving Frances
still muttering, and Elizabeth with lips pursed up in judicious silence.
And Merton took it and felt better, and was glad enough to be petted a
little, and finally to be tucked up with the hot water-bottle for a
comforter.
As has been said, Margaret was coming down-stairs after this mission was
fulfilled, when she met Miss Sophronia coming up. "All quiet up-stairs,
my dear?" said the lady. "I am going to bed myself, Margaret, for I feel
a little rheumatic, or I should rather say neuralgic, perhaps. These
things are very obscure; the doctor says my case is a very remarkable
one; he has never seen another like it. Yes, and now I am going to make
sure that this child is all right, and that she does not actually need
anything. Duty, Margaret, is a thing I can never neglect."
Margaret followed her cousin into the room, feeling rather
self-reproachful. Perhaps she had been unjust in her judgment. Cousin
Sophronia was of course doing the best, or what she thought the best,
for this poor wild little girl.
Miss Sophronia advanced towards the bed, holding up her candle.
Margaret, looking over her shoulder, saw the child lying fast asleep,
her hand under her cheek. Her face was flushed, and her fair hair lay in
a tangle on the pillow. Margaret had never seen her look so nearly
pretty. There were traces of tears on her face, too, and she sobbed a
little, softly, in her sleep.
"Poor little thing!" whispered Margaret; but Miss Sophronia was not
looking at Susan D. now. With stiff, outstretched finger she pointed to
the floor. "Look at that!" she said, in a penetrating whisper. Indeed,
the child had dropped her clothes on the floor all at once, and they lay
in an untidy heap, shocking to Margaret's eyes, which loved to see
things neatly laid. She shook her head and was about to murmur some
extenuation of the offence, when--Miss Sophronia set down the candle on
the stand; then, with a quick, decided motion, she pulled the sleeping
child out of bed. "Susan D.," she said, "pick up your clothes at once.
Never let me find them in this condition again. Shocking!"
The child stood helpless, bewildered, blinking, half awake, at the
light, not in the least understanding what was said to her. Miss
Sophronia took her by the shoulder, not unkindly, and repeated her
command. "Pick them up at once, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you,
never to leave your clothes on the floor again." Still only half
comprehending, the child stooped, stumbling as she did so, and picking
up the clothes, laid them on the chair as she was directed.
"There!" said Miss Sophronia, in high satisfaction. "Now, my dearest
Margaret, you will see that this child will never neglect her clothes
again. A lesson promptly administered, on the spot, is worth all the
preaching in the world. Get into bed again, Susan D., and go to sleep
like a good child. Some day you will be very grateful to your Cousin
Sophronia for teaching you these things."
She turned away with the candle. Margaret, standing in the shadow, saw
the child still standing in the middle of the room, a forlorn, shivering
little figure, silent; the most piteous sight those tender eyes had ever
looked upon. Softly the girl closed the door. "Margaret," she heard her
cousin say. "Oh, she is gone down-stairs!" and the steps went away
along the entry. But Margaret groped her way to where Susan D. stood;
the next moment she had the child in her arms, and was pressing her
close, close. A rocking-chair was by; she had seen it, and knew where to
lay her hand to draw it forward. She sank down in it, and rocked to and
fro, murmuring inarticulate words of comfort. The night was warm, but
still the child shivered; Margaret, groping again, found a shawl, and
wrapped it round her. There was no more holding off, no more resistance;
the little creature clung around Margaret's neck with a desperate hold,
as if she dared not let her go for an instant. Her breast heaved once or
twice, silently; then she burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed on
her cousin's heart. "I love you!" cried the child. "You are good, and I
love you! Don't--don't leave me alone, please don't!"
Margaret held her close in her warm, loving arms. "My lamb!" she said.
"My little girl! Indeed I will not leave you. Quiet now, dearie; quiet
and don't cry! Oh, Susan D., I have no mother, either, dear; let us
love each other a great, great deal!" and Susan D. sobbed, and curled
closer yet, as if she would wind herself into the very heart that beat
so kindly and so tenderly.
So they sat, till the sobs died away into soft, broken breathings.
Margaret began to sing, and crooned one after another the old songs that
Katy used to sing to her when she was rocked just so on that broad,
faithful Irish breast. Susan D. lifted her head a little towards her
ear. "What is it?" said Margaret, bending down.
"I--I do like singing!" whispered the child.
Margaret nodded, and sang on. By and by the almost frantic clasp of the
small arms loosened; the head sank back gently on her arm; the child was
asleep. Margaret rose to lay her down, but instantly she started up
again, affrighted, and cried out, and begged not to be left alone. What
was to be done? Margaret hesitated; then she bade the child hold fast,
and slowly, carefully she made her way down the stairs and through the
passage to her own room, and did not pause till the little child was
lying safe, happy, and wondering, in the white bed, in the wonderful
White Room.
"Crowd me?" said Cousin Margaret. "Not a bit of it! There is plenty of
room, and in the morning we will have a most lovely cuddle, and tell
stories. But now go to sleep this very minute, Susan D., while I do my
hair. Good night, little sister!"
"Good night!" said Susan D. "I love you! Good night!"