The alarm was given at the nearest farm, and the two girls conveyed with
all speed to The Meads, where a doctor was at once summoned to their
aid.
Norah's right knee was found to be badly fractured, from the effects of
which she had to face intense pain and discomfort for some days, and a
long, dragging convalescence. Given rest and care, however, recovery
was only a matter of time, and the onlookers were less anxious about her
than the other patient, who was raving with delirium in an adjoining
room. Dreda, like many robust people, had been more affected by the
deadly chill of those long waiting hours than was her more fragile
companion. Perhaps in nursing Norah upon her knee she had screened her
friend from the biting wind, which had seemed to cut like knives through
her own back. She had been like a figure of ice when she was carried
into the house; but before she had been an hour in bed the reaction had
set in and she was burning with a fever heat.
The old nursery expression, "hotty-cold," was a true description of that
miserable night, when she alternately shuddered and burnt, and when
morning came the dread word "pneumonia" was whispered from lip to lip.
A hospital nurse was called in to aid Mrs Saxon in the care of the two
patients. Rowena took over the housekeeping duties, and went about her
work with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. Poor, poor darling
Dreda! It was pitiful to hear her loud, painful breathing. Rowena's
heart stood still at the thought that Dreda's life was in danger--but
Guy was coming. Guy would take her in his arms; she would lay her tired
head on Guy's broad shoulder, and be comforted. Was it wrong to feel
that nothing, nothing in the world could be unbearable while Guy's arms
held her close?
Susan hurried over to The Meads whitefaced and trembling, longing to
help, to be of use; but Rowena waved aside her offers half-heard. She
could do nothing. The house was already too full; another inmate would
only be an additional burden. But Susan gently intimated that she was
not dreaming of offering her own presence. "I thought perhaps you would
let me have Maud. It must be lonely for Maud, and she may be a little
in your way. If you would let Maud stay with us for a time I would try
to make her happy."
"Oh, you nice Susan! Oh, Susan, how dear of you!" cried Rowena,
fervently. "No words can express the relief which it would be to get
rid of Maud just now. She doesn't know what to do with herself, and she
follows us about all over the house, asking questions from morning till
night--millions of questions--and she makes mother cry, and upsets the
maids, and drops things with a bang outside Dreda's door when they are
trying to make her sleep, and--and,"--the colour rose in Rowena's smooth
cheeks--"you can't get away from her. She's always there! It _would_
be sweet of you to take her, but I'm afraid you'd be very bored."
"No," said Susan simply, "I couldn't be bored. It's the only way in
which I can help Dreda. The more difficult it is the better I shall be
pleased."
Rowena looked at her in silence. Little, plain, insignificant Susan
Webster, whom an hour ago she had pitied with all her heart. She had no
Guy to love her. Considering her unattractive exterior, and the
inherent love of men for beauty and charm, it was exceedingly doubtful
whether she ever _would_ have a Guy. But she understood. She had risen
already to a higher conception of love than the bride whose
predominating joy was still in being loved--in receiving rather than
giving! At that moment Rowena had a flash-like glimpse into the
nobility of Susan Webster's nature, and her former disdain turned into
admiration and love.
When the first painful days had passed, it cannot be denied that Dreda
thoroughly enjoyed her position of invalid, with all the petting and
consideration which it involved. She was inclined to pose as a heroine,
moreover; for had not her own sufferings been the result of standing by
a companion in distress! "I could not leave her," she announced to the
doctor when he cross-questioned her concerning the events of the fateful
afternoon. "She shrieked every time I made the least movement. It was
the knee that was broken, but the pain seemed to stretch all the way up.
It would have been cruel to move her."
"One has sometimes to be cruel to be kind, Miss Dreda. It would have
been better for her, as well as for yourself, if you had insisted upon
going for help at once," said the doctor in reply; but even as he spoke
he laid his hand on her shoulder with a friendly pat, and Dreda felt
complacently convinced that he considered her a marvel of bravery and
self-sacrifice.
Mrs Saxon was the most devoted of nurses, and shed tears of
thankfulness over each step of the invalid's progress towards
convalescence; but Dreda was by no means satisfied with the attitude of
her elder sister. Rowena floated in and out of the sick-room with a
smile and a kiss; but instead of begging to be allowed to stay, she
seemed always in a hurry to be gone, and on one or two occasions when
Dreda made feeble efforts at conversation, her attention wandered so
hopelessly that she said "Yes" and "No" in the wrong places, or
blushingly requested to have the question repeated.
"How odd Rowena is! So absent-minded and stupid. She doesn't listen to
half one is saying, and smiles to herself in the silliest way.--I think
the housekeeping must be too much for her brain!" Dreda declared to her
mother, and Mrs Saxon smiled in response and skilfully turned the
conversation to a safer topic. Dreda was not strong enough to bear any
excitement yet awhile.
It was nearly a week later, when one morning, as Rowena stood by the
bedside, the invalid's quick eyes caught the flash of diamonds on the
third finger of her sister's left hand. She pounced upon it, and
holding it fast, despite the other's struggles, demanded tersely:
"What's that?"
"Oh, Dreda, I--I have been waiting to tell you! The doctor said you
were to be kept so quiet. It's a--a-- Guy gave it to me."
"Guy?" The face on the pillow was all blank surprise and bewilderment.
"What Guy?"
"Guy Seton--my Guy! It's an engagement ring. Oh, Dreda, I have been
longing to tell you. I'm _so_--happy!"
"You--are--engaged--to Guy Seton?" repeated Dreda blankly. Instead of
the radiant smile which Rowena expected, her face hardened with
displeasure, and she drew her brows together in a frown. "When? How?
Why? I never dreamt of such a thing. It seems too extraordinary to be
true."
"Oh, Dreda, why? We think it so natural. We were made for each other.
It seems as if we must always have been engaged. I thought you would be
so pleased."
"Well, I'm not," declared Dreda decidedly. "Not at all. I don't like
it one bit. It upsets all my plans. I used to imagine that father
would get all his money back and I should come home from school and go
about with you--two fair young _debutantes_--always together, having
such fun, sitting up afterwards in our bedrooms brushing our hair and
talking over what had happened as they do in books. It will be so dull
being alone with no one but Maud. Oh, Rowena, you _are_ selfish!"
But Rowena only laughed, and dimpled complacently.
"Oh, Dreda, you _are_ funny! You didn't expect me always to stay at
home, did you? I am the eldest; it is only natural that I should be
married first, and if I _am_ to be married, surely you would rather have
Guy than anyone else! There is no one like him. All the men we have
known are like puppets compared with him. He is so true, so strong, so
noble. You ought to be proud, Dreda, that you are going to have him for
a brother."
"Well, I'm not," declared Dreda once more. "It's not a bit what I
expected. I thought that first day he seemed so taken with _me_! I
thought--at least, I didn't think, but I _should_ have thought if I had
thought, do you understand?--that he would have wanted to be engaged to
_me_! Not yet, of course, but he could have waited till I was grown up.
And you were so huffy and stiff, and I raced across the fields to find
mother, and took such trouble. It doesn't seem fair!"
But Rowena only laughed again, without a trace of offence.
"Poor old Dreda, it _is_ hard lines. Never mind, dear; think of the
wedding, and how you will enjoy being chief bridesmaid, and how lovely
it will be when you come to stay with me in my own little house. Won't
it be fun doing just as we like, and ordering the dinners, and having
parties whenever we like, and being absolutely and entirely our own
mistresses, with no one to say: `Don't!' or `You must not,' or `I'll
leave it to you, dear--but you know my wishes!' That's the worst of
all, for it seems to put you on your honour, and then you're powerless.
You must often come to stay with us, Dreda dear."
Dreda lay silently, considering the situation. The prospect painted by
Rowena was sufficiently enticing to mitigate her first displeasure.
Pictures of bridal processions passed before her eyes; pictures of a
charmingly artistic little house, which would be as a second home, an
ideal home free from discipline and authority. The frown faded, her
lips relaxed, a dimple dipped in her cheek.
"You must let me choose the bridesmaids' dresses, and help to arrange
the drawing-room. I should have it green, with white paint; but you
must be awfully particular about the shade. I've got a wonderful eye
for colour--Fraulein says so. So _that_ was why you never listened when
people spoke to you, and kept on smiling in that silly way! I asked
mother, but she put me off. Rowena, tell me. What did he say?"
"_Dreda_!"
Rowena, drawing herself up with a most grown-up access of hauteur, gave
it to be understood that such questions were an outrage on good taste,
and her younger sister was obliged to turn to subjects less embarrassing
and intimate.
"Well, how did you feel then, when it was all settled and you had time
to think?"
"Very happy--utterly happy and contented. There seemed nothing I could
wish altered; except, oh, Dreda, I was sorry about the past. I wanted
to tell you about that, so that you might be warned in time. Father and
mother were so sweet to Guy and me; they never seemed to think of
themselves, but only of our happiness; but when I said good-night I saw
the tears in mother's eyes, and I said to myself, `You had the chance of
helping her when she was in trouble and of showing her what a comfort a
daughter could be; but you were cross and selfish, and threw _it_ aside,
and now _it_ is too late. It can never, never come back. You have
missed your chance.' That thought was like a cloud over my happiness.
I had felt so disappointed to miss my season in London, so angry at
having to teach Maud, so ill-used at being shut up in the country, that
I had no time to be sorry for anyone but myself. I made things _worse_
for mother by moping and looking cross and dull, and I was a Tartar to
Maud. Poor old Maud! She was far more patient with me than I was with
her; and after all, Dreda, it was here, in the place I hated, living the
life I dreaded, that I met Guy, the big, big prize of my life! I feel
so much older since I was engaged. One seems to _understand_ everything
so differently. And I have thought of you so often, dear, and hoped
that you may never lose your chance as I have done mine. Your _home_
chance, I mean--the chance of being a real good daughter to father and
mother. Then you can never reproach yourself as I do now."
Dreda stared with big, surprised eyes. Well might Rowena say that she
was changed! It might have been mother herself who was speaking. Such
gravity, such penitence, such humility, were new indeed from the lips of
the erstwhile proud and complacent young beauty! Dreda lay awake that
night pondering over the great news of the day, with all its
consequences to Rowena and herself.
Meanwhile Norah lay helpless in her bedroom at the other side of the
house, and though the agonising pain of the first few days was
mercifully a thing of the past, the doctor did not disguise the fact
that a long and weary convalescence lay ahead before anything like
walking could be possible. In a week or two she might be able to be
lifted from bed, with the splints still firmly in position; in a week or
two more she might get about on crutches, but for how long the crutches
would be necessary it was impossible to say. Only one thing was
certain: there was no chance of returning to school!
Norah took the verdict very quietly. Once relieved from pain, she was a
patient, uncomplaining invalid, and gave little trouble to her nurses.
That she was depressed in spirits seemed only natural under the
circumstances. Her brother's illness made it impossible for her own
mother to be near her; her constrained position made it difficult to
read; and her own thoughts were not too cheerful companions for the
long, dragging hours. Everyone rejoiced when at last Dreda was well
enough to be wrapped in a dressing-gown and escorted across the landing
to have tea in Norah's room. A bright fire burned on the hearth; a
little table, spread with tempting fare, stood by the bed; and Dreda,
propped up in a big armchair, was left to play the part of mistress of
the ceremonies.
"They will be happier without us. We will leave them to have their talk
alone," whispered the elders to each other, as they left the room; but
the two girls were mutually suffering from a sense of embarrassment
which made conversation difficult to begin.
"How thin she is! Her nose is sharper than ever. Poor dear, she _is_
plain!" reflected Dreda, candid and clear-sighted.
"How thin she is! All her colour has gone, but she looks pretty still.
She always does look pretty," reflected Norah in her turn. She lifted
her cup in a trembling hand, looking wistfully at her companion with
gaunt, spectacled eyes.
"I am so sorry you were ill... It was all my fault. I kept you there
in the cold... Doctor Reed says I should have been plucky and made up
my mind to bear the pain ... It's easy to talk when your bones are
whole. When they are broken and sticking into your flesh you feel quite
different. It seemed easier to die than to move, but it was hard lines
on you... I'm sorry you were ill."
Dreda beamed reassurement, thoroughly enjoying the position of receiving
apologies.
"My dear, don't mention it. I have suffered too, and I _quite_
understand. Pneumonia's hateful! I never could have imagined that it
was possible to feel so ill. I couldn't have thought of anyone in the
world, but just how to draw the next breath.--It _is_ so nice to feel
well again; but I'm dreadfully sympathetic about your knee. When you
were lying with your head on my knee that afternoon, I was sorry I'd
been so disagreeable at school. You feel such _remorse_ when you've
snapped at people, and then see them all white and still, with their
eyes turned up.--I thought such lots of thoughts that afternoon, and I'm
going to be quite different at school. Much nicer--you see if I'm not!"
Nora shook her head, and her eyes sank in painful discomfiture.
"No! I shan't see. I shan't be there. The doctor says I shall not be
fit for school. I shall never go back to West End. Perhaps it's just
as well. The girls never liked me very much, and now it would be worse
than ever--and Miss Drake--Miss Drake would be furious! ... I never
meant to tell, but I've been miserable ever since, and now I've broken
my knee--and, when I lay awake crying with pain those first awful nights
I made up my mind to tell, whether it was found out or not. It's awful
to have a pain in your body and in your mind as well. Did you guess it
was me, Dreda?"
"You--_what_?" queried Dreda vacantly. Then the colour rushed into her
face, and half a dozen questions tripped together on her tongue. "Oh-h,
was it _you_ who hid my things? All the things I lost? My pencils, my
books, my gloves, the clock that I heard ticking in my hat-box, my
slippers that were on the top of the wardrobe? Oh, Norah, _why_? What
made you do it? Was it for fun?"
Norah shook her head.
"Oh, no. The most deadly earnest. You were Susan's chum, and you
patronised me, and gave yourself airs, and I was angry and jealous, and
_wanted_ to vex you. It was the only thing I could think of, and it
amused me to see you fume and rage. I hid them all--every single thing.
So now you know!"
Dreda sat open-mouthed and aghast. What she felt was not so much horror
at thought of the deliberate unkindness, as sheer bewilderment at the
discovery that a human being existed who cherished a positive dislike to
her irresistible self. She had disliked Norah--that had seemed natural
enough--but that Norah should return that dislike was a thought which
had not even vaguely suggested itself to her mind. It was as if an
earthquake had shaken the foundations of her complacent self-esteem.
She had a second vision of herself as a novice coming among old pupils
and companions, laying down the law, starting new enterprises, claiming
the first place, and with it came also a new insight into Norah's
suffering, seeing all that had been denied to herself bequeathed so
lavishly to a stranger. Instead of the expected outburst of anger,
Norah saw with amazement the big tears rise in Dreda's eyes.
"I'm sorry, Norah! I was very horrid. You took an awful lot of
trouble. I lost nothing, after all, so you needn't worry, and they were
all quite little things."
"Not all! They weren't all little. The synopsis, for instance; you
didn't think _that_ little."
"Oh, Norah, did _you_ hide it? That _was_ cruel! I had worked so
hard--had taken such pains. The Duck was so cross! You took it out of
my desk, and put it back when I was in the study, just to make me look
careless and stupid. Is it really true? I never for one moment
believed that anyone had done it on purpose. I can't believe it now."
"It's true, all the same. I did it. I made up my mind to tell you, and
I will... I did worse than that... Can you guess what I did?"
They stared at one another across the neglected tea table; stared in
silence while one might have counted ten; then Dreda drew a quick,
fearful breath.
"No--no, not that! Not the essay--the numbers--the changed numbers!
You _could_ not have done that! ... Norah, I _couldn't_ believe it!"
"But I did, I did! It was all my doing. I didn't mean to, but Miss
Drake sent me to her room, and on the desk was the parcel of papers all
ready except for the string, and the girls all said yours was the best,
and I didn't want you to win. I thought it would make you more
conceited and bossy than ever. I wanted Susan to get the prize, so that
everyone should see she was cleverer than you; but I was afraid she
wouldn't, for all the girls said yours was the best. The numbers were
just fastened on with clips. It jumped into my head that it would only
take a moment to put your number on Susan's paper, and Susan's on yours.
Miss Drake said we were all to keep our own written copies, for Mr
Rawdon, like most authors, was very unmethodical and careless, and would
probably mislay the papers and never send them back. She wanted to make
it as easy for him as possible, because it was doing her a big favour to
read them at all; so she was going to tell him just to send the winning
number and not to bother about the papers. I changed the numbers, and
ran downstairs, and the parcel went off by the next post. I was glad I
had done it. You were so certain you were going to win, and so
condescending to Susan. I was glad I had done it!"
"I see--I understand. And--and when my name was read out, when I _did_
get the prize--how did you feel then, Norah? Were you still glad?"
"Yes," said Norah slowly; "I was still glad. I knew it was Susan's
essay, and I knew that _you_ knew. I saw you look at the paper and turn
white. I thought you were not going to tell. Then I should have got
hold of the essay, and told Miss Drake, and you would have been
disgraced before all the school."
Norah spoke with dogged resolution; but, for all her show of bravado,
her face flushed to a deep brick red, and her eyes sank uneasily to the
floor. Dreda, on the contrary, was very white. Any sort of emotion
always drove the blood from her face, and the pupils of her eyes had
expanded until the whole iris appeared black.
"You were quite right! At first, for the first few moments I thought I
_could_ not tell. It seemed too dreadful, after all the applause and
clapping. I had to struggle hard to be honest, and all the time you
were watching me--and waiting! I didn't know that, but it shows how
stupid it is to think that one can do wrong and not be found out.
Well!"--she drew a long, fluttering breath--"you succeeded, Norah. It
was a great success. Susan got the prize, and I was humiliated before
everybody, and heartbroken with disappointment. I thought I should
really have to commit suicide that night, I felt so bad. It's the
biggest trial I have ever known, so you may be quite satisfied. It was
a great success."
Norah looked up sharply; but no, there was no sneer on Dreda's lips.
The big, sad eyes stared into hers with childlike candour and
simplicity. Norah bit her lip, and swallowed nervously.
"I--I'm _not_ satisfied!"
"Oh, but why? You have gained all you wanted. It seems a pity that no
one should be pleased. Susan wasn't a bit; she was miserable because
_I_ was miserable, and all the girls were sorry for me, and were nicer
than ever before. There's only you to _be_ glad, Norah. It was your
plan, and you succeeded. You needn't mind me. I've tasted the dregs.
Nothing can ever be so bitter to me again."
Norah made no reply. Her lips were pursed so tightly together that
there was nothing to be seen but a thin red line. She glanced furtively
from one corner of the room to another; to the floor, to the ceiling, to
anywhere but just the spot where Dreda sat, looking at her with those
big, mournful eyes. In her many imaginings of the scene she had never
pictured such a _denouement_ as this. She had schooled herself to hear
furious denunciations, but the pitiful calm of Dreda's grief was ten
times more difficult to bear.
Both girls were still weak and unfitted to bear long mental strain. The
shaking of the bed testified to the nervous tremblings of Norah's body.
Dreda lay back against her cushions, and the weak tears rolled down her
cheeks. The scones and cakes lay neglected upon the table, and the tea
grew cold in the cups. Each minute seemed like an hour, crowded as it
was with thoughts of such intensity as come rarely to careless, happy
youth. Norah looked back on her finished schooldays, and acknowledged
to her own heart that her want of popularity was the result, not of the
prejudice of others but of her own jealous, ungenerous nature. Dreda,
looking forward to the future, resolved to be less egotistical, less
confident, to consider more tenderly the feelings of her companions.
She had made many resolutions before now--too many! And they had known
but a short lifetime. But never before had they been born of suffering,
and never before had they been strengthened by prayer. This last
resolution was made in a very humble and anxious spirit, strangely
different from Dreda's former airy complacence.
"Norah," she said slowly at last, "Norah, you have told me the truth,
and it must have been awfully difficult. It's your affair and mine,
Norah; let's keep it to ourselves. If you were going back to school, it
might be your duty to tell; but you are not, and you want all the girls
to remember you kindly. I don't see that it would make anyone happier
to know. They believe that it was a mistake for which no one was to
blame. Let them go on believing it! It will be better for you, and for
everyone else. I promise you, Norah, I will never tell."
"Not--not Susan?"
"Oh, never Susan Susan last of all."
"Why last?"
"Because you, like her best, and because she would be so sorry. Susan
is so good that it hurts her when people do wrong. I couldn't bear
Susan to think badly of me, and neither would you Susan shall never
know."
Then for the first time the tears started to Norah's eyes.
"Oh, Dreda, you are generous," she sighed; "you know how to forgive."
Then, with a sudden flash of intuition, "Susan will write books. She
will be great; but _you_, Dreda, you will live! You will be better than
famous--you will be loved!"
When Mrs Saxon entered the room a few minutes later her quick eyes
realised at once the mental exhaustion of her two patients, and she
escorted her daughter back to her room and tucked her up in bed.
Dreda's fair head rested on the pillow; but her eyes followed her
mother's movements about the room with a wistful expression whose appeal
could not be denied. Mrs Saxon asked no questions, but with true
mother insight she divined the need at the girl's heart, and hastened to
fill it.
"Try to sleep, my little girl," she said fondly. "Try to rest. Take
care of yourself for my sake. You are more precious to me than ever,
since Rowena became engaged. You don't know how many hundreds of times
in the last few weeks I have comforted myself by thinking, `I have
Dreda! Thank God for Dreda! When Rowena goes I shall not be lonely. I
shall have my other dear big girl.'"
Dreda's face glowed. The dull eyes shone with happiness and
expectation.
"Mother," she cried ardently, "I'll never leave you! I'll spend my
whole life helping you and father. I'll never, never leave you for the
sake of a horrid, strange man."
Mrs Saxon laughed softly.
"Beware of rash promises, dear. I don't ask that. I don't even wish
it. When your time comes I hope you may be as fortunate as Rowena. I
am a rich woman. I have three daughters. I shall still have Maud at
home."
But with all her new-found humility Etheldreda the Ready could not
submit to such a comparison.
"Maud!" she cried scornfully. "Maud could never make up for me!"