A WILD SCHEME
Three-quarters of an hour later Rose was cuddled up in Christian's bed.
When the two heads were almost touching, and the brown cheek and the
pale one were pressed close together, and two little hands were clasped
tightly under the bedclothes, then Christian began to unburden her
mind. The door was shut; the house was quiet--that is, the nursery part
of the house; Miss Thompson, the governess, had a headache, and would
certainly not appear on the scene again until morning; nurse was noted
for her deep and long sleep; the servants were far away. If father and
mother came in long past midnight, they would not trouble Christian in
her distant bedroom; she was safe. She felt that she was quite safe;
but the feeling that if she were discovered she would most certainly be
punished added to the fascination of the moment.
"Rose," she said, "I must not speak loud, but I have something most
important to tell you. What do you think is going to happen?"
"Well, Miss Christian," replied Rose, "the whole house seems to be, so
to speak, on a twitter. There's my great-aunt; she don't seem to know
whether she's on her head or her heels. There's something up, but I
don't know what it is."
"You'll know in a minute or two; I'll tell you. Now listen; only
remember, first, it is a most tremendous secret between you and me."
"Yes, yes," said Rose; "I love secrets." She pressed a little closer to
Christian.
"You are quite my very greatest friend, you know, Rosy," said
Christian. "There's Belle Webster and Bertha Hole; they think
themselves quite chummy with me, but you are my real friend. We
understand each other, we have had so many thrills together."
"Oh, yes," said Rose, "yes! Only I don't like you when you are
Charlotte Corday. I was Marat once, you know, and I didn't like that
time."
"Well, I'm not Charlotte now. Perhaps I'll never be again. But listen.
The secret is our secret. It is too funny, Rosy. The rest of the house
think that it is theirs, but it is ours all the time. Now then! I
was so cold up in my attic--my darling fairy attic--this afternoon
that I ran down to get warm in mother's boudoir. I hid myself behind
the curtains. It was so cozy that I dropped asleep. I was lying on
the window ledge, and there were cushions, and a soft pillow, and
everything to make it delicious. When I woke I heard mother talking to
that horrid Neil woman."
"I know her," said Rose. "She snubbed me once awfully; she said I had
no call to be coming here so often."
"Well, she has no more right in the house than you have," replied
Christian. "But now you will be astonished."
She proceeded to relate the entire story--all that her mother had said,
and all that Miss Neil had said; and having given the outlines, she
further impressed the fact on Rose that she, Christian, was to be sent
to school next week. She was to be sent to school, as it were, in the
dark, and she was not to be told anything about it until the night
before she went.
"They want to keep it dark until the very last minute," she said. "It
is fun, isn't it, Rose?"
"Fun," said Rose--"fun!"
Her voice quivered. It quivered so much that it suddenly ended in a
choking sob.
"Why Rosy," cried Christian, immensely touched, "you are not crying
just because I must go?"
"Miss, I can't bear it," said Rose. "There's no one else ever took a
mite of notice of me. I can't help thinking of myself altogether, miss;
I can't truly. There's mother; she makes me sit at the dressmaking till
I'm fit to faint, and I have no fun--never! I'm like you, miss; I can't
make friends outside. I have one friend, and she seems to fill all my
heart, and you are she; and if we are to be parted, Miss---- Oh, Miss
Christian! I can't--I can't bear it."
Christian, notwithstanding her bravery, found herself crying also. She
put her arms around Rose, buried her head in her neck, and sobbed.
"It is awful," she said after a pause. "I did not think so much of
parting from you, Rosy, but it is quite terrible; for it isn't even
as if I were going to an ordinary school, and coming back for the
holidays; but I am going to a severe-discipline one, and I am not
coming back--I am to spend the holidays and all there. I might as well
be dead, mightn't I, Rose?"
"It's worse nor if you were dead."
"Oh, Rose, it couldn't be worse!"
"It is," said Rose, "for if you were dead I could go on Sundays and
take flowers to your grave; I could--I could. Oh, it is much worse! I
would save up and buy 'em; no one should hinder me. It is much worse
nor if you were dead."
The pathetic picture so conjured up of Rose bending over her grave and
putting flowers there was so affecting that Christian sobbed again.
After a time, however, she ceased crying.
"We must do something," she said; "we are both young, and we have both
got a lot of spirit."
"Oh, haven't I?" said Rose. "There's nothing daunts me when I'm put
to it. Mother says I'm the very naughtiest little girl she ever
come across. She threatens perhaps I'll get ugly, just because I'm
so desperate naughty. She says that sometimes when you are so mad
with spirits, and so desperately fond of yourself, you fall ill with
smallpox and that sort of thing. I don't believe it, of course, but she
does hold it over me. She seems as sure that I'll take smallpox as that
I'll have a cold. It's queer, isn't it?"
"It's silly, I call it," said Christian. "Now then, Rose, don't let's
talk any more about that. If you have got spirit, so have I. Suppose,
now, that I don't go to that school."
"How will you manage that?" said Rose
"Did you ever hear of a girl running away?" asked Christian. "That's
the thought that has come to me. I thought that if you and I were
together we could run away. We could support ourselves, I suppose."
"Not without money," said the practical Rose. "It's a lovely
thought--the most daring and truly delicious thought I ever heard
of--but it wants money."
"I've got seven pounds," said Christian. "Ever since I was a little,
tiny girl my godmother has sent me a pound on my birthday, and I
haven't spent any of the money. How far would seven pounds go?"
"Oh! a long way; it's a heap of money," said Rose. "Why, it's one
hundred and forty shillings. That's an awful lot."
"Yes, I thought it was," said Christian. "I remembered the money the
very moment mother talked about not letting me know until the night
before. I shall listen, of course, when she does speak, and I will
pretend to be good and submit. Perhaps she will be so sorry for me
that she will give me some more pocket money. I hope she will. But what
I really mean to do is to slip away somewhere with you, Rosy--to go to
some place with you where we can live together. Have you got any money
of your own?"
"A shilling," replied Rose sadly. "I took a long time to save it up.
Had you died, Miss Christian, I would have spent it on flowers for your
grave; so now I will spend it in running away with you--that I will."
"You can't do more, Rosy," said Christian. "Well, we must make our
plans, and we must not tell one single human being. We have got to
consider how we can live in the very cheapest way, for one hundred and
forty shillings will not go far. I suppose they will send the police
after us. Isn't it splendid, Rosy? Can you really believe that two
young ordinary girls are going to do such a desperate thing?"
"You aint an ordinary girl, Miss Christian."
"Well, perhaps I am not."
"You always was cut out for the part of heroine," continued Rose;
"anyone could see that with half an eye. Why, haven't you been William
Tell and Joan of Arc and Charlotte Corday for ever so long? And afore
that you were fairy queens and fairy princesses, and witches, and
such-like. You're cut for the part, miss, and now the time has come."
"It has," said Christian, whose heart was beating fast. "We must think
out most of our plans before we go to sleep."
The two girls did think. They were both far too excited to feel
sleepy. Their voices kept on murmuring in an even, monotonous sound,
which could scarcely penetrate through the closed door of Christian's
bedroom.
After a fashion they made their plans. What Christian had only wildly
dreamt of became definite and something that could be done. Seven
pounds was seven pounds, and judiciously spent--spent, too, by a girl
of the Rosy sort, a girl who knew poverty and how to live very small
and very cheap--it would certainly go a long way.
Strange to say, Christian's conscience did not trouble her. She had
been thoroughly well brought up, but her heart was sore now. Her mother
had spoken almost coldly about parting with her one lonely girl. She,
Christian, was to be sent to an awful strict-discipline school, where
she had to stay for years and years, away from all those she loved in
the world. She would take her life into her own hands; she would do a
desperate, wicked thing, and she would not let her conscience prick her.
"We will do it," she said over and over again to Rosy. "You, Rosy, must
find out where it is best for us to go, and then you must come and tell
me everything."
"I will," replied Rosy. "I know a girl called Judith, and I think she
will help us. Once she spent a whole winter in a gypsy's caravan. She
did enjoy herself. She had a fine time, and she had to spend nothing at
all. But they had to dye her with walnut juice; maybe you wouldn't like
that, Miss Christian."
"No, I shouldn't like that at all," said Christian, who rather prided
herself on her fair but somewhat pale complexion. "But that needn't
happen, need it?"
"Oh, no; but it happened to Judith. She was dyed with walnut-juice, and
she wore gypsy's clothes."
"I shouldn't mind that part," said Christian.
"She had a great taste for music," continued Rosy, "and she played a
tambourine and danced. They got her up as a sort of Italian gypsy girl,
and she danced wonderful pretty in the streets. She didn't seem ever
to want for money after that; she got so many pennies. You can dance,
can't you, Miss Christian? You've had lots of lessons."
"Dance!" said Christian, a sort of thrill running down to her feet and
making them move up and down even though she was in bed. "I should
just think I can dance. There's nothing in the world I love better.
Oh, Rosy, if we could make our living by dancing it would be too
scrumptious!"
"Well, I'll find out everything to-morrow and let you know," said
Rosy. "I mustn't come here, for my great-aunt would be angry; but I'll
come the day after, and I'll bring all the news with me. Let's think.
To-morrow will be Thursday; you aint to go afore Tuesday next week.
There's lots of time, only the more money you can get the better it
will be. I'll come here on Friday night at the latest."
"Well, then, perhaps we had better go to sleep now," said Christian,
who was tired at last. The very novelty of the thing made her tired.
She dropped off into a heavy slumber, dreaming all through the night of
wonderful things: of gypsies and their caravans; of Italian girls with
tambourines, and little sequins round their heads. She fancied herself
an Italian girl in a red frock. She thought how pretty she would look,
and how sweet it would be to dance. She would let her abundance of hair
fall over her neck and shoulders. A fair Italian girl would be even
more captivating than a dark one; and Rosy--pretty Rosy--could be the
dark one. Oh, they would have a good time! They would enjoy themselves.
And it couldn't be wrong; for if father and mother chose to go to
Persia and not show any grief at parting from Christian, why should not
Christian take her life in her own hands?
She awoke in the morning and found that Rosy's place was vacant, that
astute little girl having left the side of her dearest friend and
gone back to nurse. For it would never do for nurse to guess that the
young girls were, as she would express it, hatching mischief. Nurse was
somewhat suspicious as far as her grandniece was concerned. She knew
Rose's character. She had often condoled with her mother on having such
a naughty child. Of course, Rosy was very pretty, and she was very fond
of Miss Christian; and--worse luck--Miss Christian was very fond of
her; and there never was a more masterful child than dear young Miss
Christian. Yes, even if Rosy was nurse's own relation, she did not want
Christian to see too much of her. But this week of all weeks the child
she loved should not be crossed; she should have every single thing she
wished for--yes, every single thing; nurse herself would see to that.
Nurse considered that Miss Christian was treated shamefully: bundled
off to school just as though she were a baby; parted from the nurse who
loved her as if she were her own child; taken from the old home and
from that strange, mysterious attic where she had spent so much of her
time; torn from everyone and taken to school--to a school a long, long
way off. Nurse felt piteous tears very near her eyes.
Mr. and Mrs. Mitford had decided to board nurse out during their
absence in Persia. The other servants were to be dismissed. Miss
Thompson, with an excellent reference and six months' salary over and
above what was owing her, would seek another situation. The house would
be let to strangers. Christian in reality would have no home.
But when she woke the next morning, and faced the fact that her home in
Russell Square would not be hers much longer, Christian did not feel
low-spirited, for she and Rosy would certainly carry out their plan in
all its details. She was in high spirits, therefore, at breakfast, and
enjoyed getting Miss Thompson, as she expressed it, to give herself
away. Miss Thompson found it almost impossible to keep her secret
with Christian looking at her, and questioning her, and pretending to
observe nothing, and yet showing in her eyes that she knew all.
Miss Thompson went down soon after breakfast to have an interview with
Mrs. Mitford.
"Somehow," she said--"although I don't like to say it--somehow I think
the child has an inkling of what is going on. Would it not be better to
tell her? She would be more prepared, and would not feel it so much at
the time."
"If she has an inkling she is bearing it very well," said Mrs. Mitford.
"My dear," she added, turning to her husband, who came into the room at
that moment, "Miss Thompson is talking about our dear Christian. She
says that the child seems to guess that something is happening."
"I am sure she guesses," said Miss Thompson, blushing and trembling a
little at her own audacity. "She looks at me with such very questioning
eyes, and tries to lead me on, as it were, to betray myself."
Mr. Mitford laughed. "Just like Chris," he said. "She always was a bit
of an oddity. But, my dear," he added, turning to his wife, "we will
not tell her, all the same. I couldn't stand the thought of the child
crying and moaning for the last few days. She may guess--although I
don't think she can really--but she is not to be told. Understand, Miss
Thompson, the child is not on any account to be told."
"Now listen," said Mrs. Mitford as Miss Thompson was leaving the room;
"you needn't keep her to her lessons. You may take her to the Zoo or to
Maskelyne and Cook's this morning--anywhere just to give her a bit of
fun. Keep her out as much as you can."
"But she will be so surprised; she knows that you are so particular
about her lessons."
"Well, tell her that I think she is looking rather pale, and that she
may have a holiday. Use some tact, Miss Thompson; you can manage it if
you like."
Miss Thompson left the room and returned to the schoolroom. Christian
was busily engaged pulling out her favorite books from their places in
the bookcase and examining them. She knew that she and Rosy could only
take one or two books away with them, and she was undecided whether
to select her new and beautiful edition of the Arabian Nights or a
battered old Shakespeare. She was extremely fond of Shakespeare, but on
the whole she felt inclined to take the Arabian Nights.
"They will suit Rosy," she said to herself. "I don't believe Rosy has
read any of them--or at least hardly any; and Rosy is too young and too
ignorant for Shakespeare. Yes, I think I will select----"
"What in the world are you doing, Christian?" said Miss Thompson as she
entered the room.
"Pulling my books about."
"Then put them all back on the shelf at once, dear."
"I was only wondering," said Christian. "There's more reading in the
Arabian Nights, I think it will do. Do you mind my putting a little bit
of blue ribbon in my copy of the Arabian Nights, Miss Thompson?"
"But why, dear--why?"
"I shall recognize it then at once. Now I suppose we have got to do
horrid lessons."
"It's a very strange thing to me, Christian, that such an intelligent
girl as you should dislike lessons. I should have imagined that you
would love your history and your literature."
"I like Spanish history best," said Christian; "it is the most
bloodthirsty."
"My dear, that is a horrid thing to say."
"Well, it's true," answered Christian. "It's much less dull than
English history--English history, I mean, as it's written. I wish I
could make stories out of it. Wouldn't you all gape and scream and jump
about, and feel that you must fight like anything, if you listened to
my stories? Think of 'John of Gaunt'; and think of the 'Black Prince';
and oh! think of 'Agincourt' and the 'Field of the Cloth of Gold.' Oh,
dear! oh, dear! couldn't I make the whole thing shine? And wouldn't I
just? But English history as it is written is very, very dull."
"I don't agree with you. When you are older you will know that English
history written by such men as Macaulay and Froude is most beautiful
and thrilling. Now I have news for you."
"You do look strange!" said Christian; "what can be the matter?"
"I have just been down to see your mother."
"Oh, can I see her?" said Christian, a swift change passing over her
face. "Can I? May I? I want so badly to ask her a question."
"She is going out; she does not wish to be disturbed."
"Oh, I know all about that."
"You know about it?"
"Yes; but never mind. Tell me what your secret is, Miss Thompson; I can
see it is bubbling all over your face."
"Your mother says that you are looking pale, and that you may have a
holiday."
Christian smiled. Her smile came gradually: at first it was just a
little dimple in her left cheek; then it spread to her lips; then it
filled her eyes; then a wave of color mounted to her face, and she
burst into a hearty fit of laughter. But when she ceased laughing there
were tears in her eyes.
"My dear," said her governess, "are you well?"
"Yes, I am quite well. So I am to have a holiday. Where shall we go?"
"Where would you like to go?"
"May we go where I like?"
"Yes; but what do you think of the Zoo?"
"Oh, I know it so well."
"Would you like Maskelyne and Cook's?"
"No; I want to do something else, and it will take the whole day long.
Thompson--dear, darling---- You don't mind my calling you Thompson, do
you?"
"Well, Chris, I am accustomed to it by now, am I not?"
"Of course you are; and you are a dear!"
Christian flung her arms round her governess's neck, and rubbed her
soft cheek against Miss Thompson's somewhat lined one.
"What I should really like, Thompson dear----"
"What is that, Christian?"
"Well, to hang on your arm and walk very close to you, and chatter all
the time."
"You may."
"And not wear my best dress."
"You may wear your common dress."
"Then I do see that things are going to be heavenly! I want to walk
slowly--very slowly--up Oxford Street, and then down Regent Street, and
then down Piccadilly, and then up Bond Street; and perhaps we might go
to Baker Street. And while we are walking I want to watch and watch,
and look and look----"
"At the shops, do you mean?"
"No, no; things in the streets."
"What things, love?"
"Little Italian girls and boys with monkeys and tambourines; and Happy
Families, too. Oh, I do love Happy Families!"
"But you can see them any day in the Square."
"Yes; but I want to look at them with fresh eyes."
"Fresh eyes, Christian?"
"Yes. I dreamt about a little Italian girl last night, and I felt that
I loved her."
"We can easily see them," said Miss Thompson, "wherever we are; and it
needn't take the whole day."
"When we are tired we can have lunch somewhere," continued Christian;
"and I should like to give the Italians a lot of buns, and the monkeys
some nuts. Oh! I want to stare well at them all. I want to see for
myself what the little Italians look like, and how they do their
dancing, and how they manage their monkeys."
"You are a strange child, Christian; but there is nothing wrong in your
wish to see the Italians. Have you any other desires?"
"Well, I should like--only I'm afraid you won't do it--to go into an
awfully slummy place, and walk upstairs and see what the bedrooms are
like, and to question some of the women as to what they eat, and how
much they pay for what they eat. For, you see, even if you have close
on eight pounds, it can't be expected to last forever. Oh, dear! what
have I said? Have I said anything very, very funny, Miss Thompson?"
"Yes, Christian, you have; but then, you are eccentric."
"So I am. Will you be such a darling as to take me into a slummy place?"
"Certainly not. You may look at the Italians from a distance, but
we will keep in clean streets if you please. Now go and put on your
things; I will give you the best sort of day I can."