KIND FRIENDS.
It was Miss Fenmore. I knew her again at once. And she called me "my
poor little girl"--the very words she had used when she said good-bye to
me and looked so sorry before she went away for the Easter holidays,
never to come back, though she did not then know it, to Green Bank.
"You remember me, dear?" she said, in the sweet tones I had loved to
hear. "Don't speak if you feel too ill or if it tires you. But don't
feel frightened or unhappy, though you are in a strange
place--everything will be right."
I felt soothed almost at once, but my curiosity grew greater.
"When did you come?" I said. "You weren't here when I woke before. It
was--somebody with a cap--first I thought it was one of the lions."
The sound of my own voice surprised me, it was so feeble and husky, and
though my throat did not hurt me much I felt that it was thick and
swollen.
Miss Fenmore thought I was still only half awake or light-headed, but
she was too sensible to show that she thought so.
"One of the lions?" she said, smiling. "You mean the carved lions that
Myra is so fond of. No--that was a very funny fancy of yours--a lion
with a cap on! It was old Hannah that you saw, the old nurse. She has
been watching beside you all night. When you awoke before, I was out. I
went out very early."
She spoke in a very matter-of-fact way, but rather slowly, as if she
wanted to be sure of my understanding what she said. And as my mind
cleared and I followed her words I grew more and more anxious to know
all there was to hear.
"I don't understand," I said, "and it hurts me to speak. Is this your
house, Miss Fenmore, and how do you know about the lions? And who
brought me in here, and why didn't I know when I was put in this bed?"
Miss Fenmore looked at me rather anxiously when I said it hurt me to
speak. But she seemed pleased, too, at my asking the questions so
distinctly.
"Don't speak, dear," she said quietly, "and I will explain it all. The
doctor said you were not to speak if it hurt you."
"The doctor," I repeated. Another puzzle!
"Yes," said Miss Fenmore, "the doctor who lives in this street--Dr.
Fallis. He knows you quite well, and you know him, don't you? Just nod
your head a little, instead of speaking."
But the doctor's name brought back too many thoughts for me to be
content with only nodding my head.
"Dr. Fallis," I said. "Oh, I would so like to see him. He could tell
me----" but I stopped. "Mrs. Selwood's address" I was going to say, as
all the memories of the day before began to rush over me. "Why didn't I
know when he came?"
"You were asleep, dear, but he is coming again," said Miss Fenmore
quietly. "He was afraid you had got a sore throat by the way you
breathed. You must have caught cold in the evening down in the show-room
by the lions, before they found you."
And then she went on to explain it all to me. I was in Mr. Cranston's
house!--up above the big show-rooms, where he and old Mrs. Cranston
lived. They had found me fast asleep, leaning against one of the
lions--the old porter and the boy who went round late in the evening to
see that all was right for the night, though when the rooms were shut up
earlier no one had noticed me. I was so fast asleep, so utterly
exhausted, that I had not awakened when the old man carried me up to the
kitchen, just as the servants were about going to bed, to ask what in
the world was to be done with me; nor even later, when, on Miss
Fenmore's recognising me, they had undressed and settled me for the
night in the comfortable old-fashioned "best bedroom," had I opened my
eyes or spoken.
Old Hannah watched beside me all night, and quite early in the morning
Dr. Fallis, who fortunately was the Cranstons' doctor too, had been sent
for.
"He said we were to let you have your sleep out," said Miss Fenmore,
"though by your breathing he was afraid you had caught cold. How is your
throat now, dear?"
"It doesn't hurt very much," I said, "only it feels very shut up."
"I expect you will have to stay in bed all to-day," she replied. "Dr.
Fallis will be coming soon and then we shall know."
"But--but," I began; then as the thought of it all came over me still
more distinctly I hid my face in the pillow and burst into tears. "Must
I go back to school?" I said. "Oh, Miss Fenmore, they will be so
angry--I came away without leave, because--because I couldn't bear it,
and they said I told what wasn't true--that was almost the worst of all.
Fancy if they wrote and told mamma that I told lies."
"She would not believe it," said Miss Fenmore quietly; "and besides, I
don't think Miss Ledbury would do such a thing, and she always writes to
the parents herself, I know. And she is kind and good, Geraldine."
"P'raps she means to be," I said among my tears, "but it's Miss Aspinall
and--and--Miss Broom. I think I hate her, Miss Fenmore. Oh, I shouldn't
say that--I never used to hate anybody. I'm getting all wrong and
naughty, I know," and I burst into fresh sobs.
Poor Miss Fenmore looked much distressed. No doubt she had been told to
keep me quiet and not let me excite myself.
"Geraldine, dear," she said, "do try to be calm. If you could tell me
all about it quietly, the speaking would do you less harm than crying
so. Try, dear. You need not speak loud."
I swallowed down my tears and began the story of my troubles. Once
started I could not have helped telling her all, even if it had hurt my
throat much more than it did. And she knew a good deal already. She was
a girl of great natural quickness and full of sympathy. She seemed to
understand what I had been going through far better than I could put it
in words, and when at last, tired out, I left off speaking, she said all
she could to comfort me. There was no need for me to trouble about going
back to Green Bank just now. Dr. Fallis had said I must stay where I was
for the present, and when I saw him I might tell him anything I liked.
"He will understand," she said, "and he will explain to Miss Ledbury. I
have seen Miss Ledbury this morning already, and----"
"Was she dreadfully angry?" I interrupted.
"No, dear," Miss Fenmore replied. "She had been terribly frightened
about you, and Miss Aspinall and some of the servants had been rushing
about everywhere. But Miss Ledbury is very good, as I keep telling you,
Geraldine. She is very sorry to hear how unhappy you have been, and if
she had known how anxious you were about your father and mother she
would have tried to comfort you. I wish you had told her."
"I wanted to tell her, but Miss Broom was there, and they thought I told
stories," I repeated.
"Well, never mind about that now. You shall ask Dr. Fallis, and I am
sure he will tell you you need not be so unhappy."
It was not till long afterwards that I knew how very distressed poor old
Miss Ledbury had been, and how she had blamed herself for not having
tried harder to gain my confidence. Nor did I fully understand at the
time how very sensibly Miss Fenmore had behaved when Mr. and Mrs.
Cranston sent her off to Green Bank to tell of my having, without
intending it, taken refuge with them; she had explained things so that
Miss Ledbury, and indeed Miss Aspinall, felt far more sorry for me than
angry with me.
Just as Miss Fenmore mentioned his name there came a tap at the door,
and in another moment I saw the kind well-known face of our old doctor
looking in.
"Well, well," he began, looking at me with a rather odd smile, "and how
is the little runaway? My dear child, why did you not come to me,
instead of wandering all about Great Mexington streets in the dark and
the rain? Not that you could have found anywhere better for yourself
than this kind house, but you might have been all night downstairs in
the cold! Tell me, what made you run away like that--no, don't tell me
just yet. It is all right now, but I think you have talked enough. Has
she had anything to eat?" and he turned to Miss Fenmore. Then he looked
at my throat and listened to my breathing, and tapped me and felt my
pulse and looked at my tongue before I could speak at all.
"She must stay in bed all to-day," he said at last. "I will see her
again this evening," and he went on to give Miss Fenmore a few
directions about me, I fidgeting all the time to ask him about father
and mamma, though feeling too shy to do so.
"Geraldine is very anxious to tell you one of the chief causes of her
coming away from Green Bank as she did," said Miss Fenmore. And then she
spoke of the gossip that had reached me through Harriet Smith about the
terribly unhealthy climate my parents were in.
Dr. Fallis listened attentively.
"I wanted to write to Mrs. Selwood, and I thought Mr. Cranston would
tell me her address," I said, though I almost started when I heard how
hoarse and husky my voice sounded. "Can you tell it me? I do so want to
write to her."
"Mrs. Selwood is abroad, my dear, and not returning till next month,"
said Dr. Fallis; but when he saw how my face fell, he added quickly,
"but I think I can tell you perhaps better than she about your parents.
I know the place--Mr. Le Marchant consulted me about it before he
decided on going, as he knew I had been there myself in my young days.
Unhealthy? No, not if people take proper care. Your father and mother
live in the best part--on high ground out of the town--there is never
any fever there. And I had a most cheerful letter from your father quite
lately. Put all these fears out of your head, my poor child. Please God
you will have papa and mamma safe home again before long. But they must
not find such a poor little white shrimp of a daughter when they come.
You must get strong and well and do all that this kind young lady tells
you to do. Good-bye--good-bye," and he hurried off.
I was crying again by this time, but quietly now, and my tears were not
altogether because I was weak and ill. They were in great measure tears
of relief--I was so thankful to hear what he said about father and
mamma.
"Miss Fenmore," I whispered, "I wonder why they didn't take me with
them, if it's a nice place. And then there wouldn't have been all these
dreadful things."
"It is quite a different matter to take a child to a hot climate," she
said. "Grown-up people can stand much that would be very bad for girls
and boys. When I was little my father was in India, and my sister and I
had to be brought up by an aunt in England."
"Did you mind?" I said eagerly. "And did your papa soon come home? And
where was your mamma?"
Miss Fenmore smiled, but there was something a little sad in her smile.
"I was very happy with my aunt," she said; "she was like a mother to me.
For my mother died when I was a little baby. Yes, my father has been
home several times, but he is in India again now, and he won't be able
to come back for good till he is quite old. So you have much happier
things to look forward to, you see, Geraldine."
That was true. I felt very sorry for Miss Fenmore as I lay thinking
over what she had been telling me. Then another idea struck me.
"Is Mrs. Cranston your aunt?" I said. "Is that why you are living here?"
Miss Fenmore looked up quickly.
"No," she replied; "I thought somehow that you understood. I am here
because I am Myra Raby's governess--Myra Raby, who used to come for some
lessons to Green Bank."
"Oh!" I exclaimed. This explained several things. "Oh yes," I went on,
"I remember her, and I know she's Mr. Cranston's grand-daughter--he was
speaking of her to mamma one day. I should like to see her, Miss
Fenmore. May I?"
Miss Fenmore was just going to reply when again there came a tap at the
door, and in answer to her "Come in" it opened and two figures appeared.
I could see them from where I lay, and I shall never forget the pretty
picture they made. Myra I knew by sight, and as I think I have said
before, she was an unusually lovely child. And with her was a quite old
lady, a small old lady--Myra was nearly as tall as she--with a face that
even I (though children seldom notice beauty in elderly people) saw was
quite charming. This was Mrs. Cranston.
I felt quite surprised. Mr. Cranston was a rather stout old man, with
spectacles and a big nose. I had not thought him at all "pretty," and
somehow I had fancied Mrs. Cranston must be something like him, and I
gave a sigh of pleasure as the old lady came up to the side of the bed
with a gentle smile on her face.
"Dr. Fallis gave us leave to come in to see you, my dear," she said.
"Myra has been longing to do so all the morning."
"I've been wanting to see her too," I said, half shyly.
"And--please--it's very kind of you to let me stay here in this nice
room. I didn't mean to fall asleep downstairs. I only wanted to speak to
Mr. Cranston."
"I'm sure Mr. Cranston would be very pleased to tell you anything he can
that you want to know, my dear. But I think you mustn't trouble just now
about anything except getting quite well," said the old lady. "Myra has
been wanting to come to see you all the morning, but we were afraid of
tiring you."
[Illustration: MYRA CAME FORWARD GENTLY, HER SWEET FACE LOOKING RATHER
GRAVE.]
Myra came forward gently, her sweet face looking rather grave. I put out
my hand, and she smiled.
"May she stay with me a little?" I asked Mrs. Cranston.
"Of course she may--that's what she came for," said the grandmother
heartily. "But I don't think you should talk much. Missie's voice sounds
as if it hurt her to speak," she went on, turning to Miss Fenmore.
"It doesn't hurt me much," I said. "I daresay I shall be quite well
to-morrow. I am so glad I'm here--I wouldn't have liked to be ill at
school," and I gave a little shudder. "I'm quite happy now that Dr.
Fallis says it's not true about father and mamma getting ill at that
place, and I don't want to ask Mr. Cranston anything now, thank you. It
was about Mrs. Selwood, but I don't mind now."
I had been sitting up a little--now I laid my head down on the pillows
again with a little sigh, half of weariness, half of relief.
Mrs. Cranston looked at me rather anxiously.
"Are you very tired, my dear?" she said. "Perhaps it would be better for
Myra not to stay just now."
"Oh, please let her stay," I said; "I like to see her."
So Myra sat down beside my bed and took hold of my hand, and though we
did not speak to each other, I liked the feeling of her being there.
Mrs. Cranston left the room then, and Miss Fenmore followed her. I
think the old lady had made her a little sign to do so, though I did not
see it. Afterwards I found out that Mrs. Cranston had thought me looking
very ill, worse than she had expected, and she wanted to hear from Miss
Fenmore if it was natural to me to look so pale.
I myself, though feeling tired and disinclined to talk, was really
happier than I had been for a very long time. There was a delightful
sensation of being safe and at home, even though the kind people who had
taken me in, like a poor little stray bird, were strangers. The very
look of the old-fashioned room and the comfortable great big four-post
bed made me hug myself when I thought how different it all was from the
bare cold room at Green Bank, where there had never once been a fire all
the weeks I was there. It reminded me of something--what was it? Oh yes,
in a minute or two I remembered. It was the room I had once slept in
with mamma at grandmamma's house in London, several years before, when I
was quite a little girl. For dear grandmamma had died soon after we came
to live at Great Mexington. But there was the same comfortable
old-fashioned feeling: red curtains to the window and the bed, and a big
fire and the shiny dark mahogany furniture. Oh yes, how well I
remembered it, and how enormous the bed seemed, and how mamma tucked me
in at night and left the door a little open in case I should feel lonely
before she came to bed. It all came back to me so that I forgot where I
was for the moment, till I felt a little tug given to the hand that Myra
was still holding, and heard her voice say very softly,
"Are you going to sleep, Geraldine?"
This brought me back to the present.
"Oh no," I said, "I'm not sleepy. I was only thinking," and I told her
what had come into my mind.
She listened with great interest.
"How unhappy you must have been when your mamma went away," she said. "I
can't remember my own mamma, but mother"--she meant her stepmother--"is
so kind, and granny is so sweet. I've never been lonely."
"You can't fancy what it's like," I said. "It wasn't only mamma's going
away; I know Haddie--that's my brother--loves her as much as I do, but
he's not very unhappy, because he likes his school. Oh, Myra, what
_shall_ I do when I have to go back to school? I'd rather be ill always.
Do you think I'll have to go back to-morrow?"
Myra looked most sympathising and concerned.
"I don't think you'll be quite well to-morrow," was the best comfort she
could give me. "When I have bad colds and sore throats they always last
longer than one day."
"I'd like to talk a great lot to keep my throat from getting quite
well," I said, "but I suppose that would be very naughty."
"Yes," said Myra with conviction, "I'm sure it would be. You really
mustn't talk, Geraldine; granny said so. Mayn't I read aloud to you?
I've brought a book with me--it's an old story-book of mamma's that she
had when she was a little girl. Granny keeps them here all together.
This one is called _Ornaments Discovered_."
"Thank you," I said. "Yes, I should like it very much."
And in her gentle little voice Myra read the quaint old story aloud to
me. It was old-fashioned even then, for the book had belonged to her
mother, if not in the first place to her grandmother. How very old-world
it would seem to the children of to-day--I wonder if any of you know it?
For I am growing quite an old woman myself, and the little history of my
childhood that I am telling you will, before long, be half a century in
age, though its events seem as clear and distinct to me as if they had
only happened quite recently! I came across the little red gilt-leaved
book not long ago in the house of one of Myra's daughters, and with the
sight of it a whole flood of memories rushed over me.
It was not a very exciting story, but I found it very interesting, and
now and then my little friend stopped to talk about it, which I found
very interesting too. I was quite sorry when Miss Fenmore, who had come
back to the room and was sitting quietly sewing, told Myra that she
thought she had read enough, and that it must be near dinner-time.
"I will come again after dinner," said Myra, and then I whispered
something to her. She nodded; she quite understood me. What I said was
this:
"I wish you would go downstairs and tell the carved lions that they made
me very happy last night, and I _am_ so glad they brought me back here
to you, instead of taking me to Green Bank."
"Where did they take you to in the night?" said Myra with great
interest, though not at all as if she thought I was talking nonsense.
"I'll tell you all about it afterwards," I said. "It was beautiful. But
it would take a long time to tell, and I'm rather tired."
"You are looking tired, dear," said Miss Fenmore, who heard my last
words, as she gave me a cupful of beef-tea. "Try to go to sleep for a
little, and then Myra can come to sit with you again."
I did go to sleep, but Myra was not allowed to see me again that day,
nor the next--nor for several days after, except for a very few minutes
at a time. For I did not improve as the kind people about me had hoped I
would, and Dr. Fallis looked graver when he came that evening than he
had done in the morning. Miss Fenmore was afraid she had let me talk too
much, but after all I do not think anything would have made any great
difference. I had really been falling out of health for months past, and
I should probably have got ill in some other way if I had not caught
cold in my wanderings. I do not very clearly remember those days of
serious illness. I knew whenever I was awake that I was being tenderly
cared for, and in the half-dozing, half-dreaming state in which many
hours must have been passed, I fancied more than once that mamma was
beside me, which made me very happy. And though never actually
delirious, I had very strange though not unpleasant dreams, especially
about the carved lions; none of them, however, so clear and real as the
one I related at full in the last chapter.
On the whole, that illness left more peaceful and sweet memories than
memories of pain. Through it all I had the delightful feeling of being
cared for and protected, and somehow it all seemed to have to do with
the pair of lions downstairs in Mr. Cranston's show-room!