Patty found Millie Higgins down on the Quay, where she was shouting and
laughing with five or six others who were playing 'Last Touch.'
No one would have guessed that she had left two sad and aching hearts and
a ruined treasure behind her but half an hour ago.
Patty, with a growing scorn in her eyes, stood by talking to Philippa
Luxmore until the game had finished. She meant not to lose sight of
Millie until she had had her say. Millie caught sight of Patty, though,
and dashed into another game without any pause. She did not know that
Patty had come especially to speak to her, but she did not want to have
anything to say to Patty--not for a while, at any rate. She would rather
wait until the events of the afternoon had been forgotten a little.
Patty guessed, though, what her purpose was, and, after she had waited for
another game to end, she went boldly up to her.
"Millie," she said, without any beating about the bush, "I've come to ask
you to go and tell Mrs. Barnes that it was you that broke her beautiful
tea-set."
Millie coloured, but she only laughed contemptuously. The rest of the
little crowd looked on and listened, open-mouthed. "Dear me! Have you
really, Miss Poll Pry! Well, now you have asked me you can go home again,
and attend to your own affairs. We don't want you here."
Patty took no notice of her rudeness. "Millie," she pleaded, "you will
tell? You won't let Mona bear the blame."
"I don't know what you're talking about----"
"Oh, yes, you do. I saw you come out. I mean, I thought that was where
you came from. I was just going in to speak to Mona myself, and I found
her----"
"Mona Carne's a sneak."
"No, she isn't."
"Well, she needn't tell her grandmother that she knows anything about it.
It might have been the wind blew the things over, or a cat. If I was Mona
I'd go out to play, and let her come in and find the things."
"Mona couldn't be so mean and underhand. Mrs. Barnes knows about it
already, too."
"Then there's no need for me to tell her," retorted Millie, dancing away.
"Ta-ta, Patty-preacher."
Patty's patience gave out, she could not hide her disgust any longer.
"Millie Higgins, I knew you were a bully and a coward, but I didn't know
how mean a coward you were."
Her voice rang out shrill with indignation, attracting the attention of
everyone around. The children stopped their play to stare; two or three
people stopped their talk to listen. They looked from Patty to Millie,
and back again in shocked surprise. Patty's voice was not so much angry
as it was contemptuous, disgusted. Millie could have better borne anger.
People would then have thought Patty merely a cross child, and have passed
on. Instead of that they looked at her sympathetically, and at Millie
askance.
Millie walked away with her head in the air, but she was furious.
"I'll pay her out!" she thought. "I'll pay her out yet!" She was so
angry she could not get out a retort to Patty. Her words seemed to catch
in her throat and choke her.
Patty walked away to the end of the Quay, and leaned out over the
railings, looking towards the sea. She was disheartened and angry,
and ashamed of herself. She was horribly ashamed of having called out
like that to Millie. It was a mean, common thing to do. She felt she
wanted to get out of sight, to escape the questions and chatter they would
pour into her ears. She would wait where she was until everyone else had
gone home. If anyone followed her, they would soon go away again when
they found she would not talk to them.
She got behind a tall stack of boxes, and turned her back on everyone.
Her face was turned to the sea; her eyes gazed at the heaving waters,
and the sun setting behind them, but her thoughts were with Mona.
"How she did cry, poor Mona! I didn't know she cared for her granny so
much." Then she wondered what they were doing at that moment, and how
Mrs. Barnes was taking her loss. By degrees the sun disappeared
altogether, and twilight began to creep over her world. Gradually the
sounds of play and laughter and gossiping voices ceased. One by one old
folks and young went home.
"I'd better go too," thought Patty, "or mother will be wondering where I
am. Oh, dear, there's my bootlace untied again!" Still standing close to
the edge of the Quay, she had stooped to tie the lace when, suddenly from
behind, she received a blow in the back which sent her completely off her
balance. Reeling forward, she grabbed wildly at the rail to try and save
herself, but missed it, and with a shriek of terror she fell over the edge
and into the water below. With another shriek she disappeared, and the
water closed over her.
Whence the blow came, or how, she had not time to think. It seemed to her
as though the sky had fallen and struck her. She did not hear another cry
which broke from someone's throat as her body disappeared, nor hear or see
Millie Higgins running as though the police were already after her.
Millie's first instinct was to get as far from the scene as possible.
No one must know that she had been anywhere near the fatal spot.
Then, fortunately, better and less selfish thoughts came to her.
Patty was there alone in the deep cold water, in the dimness, fighting for
her life. If help did not come to her quickly she would die--and who was
there to help but herself?
"Patty!" she called. "Patty! Where are you?" Her voice rose high and
shrill with terror. "Oh, Patty, do speak!"
Then up through the water came a small, dark head and white face, and
then, to Millie's intense relief, a pair of waving arms.
She was not dead, and she was conscious. "Oh, thank God!" moaned Millie,
and for perhaps the first time in her life she really thanked Him, and
sent up a real prayer from the depths of her heart.
"Patty," she called, "swim towards me. I'll help you."
Poor Patty heard her, but as one speaking in a dream, for her senses were
fast leaving her. Summoning up all the strength she had, she tried to
obey, but she had only made a few strokes when she suddenly dropped her
arms and sank again.
With a cry of horror and despair, Millie rushed down and into the water.
She could not swim, but she did not think of that now. Nothing else
mattered if she could but save Patty. She waded into the water until she
could scarcely touch the bottom with her feet. A big wave came rolling
in; one so big that it seemed as though it must carry her off her feet,
and away to sea.
It came, but it lifted her back quite close to the steps, and it brought
poor little unconscious Patty almost close to her feet.
Millie reached out and grabbed her by her hair and her skirt, and gripped
her tight, but it was not easy. Patty was a dead weight, and she had to
keep her own foothold or both would have been carried away as the wave
receded. Millie felt desperate. She could not raise Patty, heavy as she
was in her water-soaked clothes, and Patty, still unconscious, could not
help herself.
Fortunately, at that moment, Peter Carne came rowing leisurely homewards,
and in his boat with him was Patty Row's father.
Millie caught sight of them, and a great sob of relief broke from her.
She shouted and shouted at the top of her voice, and, clinging to Patty
with one hand, she waved the other frantically. "Would they see?
Would they see?" She screamed until she felt she had cracked her throat.
"Oh, what a noise the sea made!" she thought frantically, "how could
anyone's voice get above it."
They heard or caught sight of her at last. Her straining eyes saw the
boat heading for them. She saw Patty's father spring up and wave to them,
then seize another pair of oars, and pull till the lumbering great boat
seemed to skim the waves. Then strong arms gripped them and lifted them
into safety, and a moment or two later they were on the Quay once more,
and hurrying homewards.
Before she had been in her father's arms for many minutes Patty opened her
big blue eyes, and looked about her wonderingly.
"Where--am--I?" she asked, through her chattering teeth.
"You're in your old dad's arms now," said her father, brokenly, but with
an attempt at a smile, "but you'll be rolled up in blankets in a few
minutes, and popped into bed. It's where you have been that matters most.
How did you come to be taking a dip at this time, little maid, and with
your boots on too?"
"I fell in," whispered Patty, and closed her eyes again as the tiresome
faintness crept over her.
"It was my fault," sobbed Millie, thoroughly subdued and softened,
and slightly hysterical too. "I--I didn't mean to push her into the
water----"
"It was an accident," said Patty, coming back out of her dreaminess.
"I was stooping down--and overbalanced--that was all. I was tying up my
boot-lace." And as she insisted on this, and would say nothing more,
everyone decided that there was nothing more to say; and, as she had
received no real injury, and was soon out and about again, the matter was
gradually forgotten--by all, at least, but the two actors in what might
have been an awful tragedy.
Patty received no real injury, but it was a very white and tired little
Patty who called on Mona on the following Sunday to go with her to Sunday
School.
Mona, having a shrewd suspicion that Patty could have told much more if
she had chosen, was longing to ask questions, but Patty was not
encouraging.
"Did you think you were really going to die?" she asked.
"Yes," said Patty, simply.
"What did it feel like? Were you----"
"I can't tell you." Patty's voice was very grave. "Don't ask me, Mona.
It's--it's too solemn to talk about."
When they reached the school-yard gate, Millie Higgins came towards them.
"Then you're able to come, Patty! I'm so glad." There was real feeling
in Millie's words. Her voice was full of an enormous relief. Mona was
astonished. She herself did not look at Millie or speak to her. She had
not forgiven her for that afternoon's work, and she more than suspected
her of being the cause of Patty's accident.
As Millie did not move away, Mona strolled across with Patty still
clinging to her arm, to where a group of girls stood talking together.
Millie Higgins, with a rush of colour to her face, turned away and joined
another group, but the group apparently did not see her, for none of them
spoke to her, and Millie very soon moved away again to where two girls
stood together, but as she approached the two they hastily linked arms
and, turning their back on her, walked into the schoolroom. Mona noticed
both incidents, and, beginning to suspect something, kept both eyes and
ears open. Her suspicions were soon confirmed.
"I believe that all the girls are giving Millie the cold shoulder,"
she whispered at last in Patty's ear. "They must have planned it all
before. You just watch for a few minutes. She has been up to ever so
many, and then, as soon as they notice her, they move away. I wonder
what's the meaning of it? Millie notices it herself. You just look at
her. She's as uncomfortable as she can be."
Patty raised her head sharply, and followed the direction of Mona's eyes.
Millie was just joining on to a group of four or five. Patty saw a glance
exchanged, and two girls turned on their heels at once; then another, and
another, until Millie, with scared face and eyes full of shame and pain,
stood alone once more. She looked ready to cry with mortification.
Patty, her face rosy with indignation, called across the yard to her; her
clear voice raised so that all should hear. "Millie, will you come for a
walk when we come out of school this afternoon?" Then going over and
thrusting her arm through Millie's, she led her back to where Mona was
still standing.
"Mona is going, too, ain't you, Mona? I don't know, though, if we shall
have much time for a walk; we're going to the Library to choose a book
each. Which do you think Mona would like?"
But Millie could not answer. The unkindness she had met with that morning
and the kindness had stabbed deep; so deep that her eyes were full of
tears, and her throat choked with sobs. Mona, looking up, saw it, and all
her resentment against her faded.
"I wish you'd come, too, Millie, and help us choose," she said. "You read
so much, you know which are the nicest."
"All right," said Millie, in a choked kind of voice. "I'd love to."
And then the doors opened, and they all trooped into their places.
When they came out from the morning service each went home with her own
people. Patty, looking fragile and pale, was helped along by her father.
Mona joined her father and grandmother. She was quiet, and had very
little to say.
"Did you like your class?" asked granny. She was a little puzzled by
Mona's manner. She had expected her to be full of excitement.
"Yes, I liked it very much," but she did not add anything more then.
It was not until evening, when they were sitting together in the
firelight, that she opened her heart on the subject. "I wish I'd known
our teacher all my life," she said, with a sigh.
"Why, dearie?"
"Oh--I don't know--gran--but she makes you see things, and she makes you
feel so--so--well as if you do want to be good, and yet you feel you want
to cry."
"Try and tell me what she said," said granny. "Perhaps 'twould help an
old body, too."
But Mona could not do that, nor could she put her feelings into words very
well. "I'll read to you instead, if you'd like me to, granny."
When Millie Higgins had come out of church she had walked rapidly
homewards by herself. Patty and her father had gone on. Mona was with
her father and grandmother, and Millie felt that she could not face Mrs.
Barnes just then. She was fighting a big fight with herself, and she had
not won yet. But in the afternoon, when they came out of the school
library, the two walked together. They took Patty home, because she was
too tired to do any more that day. Then Mona and Millie hesitated,
looking at each other. "I must go home, too," said Mona. "I thought I'd
have been able to go for a walk, but it's too late. Granny'll be
expecting me."
Millie looked at her without speaking, half turned to leave her,
hesitated, and finally walked on at Mona's side. She seemed nervous and
embarrassed, but Mona did not notice it. She did not realize anything of
the struggle going on in Millie's mind. She was too much occupied in
glancing at the pictures in her book, and reading a sentence here and
there.
"I'm longing to begin it. I think granny'll like it too."
Millie did not answer, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.
When they reached the house Mona stood for a moment without opening the
door. She was somewhat troubled in her mind as to what to do. She did
not want to ask Millie in, yet she was afraid of hurting her feelings by
not doing so. Millie stood, and did not say good-bye. Her cheeks were
flushed, and she was evidently very nervous.
"May I come in?" she asked at last. "Yes, do come inside." Mona was a
little surprised at Millie's daring, and not too well pleased, but she
tried to speak cordially. Opening the door, she went in first.
"Granny, here's Millie Higgins come to see you. She's been to school with
Patty and me, and we've walked back together!"
Mrs. Barnes was sitting in her chair by the fire. "Well, Millie," she
said kindly. "It's a long time since I've seen you. Sit down."
Whether she suspected the truth neither of the girls could make out.
Millie grew even redder in the cheeks, and looked profoundly
uncomfortable.
"I--I've come to say--" she burst out in a jerky, nervous fashion,
"I--I came here on Wednesday--when you were out, and I--behaved badly--"
She hesitated, broke down, looked at the door as though she would have
dashed out through it, had it only been open, then in one rush poured out
the words that had been repeating and repeating themselves in her brain
all that day.
"I'm very sorry I broke your beautiful set, Mrs. Barnes. I'm--ever so
sorry, I--don't know what to do about it----"
Mona, guided by some sense of how she would have felt under the
circumstances, had disappeared on the pretence of filling a kettle.
She knew how much harder it is to make a confession if others are looking
on and listening.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Barnes, gravely, "was it you that broke my china?
I didn't know."
Millie stared with astonishment. "Didn't--Mona tell you?" she gasped,
quite taken aback. She could scarcely believe her own ears.
Granny Barnes shook her head. "No, I didn't know but what she did it
herself. I believe little Patty did say that she didn't, but I was too
upset to take in what was said. My precious tea-set was broken, and it
didn't seem to me to matter who did it."
Millie was silent for a moment or so. "Well, I did it," she said at last.
"I threw a cushion at Mona, and it hit the china behind her! I've felt
dreadful about it ever since, and I--I didn't dare to come near you.
I don't know what to do about it, Mrs. Barnes. Can it be mended?" she
added, colouring hotly again. "I--I mean I've got some money in the bank.
I'll gladly pay for it to be mended, if it can be."
"I don't know, Millie. Perhaps one or two bits can--but nothing can ever
make the set perfect again." Mrs. Barnes' voice quavered, and tears came
into her eyes. "But I wouldn't let you pay for it. We won't talk any
more about it--I can't. P'raps I set too much store by the things."
She got up from her seat, and stood, leaning heavily on the table.
"It's all right, Millie. I'm very glad you came and told me you did it.
Yes, I'm very glad of that. Now we'll try and forget all about it."
Millie burst into tears, and moved away towards the door.
"Stay and have some tea with Mona and me," Granny urged, hospitably.
"Don't run away, Millie."
But Millie felt that she must go. She wanted to be alone. "I--I think
I'd rather not--not now, thank you. I'll come--another day, if you will
ask me." Then she hurried out, and up the hill, thankful that it was
tea-time, and that nearly everyone was indoors. She quickly turned off
the main road into a little frequented narrow lane, and by way of that to
the wide stretch of wild land which crowned the top of the hill.
She wanted to be alone, and free, to fight out her battle alone.
"If I'd known Mona hadn't told--" The mean thought would try to take root
in her mind, but she weeded it out and trampled on it. In her heart she
was profoundly impressed by Mona's conduct, and she was glad, devoutly
glad, that she had not been less honourable and courageous. She could
face people now, and not feel a sneak or a coward.
In all her life after Millie never forgot her walk on that sunny summer
evening. The charm and beauty, the singing of the birds, the scent of the
furze and the heather, the peace of it, after the storms she had lived
through lately, sank deep into her soul.
Her wickedness of the past week had frightened her. "I felt I didn't care
what I did, I was so wild with Mona. I wonder I didn't do more harm than
I did. And then Patty, poor little Patty. I nearly drowned her!
Oh-h-h!" She buried her face and shuddered at the remembrance.
"I knew she'd fall into the water if I pushed her, so it was as bad as
being a murderer. If she had died--and she nearly did--I should have been
one, and I should have been in jail now, and--oh, I _will_ try to be good,
I _will_ try to be better!"
Long shadows were falling across the road as she went down the hill,
on her homeward way. The flowers in Lucy Carne's garden were giving out
their evening scent. Lucy, standing enjoying them, looked up as Millie
came along, and nodded.
"Wouldn't you like a flower to wear?" she asked.
Millie paused. "I'd love one," she said, looking in over the low stone
wall. "I never smell any so sweet as yours, Mrs. Carne."
Lucy gathered her a spray of pink roses, and some white jessamine.
"There," she said, "fasten those in your blouse. Isn't the scent
beautiful? I don't think one could do anything bad, or think anything
bad, with flowers like those under one's eyes and nose, do you?"
"Don't you?" questioned Millie, doubtfully. "I don't believe anything
would keep me good."
Lucy looked at her in faint surprise. It was not like Millie to speak
with so much feeling. "You don't expect me to believe that," she began,
half laughing; then stopped, for there were still traces of tears about
Millie's eyes, and a tremulousness about her lips, and Lucy knew that she
was really in need of help.
"I know that you've got more courage than most of us, Millie," she added
gently. "If you would only use it in the right way. Perhaps my little
flowers will remind you to."
"I hope they will. I wish they would," said Millie, fastening them in her
coat. "Goodbye."
Before she reached her own home Millie saw her father out at the door
looking for her. As a rule, it made her angry to be watched for in this
way, "Setting all the neighbours talking," as she put it. But to-day her
conscience really pricked her, and she was prepared to be amiable.
Her father, though, was not prepared to be amiable. He had got a
headache, and he wanted his tea. He had been wanting it for an hour and
more.
"Where have you been gallivanting all this time, I'd like to know.
I'll be bound you've been a may-gaming somewhere as you didn't ought to on
a Sunday, your dooty to me forgotten."
To Millie this sounded unjust and cruel. She had let her duties slip from
her for a while, but she had been neither may-gaming nor wasting her time.
Indeed, she had been in closer touch with better things and nobler aims
than ever in her life before, and in her new mood her father's words
jarred and hurt her. An angry retort rose to her lips.
"I haven't been with anybody," she replied sharply. "I've been for a walk
by myself, that's all. It's hard if I can't have a few minutes for myself
sometimes." But, in putting up her hand to remove her hat, she brushed
her flowers roughly, and her angry words died away. In return for a blow
they gave out a breath of such sweetness that Millie could not but heed
it. "I--I was thinking, and I forgot about tea-time," she added in a
gentler voice. "But I won't be long getting it now, father."
While the kettle was coming to the boil she laid the cloth and cut some
bread and butter; then she went to the larder and brought out an apple
pie. With all her faults, Millie was a good cook, and looked after her
father well.
He looked at her preparations approvingly, and his brow cleared.
"You're a good maid, Millie," he said, as he helped the pie, while Millie
poured out the tea. "I'm sorry I spoke a bit rough just now. I didn't
really mean anything. I was only a bit put out."
Millie's heart glowed with pride and pleasure. "That's all right,
father," and then she added, almost shyly, "I--I'd no business to--to
forget the time, and stay out so long." It was the first time in her life
she had admitted she was wrong when her father had been vexed with her and
given her a scolding.