A Little Invalid
THAT was a very confused and dreadful night to Dreamikins, and the next
day was not much better. She was conscious of such pain as she never
in her small life had experienced before. The doctor appeared almost
directly, and the medicine he gave her seemed to make her so sleepy
that she could hardly take in anything. When she was not asleep she was
in great pain, and was not allowed to move her leg or get out of bed.
Fibo came to see her in his wheeled chair, and talked to her in his
happy comforting way. In a few days she began to feel better, and then
she remembered things. Then one evening Annette came in great distress
to Fibo.
"Oh, Monsieur, will you come to Miss Emmeline! She cry and cry in a
peetiful way. I can no comfort bring her, and I do not understand the
wherefore of her cry. It is not that the little leg hurts, so she says!"
So Fibo came and found the golden curly-haired head buried in the
pillow, and the small shoulders shaking with sobs.
"Why, Dreamikins," he said, "are you washing your pillow with salt
water? That will never do. What's the rub?"
Dreamikins raised her flushed tear-stained face and looked at her uncle.
"I'm miser-rub-bub-bubble!" she sobbed.
"So I see. What has happened?"
"I haven't said my prayers for years, and now when I want to say them
God won't listen to me. He's gone away."
"That, I know, isn't true."
"Yes, it is."
Dreamikins mopped her face with her handkerchief, and spoke in her old
assured tone.
"It's because of Cherubine, and I'm all alone; and there's nobody to
take care of me when I sleeps, and anything might happen. Satan might
come and sit on my pillow, and there would be nobody to frighten him
away. God won't come near me, and I want to speak to Him badly."
"What do you want to say?"
"Oh, just to tell Him I'm sorry for all I did that day, and I'll never
be so wicked again. But God left me; that's why I broked my leg. If
Cherubine had been there she would have caught hold of that nasty old
roller and not let it slip on me. I sent her away, and God hasn't sent
me any angel since."
"If you speak to God now He'll hear you, Dreamikins. He is always ready
to forgive us when we are really sorry."
"But I have speaked, and He won't answer. He's gone away."
Fibo hadn't known Dreamikins for so long without understanding her mind.
"Shut your eyes," he said; "I am going to speak to God about you. He is
quite close to me."
Then Fibo prayed a short little prayer for his penitent little niece,
and light began to dawn in Dreamikins' blue eyes.
"God, of course, listens to you, Fibo, you're so good. Does He say He
will come back?"
"Yes; He is here. Now speak to Him yourself."
And then, with a great sigh, Dreamikins began her prayer. Fibo did not
hear all she said, for she began to sob again, but after a little she
looked up with a smile.
"He's comed back to me, and He's going to look after me to-night all
His own Self."
Fibo left her. Dreamikins was just Dreamikins, and could never be
altered. He understood why her mother said she was too difficult to
manage.
The next day was a brighter one for everybody. Dreamikins had recovered
her spirits with a bound. When Fibo came to see her, she was ready for
a long talk. She went over in detail all the sins she had committed on
that one black day.
"I can't think what made me," she said, with a shake of her curls; "but
Cherubine had been aggerrating me for a long time. And even now, Fibo
dear, I don't think I want her back. How would it be if I had another
little angel for a change?—a boy this time. I wonder if he would be
sent? But I expect Cherubine would tell him all about me, and then he
wouldn't want to come."
"Look here, Dreamikins, we won't talk about angels now. I was rather
ill that day when you ran amuck, but it mustn't happen again. You
are getting too old for it, and if you don't try to keep yourself
controlled now, you'll grow up such a horrible woman that no one will
want to live with you."
"How horrible?" asked Dreamikins, with an eager gleam of interest in
her eyes.
"I'll tell you about a man I knew who did much the same as you did. He
had a dear little wife, and three sweet little children, and for months
they would live happily together, and then suddenly he would, as his
wife said, 'go on the burst.'"
"Oh, how did he do it?"
Fibo did not like the pleased expression in Dreamikins' eyes. His face
got very stern and grave.
"He went to the first public-house he could get to, and then he got
roaringly and disgustingly drunk. He would come home at night, and
throw chairs at his wife, and smash them to pieces, and nearly kill
her. The next day he would go off and drink again, and behave like a
madman. He would generally end by fighting some ones and then would be
taken off to the police station, and be locked up. Then, after a time,
he would come home, and be good again—as good as gold—till he got tired
of being good, and then would have another burst of drinking. And at
last, in one of these wicked drunken fits, he went home and threw his
dear little baby out of the window, and killed it; and then he kicked
his wife downstairs, and she broke her neck. He was tried for murder,
and was hanged."
"Oh, Fibo!" Dreamikins gave a shudder. "And will I get as bad as him?"
"The principle is the same," said Fibo gravely. "You get tired of being
good, and you then have a real wicked day which you thoroughly enjoy.
I've known one or two such days in your life before. It won't do, my
Dreamikins; you must stop yourself before it's too late."
Dreamikins lay back on her cushions with soft dreamy eyes and the most
angelic expression of face.
"You see, Fibo dear," she said at last, "it's best not to try to be too
good, and then you don't get tired so quick!"
"Well, I must say I don't think I've ever found you too good."
"Haven't you really? But then you don't know what goes on inside
me—Cherubine pulling me one way and Satan the other. Why, I'm nearly
teared in two pieces."
Fibo began to laugh, and his lecture ended.
"You'll want all your goodness now," he said. "If I were you, I would
have the little angel Patience to stay with me till you can run about
again."
Dreamikins straightened herself in bed, and spoke with great dignity.
"I chooses my own angels, Fibo dear; and I should think Patience wasn't
any fun at all."
So they left it, but the days were long and wearisome to Dreamikins;
and as soon as she was well enough for visitors, Freda and Daffy were
sent for to spend the afternoon with her.
The little friends met again with delight.
"We've never heard what happened after you ran away from us that day,"
said Freda. "Nurse was the whole afternoon cleaning the paint off
Bertie; she was in an awful temper, and she said you should never come
near us again. If Mums hadn't been at home, she wouldn't have let us
come to-day. But Mums has been very kind; she let Daffy and me go by
ourselves to see that old sick washerwoman. Jane knew her, and said
she'd be glad to see us, and we've taken her some flowers, and a bun,
and a packet of cocoa we bought with our own money. And she's a dear
old woman, and tells us stories about when she was a little girl and
went to a Dame's school. A Dame is a woman. Did you know that?"
Dreamikins listened with the greatest interest. Then she told them
about her adventure at the farm.
"I mean to go and see Mrs. Dufty as soon as ever I'm well. She loves
me, and I love her."
"Don't you hate lying in bed?" asked Daffy pityingly.
"Yes; but, you see, I had no angel, or it wouldn't have happened. I
shall get a new one soon. I shan't have Cherubine back. I didn't quite
like one or two things about her. She got to contradick me so often."
Freda and Daffy often wondered how much Dreamikins believed in her own
inventions, but they dared not question it to her.
They visited her very often after this, and brought her story-books to
read, and puzzles to solve. Very soon she was carried down into the
garden, and placed on a couch close to Fibo's chair.
She was rather proud of this position.
"You and me are just alike now, Fibo. I think we're very interessing,
aren't we?"
"Just two L.D.'s," said Fibo.
"Lame dogs—yes; and it's very sad for us, isn't it? P'raps I shall
never walk again, just like you. Oh, Fibo dear, how did you feel when
they tolded you? Didn't you cry a teeny weeny bit?"
Fibo looked at his small niece with rather a twisted smile.
"It pulled me up," he said; "the fence was too high to take at first,
but I managed it after a bit."
"Yes; but weren't you cross? Did you never want to throw things at
people? I threw a book at Annette this morning!"
"Throwing things doesn't help, little woman! But I do allow it relieves
one's feelings."
"I do love you, Fibo, when you unnerstand so. I wish the fairies would
come and hop up and down me when I lie like this. If we were to sleep
out here one night, you know, they might. We should feel them tickling
us. I think you might make up a story about us!"
Fibo was just going to begin, when there was a scurry of feet behind
them, a swish of a silk dress, and a lady in dark blue, with a
wonderful hat and veil, and a very happy face, swooped down upon them.
She took Fibo's head between her two gloved hands, and bending down
gave him a quick little kiss on his forehead; then she put her arms
right round Dreamikins and smothered her with kisses.
"My Dreamikins, I've come to nurse you. My poor cripples! Isn't one
enough in the family without having another?"
It was Dreamikins' mother. She, like her little daughter, arrived in
haste without any warning.
Dreamikins put up her hand, and stroked her mother's cheek caressingly.
"I thought you'd have arroved sooner," she said. "I've been ill years!"
"I dare say it seems years to you; but Daddy got leave, and we were in
London together; and Daddy always comes first with me, Dreamikins. You
know that."
"I come first with Fibo," said Dreamikins, a little triumphantly.
"Now I want to be told all about it—letters don't count—from the
beginning. And whose fault was it?"
"The nasty roller's," said Dreamikins promptly. Then she began to tell
the story herself, and her mother sat and laughed.
"I can't help it, Gus; don't frown at me. I never could be a proper
mother, and Dreamikins is beyond me. Who is your familiar spirit now,
childie? You seem to have behaved very rudely to Cherubine."
"I'm just empty," said Dreamikins, "and God is so kind as to take care
of me Himself without any angel at all. I'm going to get a fresh angel
soon, and then I'll tell you who it is."
She spoke with great dignity. Then Fibo turned to his sister.
"I hope you've come to stay this time."
"For a week or so, if you can have me."
She looked round the garden as if she loved it.
"I don't forget the old days, Gus. How happy I was, and how torn in two
I was when I had to leave you!"
"I shall always live with Fibo when I'm growed up," said Dreamikins. "I
shan't leave him like you did."
"Oh yes, you will, when a man walks in who means to be your husband.
And if I had stayed with your uncle, there would have been no
Dreamikins in the world, for God only sent you to me after I had left
him."
Dreamikins considered this.
"I don't quite remember," she said quietly; "but I s'pose there were
other fathers and mothers who might have liked me besides you and
Daddy."
"No," said her mother, shaking her head at her; "there was nobody in
the wide world who wanted to have you but Daddy and me. And there would
be nobody who could love you, and put up with your antics, as we do,
so be thankful you are our child and no one else's. Gus, she must be
educated; how is it to be done?"
Mrs. Broughton turned to her brother eagerly as she spoke.
He laughed.
"She's tied by the leg for a good month at least, so we won't load her
with education just now. My dear Minna, have you brought any luggage
with you? Are they getting your room ready? Will you have some tea?"
"Yes, yes, yes," cried Dreamikins' mother. "Carrie is seeing to
everything. I am going to sit here, and do nothing but talk."
She did it in her gay fascinating way, first turning to one of the
invalids and then the other. When tea came she poured it out, and the
afternoon seemed crammed with sunshine to both Dreamikins and her uncle.
Dreamikins told her mother all about her little friends; in fact her
tongue ran on so fast that she quite forgot her leg, until a sudden
twinge of pain reminded her, and then her mother took her in her arms,
bandaged leg and all, and kissed and fondled her, and sang little gay
songs which took away the pain.
When Dreamikins was at last carried off to bed, her mother went into
the house, and later on came to dinner in a lovely white lace gown, and
Fibo assured her that she was younger and prettier than ever.
"And I hope wiser and better," said Mrs. Broughton, laughing. "I feel
I ought to be very clever to have to deal with my small daughter. You
manage her best. We love each other dearly, she and I, but we have
passages of arms, and then we get very angry with one another, and that
isn't good for her or for me. Will you have her, Gus, for a good three
months? I'm tired of doing nothing but amuse myself, now every woman is
working. And a friend of mine wants me to go out to France with her and
help her to work a young women's hostel. Now don't pull a long face,
but wish me all success."
"I shall be quite willing to keep Dreamikins; but, my dear Minna, you
will be back at the end of your first week out there."
"Not I. This War is altering us all. And I shall be nearer Charlie.
It's an awful life when he's out there and I'm here. I was wondering
if I should send Annette away and get a nursery governess, because the
child must begin to learn something. Do you think Mrs. Harrington would
let her little girls learn with Dreamikins? I wonder if I might call,
or is it too soon after her husband's death?"
"Write and ask her," said Fibo. "I rather dread possible combats
between Dreamikins and a governess. You would have to get the right
sort, or there would always be squalls."
"Yes. Is the child extra naughty, do you think, Gus? She has such a
will and personality, and her imagination runs riot. That's partly your
fault. You always soaked me with poetry and romance, and so it appears
in my child. Her father and I gaze at her half paralysed sometimes
when she insists upon repeating to us conversations she has with her
invisible playmates."
"That will right itself as she gets older. She is a lonely child, and
is bound to invent companions if she has none. I did as a boy."
So they talked together, and before she went to bed that night she paid
a last visit to Dreamikins.
She lay a picture of health and innocence; and then, as her mother
stooped and kissed the soft, flushed cheek, Dreamikins smiled and
murmured:
"It's no good to make up to me, Cherubine, I—are quite firm—I won't
have you back."