TROUBLES
In spite of Emmeline’s relief that the blanket affair had passed off
without their secret being discovered, the rest of the afternoon was
thoroughly spoilt for both her and Kitty.
Kitty left off crying presently and stole upstairs to take the now empty
tooth-glass out of its hiding-place in her dress-pocket underneath her
overall; after which she went on to Micky’s room in the hope of being
able to bear him company. Jane had locked the door however, and carried
off the key, so that Kitty had to creep downstairs again, feeling very
much grieved and disappointed.
‘It does seem hard poor Micky should have all the punishment when we were
just as much in it really,’ Kitty remarked sadly to Emmeline.
‘Well, but we weren’t quite,’ said Emmeline, ‘putting the blankets in
the kennel was quite his own idea, you know.’ But, in spite of this, she
was too fair-minded a child not to feel uncomfortable at the injustice
as well as very sorry for poor Micky. But what troubled her most was
the fact that the blankets would no longer be available. Diamond Jubilee
would be so cold without them, and, besides, how should she persuade him
to sleep at the Feudal Castle now that they could not be held out as an
inducement? She had been worrying over the problem for a good while when
it suddenly struck her that she had read somewhere that newspapers made
almost as warm a bed-covering as blankets. How would it be to take some
out to the Feudal Castle? She knew just where the old _Standards_ were
kept.
Unhappily it was nearly tea-time when Emmeline had this brilliant
inspiration, and just as she was getting up to carry it into effect, Jane
came across the lawn to where the two girls were sitting with the glum
announcement that it was time to come in and get tidy.
‘Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!’
sang Micky’s voice, very loud and very much out of tune.
They all looked up, startled, and saw him leaning out of his window, clad
in his flannel pyjamas, and grinning defiantly.
‘Master Micky, if you don’t get back to bed _this instant_, you shan’t
have any tea at all, not even dry bread,’ said Jane, and Micky beat a
hasty retreat. Troubles never took away his appetite, and he knew from
past experience that Jane’s threats were not empty ones.
It was soon Kitty’s turn to get into trouble. Never was there such a day
of scrapes.
They were in the middle of tea when Jane stalked grimly in, carrying
an article, the sight of which nearly made Emmeline drop her cup with
fright. It was the hot-water can with Kitty’s sash attached to its spout
and handle. All the agitations of the day had driven the thought of it
out of their heads, and it had lain forgotten under its laurel-bush until
five minutes ago, when Mr. Brown had unfortunately caught a glimpse of
the blue sash and dragged it to light.
‘What’s the meaning of this, Miss Kitty?’ demanded Jane, in a voice of
awful calm.
Kitty had nothing like Micky’s coolness. She turned crimson, hung her
head, and muttered something about a lift, which made Emmeline feel
terribly alarmed as to what she might be going to let out.
‘A lift!’ sniffed Jane, pouncing on the poor word, ‘and what have you
been _lifting_ with your best party sash, I’d like to know? Leaving it
out in the rain, too, till the colour’s all run, and it’s only fit for
the rag-bag!’
‘It was—some things I wanted to let down to Micky in the garden,’
stammered Kitty, looking as though she very much hoped the floor would
open and swallow her up.
‘Umph!’ grunted Jane. ‘Toys, I suppose, that he was too lazy to go up
and fetch for himself, so he made you save him the trouble, same as he
did the other day. _I_ know his ways!’ (As a matter of fact, Micky was
anything but lazy; and, though it was quite true that Jane had caught
Kitty fagging for him the other day, that was only because he had
happened to be a cruel slave-owner for the afternoon.) ‘That was it,
wasn’t it?’
Kitty blushed a yet deeper crimson, and hung her head a little lower.
‘I thought so!’ said Jane. ‘Well, _you_ can come to bed, too, and then
perhaps you’ll know better another time. Come along,’ and, seizing
Kitty’s hand, she marched off with her, muttering something about never
having known such goings on in all her born days.
Emmeline could hear Kitty bursting into a howl as she was led upstairs,
and she herself felt so unhappy that she could hardly find it in her
heart even to be relieved that Jane had not been more pressing in her
questions. It was not only that she was sorry for Kitty, but it seemed
so mean to let the twins be punished without coming forward to take her
share of the blame; and yet, of course, it would be impossible to do so
without betraying the secret and ruining everything. ‘And that I mustn’t
do, for Diamond Jubilee’s sake,’ she told herself; ‘but, oh dear, I never
guessed, when I first started the idea of adopting him, that it would
lead to all this worry!’
She was not long in finishing her now solitary meal, for a restless
desire had seized her to be up and doing. She was just going to the
cupboard where the old _Standards_ were kept, when a sudden thought made
her pause. Aunt Grace had once told the children that they were on their
honour to begin their lessons for the next day as soon as tea was over,
and that she trusted them to do so, whether or not she was there to see.
‘I suppose I must wait, then,’ she said to herself, with an impatient
sigh, as she turned away and went slowly up to the schoolroom. It was
very tiresome, when she did so want to go and settle Diamond Jubilee in
for the night at the Feudal Castle.
Her lessons took her longer than usual that evening, for she found it
very hard to give her full attention to them; but she had almost finished
when she was startled by Jane’s coming in with the supper-tray.
‘Why, it can’t be eight o’clock yet!’ she exclaimed.
‘No, Miss Emmeline, it’s only just past seven; but Cook and I are going
to church, and choir-practice afterwards, and we shan’t be in till past
nine, so I thought I’d better bring you your supper now.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Emmeline, in the voice in which people close a subject,
but rather to her annoyance, Jane still lingered.
‘Miss Emmeline,’ she began, with evident hesitation, ‘there’s something I
think it right to warn you about.’
‘What is it?’ asked Emmeline nervously. She felt a sudden dread that the
warning might have something to do with Diamond Jubilee.
‘Well, it’s about Alice,’ said Jane. (Emmeline breathed freely again.) ‘I
hardly like to speak of it, but I feel it’s my duty. You know Tuesday’s
the day she always turns out your room. Well, when I went in there to
put Miss Kitty to bed, I noticed the box which you keep the money in
for the Poor Children’s Home had fallen off your chest of drawers and
was lying on the floor. Well, I picked it up’—she paused, and went on
impressively—‘and I found it was quite empty!’
‘Was it?’ said Emmeline, uneasily. ‘But I don’t see what Alice has to do
with it.’
‘And you wouldn’t see,’ said Jane, in the tone habitual to grieved
charity, ‘not unless you knew Alice’s history. She was turned away from
her first place for taking some money that had been left loose in a
drawer, and Miss Bolton only took her to give her a chance of making a
fresh start. She’s been here six weeks now, and nothing’s been missed,
so we did hope she was going to do better, but I’m afraid now she is
falling back into her old ways, and that we shall have to part with her.
But don’t you say anything about this to anybody, please, Miss Emmeline.
I only told you as a warning to be careful what you leave about, and
because I knew you’d wonder about the box being empty.’
Never in her life had Emmeline felt so miserably uncomfortable. She was
a naturally honourable child, and at the bottom of her heart she knew
that she ought to confess to having taken the money herself, and not let
Alice rest under unjust suspicion a moment longer. But then Jane would
ask horrid prying questions and everything would come out. After all,
she told herself, she was really not bound to confide in Jane; it was no
business of Jane’s what she did with her money.
‘I don’t think it’s at all charitable of you to make out that poor
Alice is a thief, when you can’t possibly know anything about it!’ she
exclaimed hotly—she did feel very angry with Jane for having put her into
such a horrid position—‘and, anyhow, you can’t send her away, only Aunt
Grace can do that, and I’m sure she won’t without a much better reason
for thinking Alice took the money.’
Jane was greatly offended and astonished.
‘I hope I know my place, Miss Emmeline,’ she remarked huffily, ‘I should
never think of giving Alice notice myself, but I’ve no doubt that Miss
Bolton will when I’ve told her my suspicions, which I shall feel it my
bounden duty to do.’
‘But Jane,’ said Emmeline, almost crying, ‘do try to have a little
charity. You know how much the Bible says about charity!’
‘Miss Emmeline,’ said Jane, in her most dignified manner, ‘I don’t think
I need any little girl to teach me about the Bible, which I’ve been
through seven times already, and have got as far through the eighth time
as the seventh of Numbers; but I know my duty, and my duty is to see that
there are only honest servants in this house; and I think I’m a better
judge of who are honest than any little girl!’ And with this parting shot
she stalked away, slamming the door behind her.
‘Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?’ said Emmeline, half aloud, as
she wandered restlessly about the room. ‘I never was in such a dreadful
bother. Oh, what _can_ I do?’
‘Tell them you’ve taken the money yourself,’ whispered her conscience:
‘that’s the only honest thing to do.’
‘But that would mean betraying Diamond Jubilee, and Aunt Grace would be
sure to send him back to that wicked old Mother Grimes,’ said Emmeline,
arguing with her conscience, as people do when they cannot make up their
minds to the course of action which they know to be right. ‘Diamond
Jubilee would be ruined body and soul. Perhaps some day he would be even
hanged! No, I _must_ think of some other way.’
But wander about as she might she could think of no other plan. She did
indeed picture herself pleading eloquently with Aunt Grace not to send
Alice away, but her conscience told her that even if she succeeded,
she would still be wronging the girl by allowing her to remain under
suspicion. Besides, Aunt Grace might not listen to her any more than Jane
had done.
‘Well, anyhow, Jane can’t do anything till Aunt Grace comes home,’ she
said to herself at last, ‘and there’ll be plenty of time for settling
what to do before then, so I won’t think about it any more just now. It’s
quite time to be seeing about Diamond Jubilee’s newspapers.’
The thought struck Emmeline that she might take Diamond Jubilee her own
supper at the same time that she carried the newspapers to him. It would
be an unusually good opportunity to do so now that Jane and Cook were
both out; and, though she had meant him to live on nuts and chocolate
from that day forward, it seemed kinder to break him in more gradually.
So thought Emmeline, with some vague instinct of trying to make up for
any wrong she might be doing Alice, by being specially nice and unselfish
to Diamond Jubilee.
A few minutes later she was standing on the outskirts of the wood with
her glass of milk in one hand and her biscuit and bundle of newspapers
in the other. It had been rather difficult to climb the railings without
spilling the milk, and she could not help hoping she should not have
to carry it very far before she came across Diamond Jubilee. She had
half-expected to meet him already, lurking somewhere about the lane, or
even in the garden itself; indeed, she had peeped into the summer-house
just to make sure he was not there, but, so far there had been no sign of
him. Surely she would find him soon.
Walking slowly and cautiously for fear of spilling her milk, she made
her way on towards the Feudal Castle. At every few yards she paused, and
looked round and behind her. Just at first she did this in the hope of
seeing Diamond Jubilee, but as the trees grew thicker her glances over
her shoulder became more and more uneasy and hurried. Now that she was
alone there in the eerie moonlight, the familiar wood was a frightening,
uncanny place, full of weird shadows and dim half-seen shapes—shapes
which turned into trees when she stared at them hard, but which seemed to
change slyly back into something quite different as soon as she looked
away to see what was making that odd creaking noise on her other side.
Once, when an owl gave a loud, unearthly hoot, it was as much as Emmeline
could do not to fling down what she was carrying and run home in mad
panic, but she was a child who never could bear to be beaten, so she set
her teeth and walked steadily on.
After walking for a quarter of an hour, which seemed infinitely longer
than any other fifteen minutes in the whole course of her life, she
reached the Feudal Castle. It looked so horribly dark and lonely and
deserted as it loomed up among those ghostly moonlit trees, that it
was some moments before Emmeline could summon up courage to open the
worm-eaten door and step into the darkness inside, but at last she forced
herself to do so.
She started, and trembled all over at the echo of her own footsteps on
the bare floor.
‘Are you there, Diamond Jubilee?’ she asked, in a voice which sounded to
herself so unnatural that it frightened her more than ever.
There was no answer, but to her excited nerves the whole place seemed
full of half-heard whisperings and mutterings. The terror of it was too
much for her, and, dropping her newspapers and the biscuit on to the
floor, she fled out of the cottage and ran wildly home.
Once she tripped over a tree-root and fell, spilling all her milk, which
had not already been splashed out—she had not dared to leave it at the
Feudal Castle for fear of the glass being missed—but she scrambled up
again without even waiting to find out whether she was hurt or the
tumbler broken.
She was back at last in the safe hall of Fir-tree Cottage, blinking her
eyes in the bright lamplight, and reflecting ruefully that, after all,
her expedition had been of very little use, since she had not been able
to tell Diamond Jubilee of the biscuit and newspapers which were awaiting
him at the Feudal Castle if only he would go and sleep there, or to
explain the purpose for which the newspapers were intended.
‘Well, it’s no use troubling about him any more to-night,’ she said to
herself wearily as she went upstairs. ‘I’ve done all I can, and, anyhow,
he doesn’t seem to be sleeping in the garden, which is one good thing.
It’s very odd where he can be, though.’
She put the glass back on its tray—fortunately, it had not been
broken—and went to her own room. It was not quite bedtime yet, but she
was still feeling too creepy to want to sit up alone. The first thing
that met her ear when she opened the door was the sound of Kitty crying,
not howling, as she often did, but just crying in a low, unhappy way.
‘Why, Kitty!’ exclaimed Emmeline, impatiently—it was a relief to be
impatient with somebody just then—’ I thought you’d have been asleep long
ago. You _are_ a baby to be still crying because you were sent to bed
early! You’d have been in bed by now, anyhow.’
‘It’s n-not that,’ sobbed Kitty.
‘What is it, then?’ demanded Emmeline, sharply.
‘Because—I don’t think I was _true_ this afternoon,’ said Kitty,
tearfully. ‘Jane asked if the lift was for Micky’s toys, and I lowered my
head, and I think she thought I was nodding, though I didn’t mean her to,
but I think she thought I meant it was. And Aunt Grace says it’s almost
as bad as to let people think what’s not true as to tell a story. Oh,
Emmeline, what shall I do?’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Kitty!’ said Emmeline, crossly. ‘Nobody would get
on at all if they were so particular as all that—at least I don’t mean
that exactly,’ as Kitty opened her eyes, ‘but you really mustn’t worry
about fancies. It wasn’t your fault if Jane chose to take a wrong idea
into her head.’
‘Then you’re _quite sure_ I wasn’t untruthful?’ asked Kitty, trying hard
to be reassured.
‘Oh yes,’ said Emmeline; ‘and now go to sleep, and don’t talk to me any
more.’
Kitty obeyed for about five minutes, but when Emmeline rose from her
knees again, after saying her prayers far more hurriedly than usual, the
effort of silence became too great a strain for the little sister.
‘Do you think adopting somebody always leads to such a lot of
horridness?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I mean the wrong one being punished for
what someone else did, and people not being sure that they haven’t as
good as told stories, and being sent to bed ever so early, and not having
any supper when they’re most frightfully hungry?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Emmeline, frightened and
angry. ‘Who’s being punished for what someone else did?’
‘Why, Punch was, of course!’ said Kitty, a little taken aback at
Emmeline’s manner; ‘though Cook did give him an extra big supper
afterwards to make up, she told me just now, but somehow I don’t think
even an extra big supper quite makes up for being accused of what you
haven’t done. Do you think it does, Emmeline?’
Emmeline made no answer, and Kitty felt snubbed and subsided into
silence. Presently afterwards Emmeline jumped into bed and blew out
the candle. The room had been dark for some little time, and Kitty was
becoming sleepy when she was startled wide-awake again by a strange
sound in the part of the room where Emmeline was lying. She sat up,
leaning on her elbows, and listened. Yes, there it was again! There could
be no mistake about it. Emmeline was crying!
A moment later Kitty had scrambled on to Emmeline’s counterpane, and was
cuddling her in the most motherly way imaginable.
‘What is it, my poor darling?’ she was asking, in the tender voice that
she usually kept for Punch. She and Micky, though very devoted, were not
demonstrative to each other.
Just at first Emmeline went on sobbing without making any answer, in a
way which was alarmingly strange to Kitty; and even when the answer did
come, it puzzled Kitty more than it enlightened her. ‘Oh, I wish I was a
dear, good, little thing like you!’ whispered Emmeline, catching hold of
her.
‘Why, Emmeline!’ cried Kitty, with unfeigned astonishment. ‘You are
always ever so much gooder than me and Micky—quite annoyingly good
sometimes.’
‘No, I’m not,’ cried Emmeline. ‘I’m horrid!’
‘I’m sure you’re not horrid,’ said Kitty loyally. ‘You’re very nice and
kind. Why, Micky and I would never have even thought of taking Diamond
Jubilee as a brand from the burning if it hadn’t been for you!’
Perhaps this reflection was less comforting than Kitty imagined; but
Emmeline relapsed into silence after that—silence which lasted so long
that Kitty fancied she had fallen asleep, and crept back to her own bed.
But it was a long time before Emmeline really fell asleep that night.