SUSY'S FEVERISH DESIRE.
Hudson was waiting for Marjorie when she came back to her bedroom.
"I don't know what to do, miss," she said to the little girl. "I'm
aware it's Mr. Wilton's orders, but still, what am I to do with the
poor woman? She's crying fit to break her heart, and it do seem cruel
not to sympathize with her. It's a shame to worry you, Miss Maggie,
but you're a very understanding little lady for your years."
"Well, Hudson, I'll help if I can," said Marjorie. "Who's the poor
woman? and what is she crying about?"
"It's Mrs. Collins, my dear. It seems that Susy isn't going on at all
satisfactory. The doctor says she has a kind of low fever, no way
catching, but very bad for the poor little girl. Susy cries quite
piteous to see Miss Ermengarde, and it does seem cruel that under the
circumstances there should be distinctions in rank."
"But Ermie is away," said Marjorie. "Susy can't see her, however much
she wishes to. Did you tell Mrs. Collins that?"
"I did, dear, and she said she daren't go back to the poor child with
a message of that sort; that she was so fretted, and contrary, and
feverish as it was, that she quite feared what would happen."
"But what's to be done, Hudson? Ermie really is far away, and nothing,
nothing that we can do can bring her back to-night."
"I know, Miss Maggie, but poor women with only children are apt to be
unreasonable, and Mrs. Collins does go on most bitter. She says she
knows there's a secret on Susy's mind, and she feels certain sure that
the child will never take a turn for the better until she can let out
what's preying on her. Mrs. Collins is certain that Miss Ermengarde
knows something about Susy, and that they have had some words between
them, and she says there'll be no rest for the poor little creature
until she and Miss Ermie have made whatever is wrong straight."
Marjorie stood looking very thoughtful.
"It's late, my dear, and you're tired," said the servant. "It seems a
shame to worry you. Hadn't you better go to bed?"
"Oh, don't, Hudson," said Marjorie. "What does it matter about my
going to bed, or even if I am a bit tired? I'm thinking about poor
Susy, and about Ermie. I've got a thought--I wonder--Hudson, I wish
father hadn't said so firmly that Ermengarde was not to see Susy
Collins."
"Well, missy, my master is in the right. Little ladies do themselves
no good when they make friends and equals of children like Susy. They
do themselves no good, and they do still more harm to the poor
children, whose heads get filled up with vain thoughts. But that's
neither here nor there, Miss Maggie, in the present case. Illness
alters everything, and levels all ranks, and if Miss Ermengarde was at
home, she ought to go and see Susy, and that without a minute's delay,
and your good father would be the very first to tell her so, Miss
Maggie."
"Then I know what I'll do," said Marjorie. "I'll go straight away this
minute to Miss Nelson, and ask her if _I_ may go and see Susy. I dare
say she'll let me--I'll try what I can do, anyhow. You run down and
tell Mrs. Collins, Hudson. I'm not Ermie, but I dare say Susy would
rather see me than no one."
Miss Nelson was writing letters in her own room, when Marjorie with a
flushed eager face burst in upon her. She made her request with great
earnestness. Miss Nelson listened anxiously.
"I will see Mrs. Collins," she said at last. The poor woman was
brought up to the governess's room, and at sight of her evident grief
Miss Nelson at once saw that she must act on her own independent
judgment, and explain matters by and by to Mr. Wilton.
"Ermengarde is away," she said to Mrs. Collins, "but if the case is
really serious, she can be sent for, and in the meantime I will take
Marjorie myself to the cottage, and if your little girl wishes to see
her, she can do so. Fetch your hat, Marjorie, dear, and a warm wrap,
for the dews are heavy to-night."
Marjorie was not long in getting herself ready, and twenty minutes
later the poor anxious mother and her two visitors found themselves in
the cottage.
"Look here, Mrs. Collins," said Marjorie, the moment they entered the
house. "I want you not to tell Susy I have come. I'd like to slip
upstairs very gently, and just see if I can do anything for her. I'll
promise to be awfully quiet, and not to do her a scrap of harm."
Mrs. Collins hesitated for a moment. Marjorie was not the Miss Wilton
Susy was asking for, and she feared exciting the poor refractory
little girl by not carrying out her wishes exactly. But as Susy's
tired feverish voice was distinctly heard in the upper room, and as
Miss Nelson said, "I think you can fully trust Marjorie; she is a most
tender little nurse," Mrs. Collins yielded.
"You must do as you think best, miss," she said.
Marjorie did not wait for another word. She ran lightly up the narrow
stairs, and entered the room where the sick child was sitting up in
bed.
"Is that you, Miss Ermie?" said Susy. "I thought you were never
coming--never. I thought you had forsook me, just when I am so bad,
and like to die."
"It's me, Susy," said Marjorie, coming forward. "Ermengarde's away, so
I came."
"Oh, I don't want you, Miss Marjorie," said Susan.
She flung herself back on the bed, and taking up the sheet threw it
over her face. Marjorie went up to the bedside.
"There ain't a bit of use in your staying, Miss Marjorie," continued
Susy, in a high-pitched, excited voice. "You don't know nothing 'bout
me and the picture. You ain't no good at all."
Marjorie's heart gave a great bound. The picture! That must surely
mean the broken miniature. "Basil, dear Basil," whispered the little
girl, "you may not have to live down all the horrid, wicked, cruel
suspicion after all."
"I wish you'd go away, Miss Marjorie," said Susy from under the
bedclothes. "I tell you miss, you can't do me one bit of good. You
don't know nothing about me and the picture."
"But I can hold your hand, Susy," said Marjorie; "and if your hand is
hot, mine is lovely and cool. If you're restless, let me hold your
hand. I often do so to baby if he can't sleep, and it quiets him ever
so."
Susy did not respond for a minute or two, but presently her poor
little hot hand was pushed out from under the bedclothes. Marjorie
grasped it firmly. Then she took the other hand, and softly rubbed the
hot, dry fingers. Susy opened her burning eyes, flung aside the sheet,
and looked at her quiet little visitor.
"You comfort me a bit, miss," she said. "I don't feel so mad with
restlessness as I did when you came in."
"That's because I have got soothing hands," said Marjorie. "Some
people have, and I suppose I'm one. The children at home always go to
sleep when I hold their hands. Don't you think you could shut your
eyes and try to go to sleep now, Susy?"
"Oh, miss, there's a weight on my mind. You can't sleep when you're
ill and like to die, and there's a weight pressing down on you."
"I don't believe you'll die, Susy; and if you've a weight on your
mind, you can tell God about it, you know."
"No, miss, God's awful angry with me."
"He's never angry with us, if we are sorry about things," answered
Marjorie. "He's our Father, and fathers always forgive their children
when they are sorry. If you are sorry, Susy, you can tell God, your
Father, and he'll be sure to forgive you at once."
"I'm sorry enough, miss, but I think Miss Ermie is as bad as me. I'd
never have done it, never, but for Miss Ermie. I think it's mean of
her to keep away from me when I'm ill."
"Ermengarde is not at home, Susy; but if you want her very badly, if
you really want her for anything important, I will write to her, and
she shall come home--I know she will."
"Thank you, Miss Marjorie; I didn't think nothing at all about what I
did when I was well, but now it seems to stay with me day and night,
and I'm sorry I was so spiteful and mean to Miss Nelson. But it wasn't
_my_ fault, miss--no, that it wasn't--that the picture was broke. What
is it, Miss Marjorie? How you start."
"Nothing," said Marjorie; "only perhaps, Susy, you'd rather tell Ermie
the rest; and she _shall_ come back; I promise you that that she
shall come back."
"Thank you, Miss Marjorie; you are real good, and you comfort me
wonderfully when you hold my hands."
"Well, I wish you'd let me put your sheets a little straight; there,
that's better. Now I'm going to turn your pillow. And Susy, do let me
push all that tangled hair out of your eyes. Now I'm going to kneel
here, and you must shut your eyes. I promise you shall see Ermie.
Good-night, Susy; go to sleep."
Miss Nelson waited quietly in the little kitchen downstairs. The
voices in Susy's sickroom ceased to murmur; presently Mrs. Collins
stole softly upstairs. She returned in a few minutes accompanied by
Marjorie. There were tears in the poor woman's eyes.
"My Susy's in a blessed, beautiful sleep!" she exclaimed. "And it's
all owing to this dear little lady; may Heaven reward her! I don't
know how to thank you, Miss Marjorie. Susy hasn't been in a blessed
healthful sleep like that since she broke her leg. It puts heart into
me to see the child looking quiet and peaceful once again. And now
I'll go upstairs and sit with her."
Miss Nelson and Marjorie walked quickly home together. When they
reached the house, the little girl made one request of her governess.
"I want to write to Ermie. May I do it to-night?"
"No, my love, I must forbid that. You are much too tired."
"But it _is_ so important--far more important than I can tell you, and
I promised Susy."
"Maggie, do you want Ermengarde to come home?"
"Oh, yes; she must come home."
"Then you shall send her a telegram in the morning."
"But that seems cruel. My letter will be far, far better. I could
explain things a little in a letter."
Miss Nelson considered for a moment.
"I have great trust in you, Maggie," she said. "I won't question you,
for I daresay you have heard something from Susan Collins in
confidence. I am sure you would not wish to recall Ermengarde unless
there was great need."
"There is; oh, really, there is."
"Then you shall go to bed now, and I will send you to Glendower with
Hudson by the first train in the morning."