Red Pottage Part 46

He tried to raise her, but she held him tightly with her bleeding hands, looking up at him with a convulsed face. His own hands were red, as he vainly tried to loosen hers.

"They have killed my book," she said. "They have killed my book. They burned it alive when I was away. And my head went. I don't know what I did, but I think I killed Regie. I know I meant to."

CHAPTER XLII

"Is it well with the child?"

"I am not really anxious," said Mr. Gresley, looking out across the Vicarage laurels to the white fields and hedges. All was blurred and vague and very still. The only thing that had a distinct outline was the garden railing, with a solitary rook on it.

"I am not really anxious," he said again, sitting down at the breakfast-table. But his face contradicted him. It was blue and pinched, for he had just returned from reading the morning service to himself in an ice-cold church, but there was a pucker in the brow that was not the result of cold. The Vicarage porch had fallen down in the night, but he was evidently not thinking of that. He drank a little coffee, and then got up and walked to the window again.

"She is with the Pratts," he said, with decision. "I am glad I sent a note over early, if it will relieve your mind, but I am convinced she is with the Pratts."

Mrs. Gresley murmured something. She looked scared. She made an attempt to eat something, but it was a mere pretence.

The swing door near the back staircase creaked. In the Vicarage you could hear everything.

Mr. and Mrs. Gresley looked eagerly at the door. The parlor-maid came in with a note between her finger and thumb.

"She is not there," said Mr. Gresley, in a shaking voice. "I wrote Mr.

Pratt such a guarded letter, saying Hester had imprudently run across to see them on her return home, and how grateful I was to Mrs. Pratt for not allowing her to return, as it had begun to snow. He says he and Mrs.

Pratt have not seen her."

"James," said Mrs. Gresley, "where _is_ she?"

A second step shuffled across the hail, and Fraulein stood in the door-way. Her pale face was drawn with anxiety. In both hands she clutched a trailing skirt plastered with snow, hitched above a pair of large goloshed feet, into which the legs were grafted without ankles.

"She has not return?"

"No," said Mr. Gresley, "and she is not with the Pratts."

"I know always she is not wiz ze Pratts," said Fraulein, scornfully.

"She never go to Pratt if she is in grief. I go out at half seven this morning to ze Br-r-rowns, but Miss Br-r-rown know nozing. I go to Wilderleigh, I see Mrs. Loftus still in bed, but she is not there. I go to Evannses, I go to Smeeth, I go last to Mistair Valsh, but she is not there."

Mr. Gresley began to experience something of what Fraulein had been enduring all night.

"She would certainly not go from my house to a Dissenter's," he said, stiffly. "You might have saved yourself the trouble of calling there, Fraulein."

"She like Mr. and Mrs. Valsh. She gives them her book."

Fraulein's voice drowned the m.u.f.fled rumbling of a carriage and a ring at the bell, the handle of which, uninjured amid the chaos, kept watch above the remains of the late porch.

The Bishop stood a moment in the little hall, while the maid went into the dining-room to tell the Gresleys of his arrival. His eyes rested on the pile of letters on the table, on the dead flowers beside them. They had been so beautiful yesterday when he gave them to Hester. Hester herself had been so pretty yesterday.

The maid came back and asked him to "step" into the dining-room.

Mr. and Mrs. Gresley had risen from their chairs. Their eyes were fixed anxiously upon him. Fraulein gave a little shriek and rushed at him.

"She is viz you?" she gasped, shaking him by the arm.

"She is with me," said the Bishop, looking only at Fraulein, and taking her shaking hands in his.

"Thank G.o.d," said Mr. Gresley, and Mrs. Gresley sat down and began to cry.

Some of the sternness melted out of the Bishop's face as he looked at the young couple.

"I came as soon as I could," he said. "I started soon after seven, but the roads are heavy."

"This is a great relief," said Mr. Gresley. He began on his deepest organ note, but it quavered quite away on the word relief for want of wind.

"How is Regie?" said the Bishop. It was his turn to be anxious.

"Regie is verr vell," said Fraulein, with decision. "Tell her he is so vell as he vas."

"He is very much shaken," said Mrs. Gresley, indignant mother-love flas.h.i.+ng in her wet eyes. "He is a delicate child, and she, Hester--may G.o.d forgive her!--struck him in one of her pa.s.sions. She might have killed him. And the poor child fell and bruised his arm and shoulder.

And he was bringing her a little present when she did it. The child had done nothing whatever to annoy her, had he, James?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Gresley, and his conscience p.r.i.c.king him, he added, "I must own Hester had always seemed fond of Regie till last night."

He felt that it would not be entirely fair to allow the Bishop to think that Hester was in the habit of maltreating the children.

"I have told him that his own mother will take care of him," said Mrs.

Gresley, "and that he need not be afraid, his aunt shall never come back again. When I saw his little arm I felt I could never trust Hester in the house again." As Mrs. Gresley spoke she felt she was making certainty doubly sure that the woman of whom she was jealous would return no more.

"Regie cry till his 'ead ache because you say Miss Gresley no come back," said Fraulein, looking at Mrs. Gresley, as if she would have bitten a piece out of her.

"I think, Fraulein, it is the children's lesson-time," said Mr. Gresley, majestically.

Who could have imagined that un.o.btrusive, submissive Fraulein, gentlest and shyest of women, would put herself forward in this aggressive manner. The truth is, it is all very well to talk, you never can tell what people will do. They suddenly turn round and act exactly opposite to their whole previous character. Look at Fraulein!

That poor lady, recalled thus to a sense of duty, hurried from the room, and the Bishop, who had opened the door for her, closed it gently behind her.

"You must excuse her, my lord," said Mr. Gresley; "the truth is, we are all somewhat upset this morning. Hester would have saved us much uneasiness, I may say anxiety, if she had mentioned to us yesterday evening that she was going back to you. No doubt she overtook your carriage, which put up at the inn for half an hour."

"No," said the Bishop, "she came on foot. She--walked all the way."

Mr. Gresley smiled. "I am afraid, my lord, Hester has given you an inaccurate account. I a.s.sure you, she is incapable of walking five miles, much less ten."

"She took about five hours to do it," said the Bishop, who had hesitated an instant, as if swallowing something unpalatable. "In moments of great excitement nervous persons like your sister are capable of almost anything. The question is, whether she will survive the shock that drove her out of your house last night. Her hands are severely burned. Dr.

Brown, whom I left with her, fears brain fever."

The Bishop paused, giving his words time to sink in. Then he went on slowly in a level voice, looking into the fire.

"She still thinks that she has killed Regie. She won't believe the doctor and me when we a.s.sure her she has not. She turns against us for deceiving her."