A Girl in Spring Time Part 8

"Oh, Mademoiselle, it is one thing to rest, and another to allow some one else to do the same. My lady goes to bed but not to sleep. She lies awake for hours, and she is cross sometimes, but so cross! She speaks so shrill, so loud, one would suppose a calamity should happen.

It is bad for the nerves to hear such sounds in the night-time. I have been afraid for Mademoiselle lest she should be disturbed. Her windows are so near, and when the house is quiet--"

"Oh, you need not be afraid for me! I sleep like a top when I once begin. Sometimes we have had dreadful thunder-storms in the night at school, and half the girls have been sitting up s.h.i.+vering in their dressing-gowns, but I have known nothing about them until the morning.

Besides, it is such a long way round to get to Lady Sarah's room, that I never realised before that her windows were so near."

Mildred craned her head as she spoke to look out of the window. As she had said, the entrance to Lady Sarah's room was some distance along the corridor, and round a corner, but, as it was situated in a wing of the house which stood out at right angles from the main wall, the window was but a few yards from Mildred's own.

"I never realised that I was so near!" repeated the girl dreamily, and as she busied herself with the folds of the skirt Cecile frowned and bit her lip, as though annoyed with herself for an incautious remark.

"I am glad you have not been disturbed. I feared it might be so, but if Mademoiselle should any time hear a noise in the night she will understand--she will go to sleep again quite satisfied. I am always there in my lady's dressing-room, ready to go when she calls."

"Oh, yes, I'll remember!" said Mildred easily; "but I am not in the least likely to hear. I can't understand how people can go on talking after they are in bed. When I go home for the holidays I sleep with my mother, and I have so much to say that I try hard to keep awake, but I can't. We talk for a little time, then she says something, and I repeat it over and over to myself, trying to understand what it means. It is probably the simplest thing in the world, but it seems like Greek, and while I am still trying to puzzle it out, I fall asleep and remember nothing more till the next day."

"Oh, yes! but you are young and my lady is old. Sleep does not come to her as to you, and she is so that she cannot bear anyone to have what she has not. If she is miserable, it is her pleasure that I also should suffer."

Mildred knitted her brows and stared at the maid in disapproving fas.h.i.+on.

"I don't think you ought to talk like that, Cecile," she said boldly.

"You are always paying Lady Sarah compliments to her face, so you ought not to abuse her behind her back. Besides, I don't think she is cross to you. She seems kinder to you than to other people. We all notice it."

"Ah, yes!" replied Cecile scornfully; "my lady can be amiable enough when it suits; but to live with all day long, to have her as mistress-- ah, Mademoiselle thinks she can understand what that means! But wait a little time, wait until Mrs Faucit shall go away and my lady is left in charge, then you shall see! You will feel for me then for what I undergo!"

Mildred's eyes widened in astonishment.

"But she is not going away! What do you mean by saying such a thing?

How could she go away when she has visitors in the house, and her children are home for the holidays?"

The Frenchwoman flushed and looked strangely embarra.s.sed.

"Oh, I mean nothing--nothing! I had the impression that it was said.

The servants talk among themselves, Mademoiselle. But you know best-- you are of the family. It has been a mistake. See, then, Mademoiselle, I have made what I can. Do you find the dress is better?"

"It looks ever so much nicer, Cecile. I can't imagine what you have done to make such an improvement. I am awfully obliged to you for all your trouble."

"It is nothing, Mademoiselle, not worth speaking about. When the lace is on and the ribbon--big, full bows instead of the little, old ones-- you shall see what a difference I make. They will say no one can tie a bow like a Frenchwoman; and even in Paris, where I learn my business, no one in the room could make one like me. I had them always to arrange, on the handsomest dresses. Mademoiselle shall see the lovely bows I shall make--"

Cecile lifted a roll of s.h.i.+mmering, satin ribbon from the table as she spoke, and shaking out a length of two or three yards, began to gather it up in her fingers. It was a beautiful ribbon, soft and thick, and of the richest texture, but Mildred flushed as she looked at it, and her voice sounded sharp and disapproving.

"What ribbon is that? It's not mine! You are not going to put that on my dress, Cecile!"

"But yes, Mademoiselle, I was told to do so. My lady rang the bell and asked what I did. When I said I helped with the dress of Mademoiselle Mildred, she took the ribbon from her drawer and asked if it should be useful. 'Use what you will,' she say to me. It is a beautiful ribbon, Mademoiselle, and goes well with the lace. You look not satisfied, but believe me, when you see it arranged, you will agree--"

"I wasn't thinking about that. I dare say it would look very nice, but I can't take it, Cecile," said the girl firmly. "I am glad you have not cut it up, for it will not be spoiled. I am much obliged to Lady Sarah, and you may tell her so, but I prefer to use my own things. If the old ribbon is too shabby, I can do without altogether; but it's no use putting that on, for I won't wear it."

Cecile stared in amazement, but there was no mistaking the girl's sincerity. Her eyes were bright with anger, she held her head at a defiant angle, and her lips were pressed into a thin scarlet line.

Mildred was disgusted to hear that Lady Sarah had any share whatever in Cecile's services. She wished with all her heart that she had not accepted the Frenchwoman's offer. Now if the dress looked at all respectable on the day of the picnic, Lady Sarah would take the credit to herself, because she had allowed her maid to make alterations; and how dare she send contributions of her own, and give instructions as to what was to be done with them, without asking permission!

Cecile was quite awed by the young lady's air of indignation, and carried away the white ribbon without a word of protest. She evidently informed her mistress of what had occurred, for after dinner the same evening Lady Sarah detained Mildred on her way to the garden, to question her on the subject.

"So, Miss Mildred, my maid tells me that you refused to use the ribbon which I gave her for your dress. Is that true, may I ask?"

"Yes, quite true. I told Cecile to tell you that I was very much obliged for the offer, but that I preferred to wear my own things."

"You are very independent. Was the ribbon not to your fancy? Have you one of your own which you prefer?"

"Oh, no, it was beautiful; it could not have been nicer!"

"Your own is not so good?"

"Not nearly so good, Lady Sarah!"

Cecile might well have said that Mildred had the good, straight back, if she had seen her at this moment. Her cheeks were flushed, but her mouth had the stubborn look which her friends knew so well.

"You refuse, then, simply because you object to receiving anything from me?"

"I am much obliged to you, Lady Sarah, but I prefer to wear my own things."

"Oh, well, well!" sighed the other wearily; "I won't argue with you, my dear. Do as you please. I meant to do you a kindness, but, if you choose to take it in this way, there is no use saying anything about it.

Don't let me keep you. Run away to your friends."

She turned towards the window as she spoke, and the sun shone full on her face. It looked tired and grey, and very, very old; and the thin hands crossed on her lap, how shrivelled they were!--they trembled all the time as though they could not keep still. Mildred walked out into the garden, a pang of compunction at her heart. Dreadful to be so old!--not to be able to see without spectacles; to hear,--unless people spoke at the pitch of their voices; to walk,--unless supported by a stick; to feel cold even on the hottest day; to feel tired the first thing in the morning;--how dreadful! Lady Sarah had looked sad too--not merely cross, as usual, but really and truly sad and lonely.

Suppose she had seriously meant to be kind--to show that she regretted her interference in the past? Mildred's face clouded over as this thought pa.s.sed through her mind, but before she crossed the lawn to join her friends her lips stiffened into the old, obstinate line.

"I don't care. She had no right to send in her sc.r.a.ps of finery, without even asking my permission. And after saying that Mother didn't provide for me properly, too! No, I am not a bit sorry; I would do the same thing over again!"

CHAPTER TEN.

AN UNEXPECTED DEPARTURE.

The day before the eventful picnic the family were seated round the breakfast-table, when the Dean looked up from a letter which he had just been reading, and said mildly, and as if he were making the most natural request in the world:

"Evelyn, will you get ready to go up to town by the five o'clock train this afternoon? The Archbishop has appointed our interview for three o'clock to-morrow. You had better pack for two or three nights."

Mrs Faucit gave an irrepressible start of consternation. Was ever anything so unfortunate! The interview with the Archbishop had been talked of for months past; half a dozen letters had been exchanged on the subject within the last fortnight; the question which was to be discussed was of pressing importance. She realised at once that the appointment must be kept, but her heart sank as she looked at the three young faces beside her--aghast, and speechless with horror.

"Oh! is it really to-morrow?" she cried. "Are you quite sure, dear?

Look again! you so often make mistakes in the date. Does he say Wednesday the sixteenth, or Wednesday the twenty-third?"

The Dean peered at his letter once more.

"He says: _I shall be able to meet you on Wednesday next, sixteenth instant_. It is certainly to-morrow. Why, Evelyn; is there any reason why--er--?"

"It is the day of Mrs Newland's picnic. I have accepted her invitation--"

"Oh, is that all!" Her husband drew a sigh of relief. "You must write, of course, and explain your absence. She will understand, and it will be a relief to you, dear. I--er--I have some recollection of being at a picnic myself years ago. Uncomfortable occasion! Er--earwigs--meals on the gra.s.s--baskets to carry. You would have been very tired. Much more comfortable at the Metropole!"