Etheldreda the Ready Part 23

It was nearly a week later, when one morning, as Rowena stood by the bedside, the invalid's quick eyes caught the flash of diamonds on the third finger of her sister's left hand. She pounced upon it, and holding it fast, despite the other's struggles, demanded tersely:

"What's that?"

"Oh, Dreda, I--I have been waiting to tell you! The doctor said you were to be kept so quiet. It's a--a-- Guy gave it to me."

"Guy?" The face on the pillow was all blank surprise and bewilderment.

"What Guy?"

"Guy Seton--my Guy! It's an engagement ring. Oh, Dreda, I have been longing to tell you. I'm _so_--happy!"

"You--are--engaged--to Guy Seton?" repeated Dreda blankly. Instead of the radiant smile which Rowena expected, her face hardened with displeasure, and she drew her brows together in a frown. "When? How?

Why? I never dreamt of such a thing. It seems too extraordinary to be true."

"Oh, Dreda, why? We think it so natural. We were made for each other.

It seems as if we must always have been engaged. I thought you would be so pleased."

"Well, I'm not," declared Dreda decidedly. "Not at all. I don't like it one bit. It upsets all my plans. I used to imagine that father would get all his money back and I should come home from school and go about with you--two fair young _debutantes_--always together, having such fun, sitting up afterwards in our bedrooms brus.h.i.+ng our hair and talking over what had happened as they do in books. It will be so dull being alone with no one but Maud. Oh, Rowena, you _are_ selfis.h.!.+"

But Rowena only laughed, and dimpled complacently.

"Oh, Dreda, you _are_ funny! You didn't expect me always to stay at home, did you? I am the eldest; it is only natural that I should be married first, and if I _am_ to be married, surely you would rather have Guy than anyone else! There is no one like him. All the men we have known are like puppets compared with him. He is so true, so strong, so n.o.ble. You ought to be proud, Dreda, that you are going to have him for a brother."

"Well, I'm not," declared Dreda once more. "It's not a bit what I expected. I thought that first day he seemed so taken with _me_! I thought--at least, I didn't think, but I _should_ have thought if I had thought, do you understand?--that he would have wanted to be engaged to _me_! Not yet, of course, but he could have waited till I was grown up.

And you were so huffy and stiff, and I raced across the fields to find mother, and took such trouble. It doesn't seem fair!"

But Rowena only laughed again, without a trace of offence.

"Poor old Dreda, it _is_ hard lines. Never mind, dear; think of the wedding, and how you will enjoy being chief bridesmaid, and how lovely it will be when you come to stay with me in my own little house. Won't it be fun doing just as we like, and ordering the dinners, and having parties whenever we like, and being absolutely and entirely our own mistresses, with no one to say: `Don't!' or `You must not,' or `I'll leave it to you, dear--but you know my wishes!' That's the worst of all, for it seems to put you on your honour, and then you're powerless.

You must often come to stay with us, Dreda dear."

Dreda lay silently, considering the situation. The prospect painted by Rowena was sufficiently enticing to mitigate her first displeasure.

Pictures of bridal processions pa.s.sed before her eyes; pictures of a charmingly artistic little house, which would be as a second home, an ideal home free from discipline and authority. The frown faded, her lips relaxed, a dimple dipped in her cheek.

"You must let me choose the bridesmaids' dresses, and help to arrange the drawing-room. I should have it green, with white paint; but you must be awfully particular about the shade. I've got a wonderful eye for colour--Fraulein says so. So _that_ was why you never listened when people spoke to you, and kept on smiling in that silly way! I asked mother, but she put me off. Rowena, tell me. What did he say?"

"_Dreda_!"

Rowena, drawing herself up with a most grown-up access of hauteur, gave it to be understood that such questions were an outrage on good taste, and her younger sister was obliged to turn to subjects less embarra.s.sing and intimate.

"Well, how did you feel then, when it was all settled and you had time to think?"

"Very happy--utterly happy and contented. There seemed nothing I could wish altered; except, oh, Dreda, I was sorry about the past. I wanted to tell you about that, so that you might be warned in time. Father and mother were so sweet to Guy and me; they never seemed to think of themselves, but only of our happiness; but when I said good-night I saw the tears in mother's eyes, and I said to myself, `You had the chance of helping her when she was in trouble and of showing her what a comfort a daughter could be; but you were cross and selfish, and threw _it_ aside, and now _it_ is too late. It can never, never come back. You have missed your chance.' That thought was like a cloud over my happiness.

I had felt so disappointed to miss my season in London, so angry at having to teach Maud, so ill-used at being shut up in the country, that I had no time to be sorry for anyone but myself. I made things _worse_ for mother by moping and looking cross and dull, and I was a Tartar to Maud. Poor old Maud! She was far more patient with me than I was with her; and after all, Dreda, it was here, in the place I hated, living the life I dreaded, that I met Guy, the big, big prize of my life! I feel so much older since I was engaged. One seems to _understand_ everything so differently. And I have thought of you so often, dear, and hoped that you may never lose your chance as I have done mine. Your _home_ chance, I mean--the chance of being a real good daughter to father and mother. Then you can never reproach yourself as I do now."

Dreda stared with big, surprised eyes. Well might Rowena say that she was changed! It might have been mother herself who was speaking. Such gravity, such penitence, such humility, were new indeed from the lips of the erstwhile proud and complacent young beauty! Dreda lay awake that night pondering over the great news of the day, with all its consequences to Rowena and herself.

Meanwhile Norah lay helpless in her bedroom at the other side of the house, and though the agonising pain of the first few days was mercifully a thing of the past, the doctor did not disguise the fact that a long and weary convalescence lay ahead before anything like walking could be possible. In a week or two she might be able to be lifted from bed, with the splints still firmly in position; in a week or two more she might get about on crutches, but for how long the crutches would be necessary it was impossible to say. Only one thing was certain: there was no chance of returning to school!

Norah took the verdict very quietly. Once relieved from pain, she was a patient, uncomplaining invalid, and gave little trouble to her nurses.

That she was depressed in spirits seemed only natural under the circ.u.mstances. Her brother's illness made it impossible for her own mother to be near her; her constrained position made it difficult to read; and her own thoughts were not too cheerful companions for the long, dragging hours. Everyone rejoiced when at last Dreda was well enough to be wrapped in a dressing-gown and escorted across the landing to have tea in Norah's room. A bright fire burned on the hearth; a little table, spread with tempting fare, stood by the bed; and Dreda, propped up in a big armchair, was left to play the part of mistress of the ceremonies.

"They will be happier without us. We will leave them to have their talk alone," whispered the elders to each other, as they left the room; but the two girls were mutually suffering from a sense of embarra.s.sment which made conversation difficult to begin.

"How thin she is! Her nose is sharper than ever. Poor dear, she _is_ plain!" reflected Dreda, candid and clear-sighted.

"How thin she is! All her colour has gone, but she looks pretty still.

She always does look pretty," reflected Norah in her turn. She lifted her cup in a trembling hand, looking wistfully at her companion with gaunt, spectacled eyes.

"I am so sorry you were ill... It was all my fault. I kept you there in the cold... Doctor Reed says I should have been plucky and made up my mind to bear the pain ... It's easy to talk when your bones are whole. When they are broken and sticking into your flesh you feel quite different. It seemed easier to die than to move, but it was hard lines on you... I'm sorry you were ill."

Dreda beamed rea.s.surement, thoroughly enjoying the position of receiving apologies.

"My dear, don't mention it. I have suffered too, and I _quite_ understand. Pneumonia's hateful! I never could have imagined that it was possible to feel so ill. I couldn't have thought of anyone in the world, but just how to draw the next breath.--It _is_ so nice to feel well again; but I'm dreadfully sympathetic about your knee. When you were lying with your head on my knee that afternoon, I was sorry I'd been so disagreeable at school. You feel such _remorse_ when you've snapped at people, and then see them all white and still, with their eyes turned up.--I thought such lots of thoughts that afternoon, and I'm going to be quite different at school. Much nicer--you see if I'm not!"

Nora shook her head, and her eyes sank in painful discomfiture.

"No! I shan't see. I shan't be there. The doctor says I shall not be fit for school. I shall never go back to West End. Perhaps it's just as well. The girls never liked me very much, and now it would be worse than ever--and Miss Drake--Miss Drake would be furious! ... I never meant to tell, but I've been miserable ever since, and now I've broken my knee--and, when I lay awake crying with pain those first awful nights I made up my mind to tell, whether it was found out or not. It's awful to have a pain in your body and in your mind as well. Did you guess it was me, Dreda?"

"You--_what_?" queried Dreda vacantly. Then the colour rushed into her face, and half a dozen questions tripped together on her tongue. "Oh-h, was it _you_ who hid my things? All the things I lost? My pencils, my books, my gloves, the clock that I heard ticking in my hat-box, my slippers that were on the top of the wardrobe? Oh, Norah, _why_? What made you do it? Was it for fun?"

Norah shook her head.

"Oh, no. The most deadly earnest. You were Susan's chum, and you patronised me, and gave yourself airs, and I was angry and jealous, and _wanted_ to vex you. It was the only thing I could think of, and it amused me to see you fume and rage. I hid them all--every single thing.

So now you know!"

Dreda sat open-mouthed and aghast. What she felt was not so much horror at thought of the deliberate unkindness, as sheer bewilderment at the discovery that a human being existed who cherished a positive dislike to her irresistible self. She had disliked Norah--that had seemed natural enough--but that Norah should return that dislike was a thought which had not even vaguely suggested itself to her mind. It was as if an earthquake had shaken the foundations of her complacent self-esteem.

She had a second vision of herself as a novice coming among old pupils and companions, laying down the law, starting new enterprises, claiming the first place, and with it came also a new insight into Norah's suffering, seeing all that had been denied to herself bequeathed so lavishly to a stranger. Instead of the expected outburst of anger, Norah saw with amazement the big tears rise in Dreda's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Norah! I was very horrid. You took an awful lot of trouble. I lost nothing, after all, so you needn't worry, and they were all quite little things."

"Not all! They weren't all little. The synopsis, for instance; you didn't think _that_ little."

"Oh, Norah, did _you_ hide it? That _was_ cruel! I had worked so hard--had taken such pains. The Duck was so cross! You took it out of my desk, and put it back when I was in the study, just to make me look careless and stupid. Is it really true? I never for one moment believed that anyone had done it on purpose. I can't believe it now."

"It's true, all the same. I did it. I made up my mind to tell you, and I will... I did worse than that... Can you guess what I did?"

They stared at one another across the neglected tea table; stared in silence while one might have counted ten; then Dreda drew a quick, fearful breath.

"No--no, not that! Not the essay--the numbers--the changed numbers!

You _could_ not have done that! ... Norah, I _couldn't_ believe it!"

"But I did, I did! It was all my doing. I didn't mean to, but Miss Drake sent me to her room, and on the desk was the parcel of papers all ready except for the string, and the girls all said yours was the best, and I didn't want you to win. I thought it would make you more conceited and bossy than ever. I wanted Susan to get the prize, so that everyone should see she was cleverer than you; but I was afraid she wouldn't, for all the girls said yours was the best. The numbers were just fastened on with clips. It jumped into my head that it would only take a moment to put your number on Susan's paper, and Susan's on yours.

Miss Drake said we were all to keep our own written copies, for Mr Rawdon, like most authors, was very unmethodical and careless, and would probably mislay the papers and never send them back. She wanted to make it as easy for him as possible, because it was doing her a big favour to read them at all; so she was going to tell him just to send the winning number and not to bother about the papers. I changed the numbers, and ran downstairs, and the parcel went off by the next post. I was glad I had done it. You were so certain you were going to win, and so condescending to Susan. I was glad I had done it!"

"I see--I understand. And--and when my name was read out, when I _did_ get the prize--how did you feel then, Norah? Were you still glad?"

"Yes," said Norah slowly; "I was still glad. I knew it was Susan's essay, and I knew that _you_ knew. I saw you look at the paper and turn white. I thought you were not going to tell. Then I should have got hold of the essay, and told Miss Drake, and you would have been disgraced before all the school."