THEATTIC DESIRE:7

THE LETTER

Susan Marsh was thoroughly upset. She was not repentant. It is not the nature of a girl like Susan easily to repent. She was not at all sorry for what she had done, but she was terribly afraid of the consequences. She also feared that she had gone too far. At the school at Margate she had lived through an ugly time. There had been a theft, and she had been concerned in it. She had, in fact, been expelled from the school. Her wrong-doing at the time had by no means terrified her, but she disliked the ceremony which had meant her expulsion from Mrs. Anderson's school. She had to pass through a group of her schoolfellows, and the eyes of the girls seemed to burn her. They were by no means extraordinary girls in any sense of the word; they were girls quite moderately good, and with heaps of faults, but they all gazed with the utmost contempt at Susan as she shuffled down the long line which they formed, and so got out of the school.

Now, Miss Peacock would certainly not expel any girl, however wicked, in so cruel a manner; but Susan did not know that. She was certain that if Miss Peacock sent her back to her father at Easter with such a report as she threatened to give, and with announcement that she would not be received in the school again, something fearful would happen. Mr. Marsh was a merchant, a very rich man, and Susan was his only child. He was a big, red-headed, stout man, with a harsh voice and a[Pg 249] harsh laugh; but he was quite upright. He had strong ideas with regard to honor and rectitude; and if Susan came back to him so disgraced, she did not know all he would do. He would send her away; he would banish her from all other girls. He would put her under the care of the very strictest disciplinarian he could possibly find. She must not run such a risk. Beyond doubt she had got herself into a scrape. It was not only that silly affair with regard to Christian Mitford. Christian had been fairly useful to Susan as long as she could obtain her money and press her into her service, but she had no time to give a thought to her now. She had got all Christian's money; there was nothing of it left, and Susan made up her mind to leave her alone, to announce to her friends that she thought Christian Mitford a fairly good girl, and, in short, if she could manage it with a few clever words, to undo the mischief she had hitherto done. Christian would recover and take her place in the school; Star Lestrange would be her friend, and her brief time of friendship with Susan and her set would be forgotten.

But there were other things. There was the great feast in the front attic which was to take place next Wednesday, and there were the girls who were to be invited to attend it. Susan felt terribly anxious when she thought of those girls. One of them was Florence Dixie, who was the daughter of a lawyer who lived in the town of Tregellick. Florence was a bold, wild girl, with quantities of black hair which curled all over her head. She had black eyes to match the hair, a turned-up nose, and a loud laugh. It had been Florence's wildest ambition to become an inmate of Penwerne Manor, but Miss Peacock did not approve of the young lady, and had declined the honor of becoming her instructress.

There were also Ethel and Emma Manners. They[Pg 250] were the daughters of a rich greengrocer in the town. Ethel and Emma had more pocket-money than they knew what to do with, and once having met Susan when she had no right to be out, and lent her some money. They were pleased to strike up any sort of acquaintance with a Penwerne Manor girl, and Susan had taken advantage of their friendship to get several good things for herself. Ethel and Emma had told Susan that if she could smuggle them into the house, and make them acquainted with some of the other girls of the Manor, they would each give her a very beautiful present at Easter.

"We will manage," said Ethel, "so that Miss Peacock shall never know. You'll do it, won't you?"

Susan had said of course she would, and she had planned the whole thing.

Florence Dixie, who thought herself considerably above the Manners girls, was still quite willing to accompany them on this occasion. They would climb up the elm-tree at the back of the house; they would tap at the window, and Susan herself, aided by the other girls, who of course must be let into the secret, would admit them. Then there would be high-jinks; then there would be a glorious time. Oh, how they would eat, how they would drink, how they would laugh! How they would enjoy themselves!

Florence Dixie had promised not to come empty-handed to the feast. She would bring such plumcake as had not been eaten for years by those girls.

"I can manage it," said Florence, "for my cousin, Amy Hall, was married a fortnight ago, and there is a huge wedge of her wedding-cake in the pantry. I shall get a great slice from it and bring it with me. Oh, it will be fun!"

"And we can all sleep on it," cried Susan, almost[Pg 251] shrieking with delight, "and dream. Oh, to think of dreaming of our future husbands! What a delicious joke!"

Ethel and Emma were to bring fruit from their father's shop, and anything else they could manage to convey.

The girls of the town were very much delighted, but very much afraid of their escapade being discovered, and very proud of their acquaintance with Susan.

But now Susan, as she sat alone in her boudoir, had sorrowfully to reflect that this glorious feast, this delightful adventure must be given up.

"It can't be done," she said to herself. "Miss Peacock is on the watch. When Lavinia opens her sleepy eyes, they do open with a vengeance; and then Jessie ceases to be a lamb, and becomes a very lion of vigilance and terror. Then as to Star, now that she has given up the Penwernians, she will certainly split on us. It can't be done. I must see Maud; she must help me. Maud and I must both manage in such a way that no one shall find out. Florence, Ethel, and Emma must be spoken to; they must be told that the delightful feast is to be postponed."

Susan Marsh was the sort of girl who never took long in making up her mind. This happened to be Saturday morning; the next day was Sunday. The girls had a little more freedom on Sundays than on other days, and they regularly walked, two and two together, to the parish church at Tregellick. Susan wondered if by any possibility she could slip away from her fellows and convey a note to Florence Dixie with strict injunctions to give up all idea of visiting Penwerne Manor on the following Wednesday evening, and further telling her to put off Ethel and Emma Manners.

Susan felt very much frightened, and not at all sure[Pg 252] that she could convey this note, but still she resolved to have a good try.

As she sat and thought and made up her mind, Star Lestrange entered the boudoir. Susan looked up sullenly when she observed Star's bright face.

"Well, what is it?" she said. "What do you want?"

"I thought I'd like to have a little chat with you if you don't mind."

"I mind extremely," said Susan. "I don't want to have anything to do with you. A girl who could be so mean as to give up the Penwernians is unworthy of my notice."

"Oh, just as you please!" said Star. "I thought perhaps you would come and have cocoa with me in our boudoir; but if you don't care about it, never mind. I only wanted to tell you now that I have discovered absolutely and conclusively that it was not Christian Mitford who took the bill out of my purse."

"Oh!" said Susan, starting and turning very red. "And how did you find that out, pray?"

"Never mind how. I have found it out, and I thought I'd tell you. I don't want to say anything more just now."

Star immediately left the boudoir. Susan sat on, feeling very uncomfortable; for to be told that a certain thing had been discovered, the knowledge of which spelt ruin to her, Susan, was the reverse of quieting. She felt her head aching; her face flushed; her feet turned icy cold. She crept near to the fire, shivering all over.

"I'll be ill myself if this sort of thing goes on," she said to herself; and just then her dearest friend, Maud, walked into the boudoir.

"I thought I'd find you here," said Maud, speaking with some excitement.

[Pg 253]

She drew a chair forward and poked up the fire into a blaze.

"I wish we had some logs," she said; "they'd make the sparks flare up the chimney. It's going to be a bitterly cold night."

Susan made no answer.

"What's the matter with you, Sukey? Are you sulky?"

"I feel miserable enough," said Susan.

"You look it; you look perfectly dreadful. Do you know what I have heard? I have heard that Christian Mitford is much worse this evening. The doctor is with her now. Don't you think we are all a little hard on poor Christian?"

"Don't mention her name," said Susan passionately. "I hate her. I can't sit in the room with people who talk about her."

"Oh, isn't that very silly, and very unkind? She has done nothing, poor girl!"

"Oh, hasn't she? We were happy enough in the school until she came here."

"Well, there's no doubt that she is very ill. I thought that it was perhaps about her you were fretting. It's getting to be quite a weight on my conscience. If she gets the least scrap worse I shall surely have to tell myself."

"You'll have to do what?" said Susan.

Maud's words had roused her at last.

"Oh, dear! if I thought you were going against me—I don't know what sort of a school this is, but to have my own friends going against me—you and Mary Hillary and Janet—although somehow Janet doesn't count for much—I believe I shall go mad. I'm awfully unhappy, and I'm not at all well."

"You look anything but well, poor Sukey; your nose[Pg 254] is so red and your eyes so swollen. I expect you have a bad cold."

"I have. I am going to be ill myself; I have shivers down my back."

"You'd best go to bed and get Jessie to cosset you up."

"I hate Jessie; I won't let her come near me."

"Well, shall I go and ask her if you may have a fire in your room? And I'll give you a hot drink. I can, you know, if they allow a fire in your room. I have got a pot of that black-currant jelly; I'll make you a smoking tumbler of black-currant tea. You'll soon be better."

"You are very kind, Maud," said Susan, who was intensely greedy, and to whom the thought of hot black-currant tea appealed most pleasantly. "But there!" she added, "that is not the worst; and that is not the way you can really help me."

"Well, tell me; I really am distressed to see you look so bad. Of course, Christian may soon get better; perhaps we needn't think about her at all."

"We must think about something else, but she's the cause. You know, of course, what Star said on Wednesday night."

"Star Lestrange? Rather! Why, the whole school is going on about it. But I don't believe she will do it."

"I know she will. I tell you there's great trouble, and it's all caused by that horrid Christian Mitford. For my part, I shall be glad if Star ceases to be a Penwernian; but she can do us much damage. There's a lot—a great lot—of mischief afoot, and we have got to be careful. You can't imagine how bitterly and cruelly Miss Peacock spoke to me. She even said that if anything else was found out I might not be allowed to come back to the school."

"Oh, Susy!" said Maud in a shocked voice, "she[Pg 255] couldn't have said that. That would mean to ruin you for life. She couldn't have said it, Susy."

"She did, Maud; so you needn't wonder that I am troubled. I tell you what it is: you must and shall help me."

"I will if it is in my power, and if it isn't anything very wrong, for I'm tired of doing wrong. It makes you feel so uncomfortable and ashamed of yourself."

"This is putting wrong right, so I am sure you will help me. I know I have got a cold, and there isn't the most remote chance of my being allowed to go to church to-morrow. But you will go."

"We're allowed to go, just as we please, either to the chapel here or to the church at Tregellick," said Maud. "If the weather is as bad as it is at present you will have to go to the chapel, and I dare say I shall go with you. I have a bit of a cold myself."

"But you must help me; you must go to church at Tregellick, and you must manage to convey a letter from me to Florence Dixie or to the Manners' girls. You must do it, and no one else must find out."

"But can't you post it?"

"I dare not. Florence's father might find it and open it by chance; and then—then indeed the fat would be in the fire. And it would be equally dangerous to confide a letter to the post for the Manners' girls. Besides, the sooner they know the better."

"What have they to know?"

"Why, of course, that they are not to come to our feast on Wednesday."

"Not to come to our feast!" Maud stood up. "I suppose you don't mind Mary hearing," she said, as Mary Hillary entered the boudoir.

"I don't suppose I do. You will all know before the time. The strange girls can't come on Wednesday[Pg 256] night, and we must convey the fact to them in such a way that we may not be discovered ourselves."

"Highty-tighty!" said Mary Hillary. "What does this mean? Not coming? But why shouldn't they come? I am sure there has been fuss enough preparing for them. And they promised to bring those delicious cakes and things. And it would be such screaming fun to have them with us for hours, and to send them away again, and dear Peacock to know nothing about it. I say, Susan, I don't see why you are running this show altogether. Why mayn't we have a word in it now and then?"

"As many words as you like afterwards," said Susan; "but they can't come next Wednesday. I tell you it would ruin us all; it would be discovered."

"It needn't be. Of course, I have heard that story about Star, and I call Star a mean sneak," said Mary. "But if we lock the door and remain fearfully quiet, and have our feast not in the front attic, but in the far-away attic at the back, which we can get at through the front attic—the one over the room where the kitchen-maid sleeps—why, not a soul will hear us, and they'll all think we are in bed. I am going to put a pillow, dressed exactly like me, in my bed, and the rest of you can do likewise, and Jessie won't know. Oh, we must—we must have our feast!"

Susan sat down again. Her face was hot and flushed; her eyes looked strange.

"They can't come," she said; and all of a sudden she burst into tears. "They can't come," she continued, "for it would ruin me. Oh, girls, girls, don't let me be ruined! I will be so kind to you both when I leave school. Father has heaps of money, and I'll make him take a country-house and have you to stay with me, and you shall ride my ponies. Oh, please help me now!"

[Pg 257]

"She's in great trouble, poor thing!" said Maud; "but I think she is frightening herself unnecessarily. What do you say, Mary?"

"I say this," answered Mary somewhat defiantly—"that, as we went into the thing, we ought to carry it through; and I am sure Janet Bouverie will agree with me. You have always been our head, Sukey, and on the whole we have put up with you, but what I say is this—don't blow both hot and cold. You asked the girls, and even if there is a spice of danger—and surely the greatest part of the fun is in that very fact—we ought to stick to our words."

"I won't—I won't!" screamed Susan. "Oh, you drive me mad!"

"Leave us, Mary," said Maud; "I will manage her."

Mary, with a look of contempt on her face, left the room.

Maud now knelt by Susan and did her best to comfort her. She did not find her task at all an easy one. Susan, who was thoroughly selfish, had been frightened out of her habitual self-control. There is no greater coward than the bully, and Maud could not help wondering why she had ever made a friend of this girl, as she knelt by her side, patted her hands, brushed back her hair, and did all she could to soothe her.

By and by the great gong sounded for evening prayers, and Susan, wiping away her tears and doing her best to recover her composure, followed Maud into the central hall. It was only occasionally, on Sundays and on special festivals, that the beautiful little chapel, which had been used in the olden time when Penwerne Manor was a priory, was lighted and warmed for Divine services; but on Sundays it was a perfect picture to see the girls and their mistresses in the lovely little place. Miss[Pg 258] Peacock always attended private chapel at the Manor, and many of the girls preferred it to any other church in the neighborhood.

Now, as usual, the great hall was used, and as usual the girls assembled. The electric light fell on their bright heads and graceful young figures. Miss Peacock mounted the little dais and read the evening lesson, prayed the evening prayer, and looked around her. Just for an instant her eyes rested upon Susan. Her tear-stained face and wretched appearance rather pleased the head-mistress than otherwise. The same thought that filled her mind occupied the minds of many of the girls present. Star felt inclined to pity Susan. Louisa Twining said to herself:

"Whatever the poor thing has done—and I'm sure I don't like her—she has plenty of heart."

And then the voice of the head-mistress rose in the stillness. After reading a brief lesson she knelt to pray. There was generally a hymn sung by all the girls, but on this occasion it was left out. Miss Peacock prayed the evening collect, then pausing, she said a few words in a solemn voice. These words startled each girl who listened to them. They were to the effect that God in His mercy might bless the means used for the recovery of dear Christian Mitford, who was lying dangerously ill.

A pin might have been heard to drop in the room when the head-mistress paused after these impressive words. She then finished her prayer and rose to her feet. The girls crowded round her, distress in their faces. Was it true? Was Christian really in danger?

"The doctor thinks badly of her," replied Miss Peacock. "He will stay in the house to-night. I have sent for a trained nurse; and Jessie and I will also watch in the sickroom. You must pray, my dear girls, you who love Christian and admire her for many things, as[Pg 259] all those who know her cannot help doing; you also who have misunderstood her and made her life unhappy"—here the head-mistress's eyes fixed themselves for a moment on Susan's face—"all alike must pray to-night that God will spare her life. Her parents are far away; that is the saddest thing of all. Dear girls, 'more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.'"

Miss Peacock hurried away, and the girls slowly left the hall.

At the opposite side of the bright corridor was the refectory, but scarcely a girl turned into it. They were all shocked and depressed. Susan uttered a smothered sob deep down in her heart. Maud and Mary suddenly pulled her away. They rushed up stairs, and all three entered Susan's room.

"Now you mustn't give way. Oh, of course, we can't stand this sort of thing much longer," said Maud.

Her words terrified Susan. "What do you mean?"

"That we ought to tell; we ought to tell what we know. We have given a wrong impression of Christian in this school, and if she dies I shall never forgive myself."

"You daren't tell," said Susan in a smothered voice. "If you do it will ruin me. Oh, I know she will be better in the morning; I feel she will. I will pray to God all night."

"Dare you?" said Mary suddenly.

"Oh, I dare—I dare anything. I know I am a wicked girl, but she mustn't die. We mustn't let her die. God will be merciful."

The girls talked together for a little longer. Finally Mary went away, and Susan and Maud were alone.

"I feel she will be better in the morning," said Susan. "Oh, dear, how I shiver, and how ill I am! I do feel perfectly wretched. I wish I might have my fire lit."

[Pg 260]

"I'll venture to break the rules for once," said Maud. "Here are some matches. I'll put a light to the paper, and the fire will blaze up, and you won't feel quite so miserable."

"I wish you would sleep with me to-night, Maudie. I am too frightened to sleep alone."

"All right; I don't care," said Maud, who felt herself that she would like some sort of company.

By and by the girls, a blazing fire in their room, lay side by side in Susan's little bed. Maud put her arms round Susan, who kissed her.

"You don't really think she will die, do you, Maud?"

"Of course not," said Maud; "but Miss Peacock would not speak as she does if she were not really frightened."

"And the doctor is staying here all night," said Susan. "And Miss Peacock herself means to stay up, and she has sent for a nurse. She must be very bad. Are you very frightened of death, Maud?"

"Yes, I think I am—a little bit. A little sister of mine died years ago, and I saw her after they put her into her coffin. She did not look like anybody else I had ever seen. I could not get her face out of my head for a long time."

"I wouldn't look at a dead person for the world," said Susan. "Oh, I do hope she won't die! I think I shall lose my senses if she does."

"She's good, you know," said Maud after a pause. "She's not a bit like either you or me. We made her very unhappy."

"We certainly did," said Susan. "She seemed so astonished; although, of course, what she did was——"

"What did she do?"

"I wish I could tell you; it would relieve my mind. Oh, how badly my head aches!"

[Pg 261]

"Do tell me, dear Susy; I am dying of curiosity. I can't help it; it is one of my failings."

"No, I won't, Maud: I could not bear it now that she is so ill. It is bad enough to have her like this without betraying her as well."

"Of course, if you won't," said Maud, and the two girls lay silent.

Maud was anxious, depressed; her conscience was pricking her with regard to Christian. But her anxiety and her depression were nothing at all compared to the terrible feelings that swept over Susan's brain. If Christian died, she felt that she could never hold up her head again; and yet even to save Christian's life she did not believe she could humble herself to the extent of confessing all her wrong-doing since Christian had come to the school.