CHAPTER XX. A FAILURE.
There are seasons that come into the lives of all people which are full of perplexity, of doubt, of difficulty. Such a time came now to that most admirable woman, Jane Faithful. She was dismayed. She wondered if she had been over-boastful about her little school; if she had acted rightly towards the children who were committed to her care. It is true she had from the very first strongly objected to the arrival of Henrietta and Daisy. They, she considered, had stepped a little beyond the bounds. Before now she had restored troublesome, obstinate, idle girls to their parents or guardians with completely changed characters. These girls were no longer troublesome and wilful; they were no longer idle and defiant. But the Mostyns had gone far beyond these ordinary kinds of naughtinesses, and Mrs. Faithful honestly did not wish for them. She said so plainly to the Rector, but the Rector had looked so pale, so sad, so ill, so terribly troubled that, because she loved him, as all others loved that good man, she made an exception in his favour. She would keep these wild girls on a condition. Maureen was to come to her. The Rector, looking sadder and more mournful than usual, consented to Mrs. Faithful's plan, for he did not know how to refuse. He simply did not know what to do with his step-daughters, and he felt that he must save them at any personal cost.
Then, most unluckily, Mrs. Faithful, knowing nothing of their queer characters, set to work the wrong way. There were certain rooms at the top of the spacious house, which were seldom, indeed hardly ever, used. They were rooms of extreme punishment and a special sort of dress was required to be worn by the girls who occupied these rooms.
Mrs. Faithful determined, very wrongly as it turned out, to put the obstreperous girls there until Maureen O'Brien arrived. They would be under the special care of Dawson, a most faithful Scotswoman and an old servant in the school, and of Miss Joan Pinchin.
Now Mrs. Faithful, knowing that Miss Pinchin had treated naughty and unmanageable girls before in a truly excellent manner and had soon in fact effectually brought them round to the laws of discipline and goodness, never imagined that Miss Pinchin, contrary to her wont, would treat this pair of rebels with extreme and unnecessary severity, and that Dawson, faithful Dawson, would take a violent dislike to them when she saw them. When the girls were put into Miss Pinchin's care, she made a request. It was this: would Mrs. Faithful allow her, Joan Pinchin, to have the entire care of the Irish girls for the first week? She even ventured the request that Mrs. Faithful should not see them during this short time.
"I can manage them," she said. "I am certain I can manage them, but I can do it more easily if no one interferes with me. Believe me, dear Mrs. Faithful, that the Mostyns will be removed from the Hall of Discipline to the cheerful Hall of Contrition on the next floor before the week is up. Soon after that they will have opportunities of mingling with their fellow-students."
"Remember," said Mrs. Faithful, "I wish for no harshness. The girls are like wild, unbroken colts, and must be treated accordingly. Gentleness, dear Joan, and all kindness that is possible. Remember, I trust you."
"You may, you may," said Miss Pinchin.
And now all might have gone well, for Miss Pinchin had most assuredly managed very naughty girls before. Her scheme in the plan of the school was to manage naughty girls. But it so happened with regard to the Mostyns that this admirable woman lost her temper completely over Henrietta and Daisy. The moment this happened she also lost her power over them. They openly rebelled. They jeered at her to her face. Daisy mimicked her to the life. Henny screamed and choked with laughter. The poor governess was reduced to despair; but she would not, she could not, give in.
She tried measures more and more severe, and more and more openly did the girls defy her, until at last there came that climax which has been described in the last chapter.
Daisy Mostyn might best be described as an imp or a minx. There was no doubt whatever that her character was most daring. She made up her mind to refuse her food; she also made up her mind, if Miss Pinchin had recourse to the cane again, to snatch it from the governess herself and try it on her very thin person. What a glorious uproar that would make.
She confided her plan to Henrietta, and Henrietta applauded.
"I'll help ye, acushla mavourneen," she cried. "Lawk a massy me, what a fuss there'll be when Pinchin is under the rod."
But alas for the wildest and naughtiest preparations, Daisy, although she had a queer strength of character, in a very naughty direction, it is true, was sadly weak in body. Her starvation did not suit her.
On retiring to rest the night before she intended to begin her persecution of Pinchin, she turned most deadly sick. Henrietta thought nothing of this, and pulled her out of bed in the morning. The sequel has been told.
Daisy was very ill indeed—quite delirious. She talked incessantly of Fly-away, of the medicine glass and the laudanum bottle. She also talked of the dark lantern. She chattered unceasingly. Her little white face looked whiter and more pinched each moment; her small eyes more dazzlingly bright, and as the day advanced to its close, her wild mutterings became incoherent. Dr. Halsted was seriously alarmed about her, and two nurses were appointed to take charge of the sick girl.
Towards evening there came a short and refreshing telegram from Maureen O'Brien to Mrs. Faithful: "Expect me the morning after next.—Maureen O'Brien."
"Little dear—oh, how welcome she will be," thought the harassed mistress.
She got everything in readiness for the girl. She sent for Henrietta and told her the good news.
"What! That brat coming here," said Henrietta. "I'm sure I don't want her. It was because of herself, no less, that all this trouble came."
"Henrietta," said Mrs. Faithful, "do you mean deliberately to go on with your wicked ways?"
"Oh yes, I quite mean to," said Henrietta.
"Are you aware that your sister is dangerously ill?"
Henrietta stared for a minute.
"I like my hair fuzzy-wuzzy," she said, and she rumpled it up with both her hands, then stood with her arms akimbo, looking hard at Jane Faithful. "I have the promise of becoming a handsome woman, haven't I?" she continued.
"Oh, Henrietta," said poor Mrs. Faithful, "when you talk like this at such a moment, you break my heart."
Henrietta continued to stare very hard.
"I can't cry about 'Dysy—give me your answer, do,'" she remarked, "but somehow I don't mind old Dinah with her 'thees' and her 'thous.' Of course, I said from the first that Dysy would hop out. She was always a delicate little thing. We used to fuss about her a lot when we were in a proper school. Then poor mumsie broke her neck. We never saw mumsie after she married the Rector, so naturally we didn't much mind; but we did mind the loss of our fortune. It was an awful blow to us. It was beastly unfair; don't you think so, Mrs. Faithful?"
"I don't think about it, child. In the Country where poor Daisy is going money is of no account."
"Poor old Dysy! Well, to be sure, she had lots of fun in her! I declare, you look as though you were sorry for her."
"I am, my child—most bitterly sorry!"
"And are you, perhaps, a bit sorry for me?"
"Yes, Henrietta; oh, yes." And Jane Faithful, that sternest of women, gave way utterly and began to weep.
Henrietta continued to stare at her, then she said in a low voice: "Dear, goodness gracious! What a fuss about nothing! I don't mind staying with Dinah. Her 'thees' and 'thous' are so funny. I take them off like anything. I imitate her like fun, and she never answers back."
"Henrietta, have you any heart?"
"Dunno. 'Spect I have a bit. Here's my hanky-panky. Let me wipe your tears. I don't like to see you crying for us."
"If you are not sorry for your sister and yourself, will you at least be sorry for me?" said Mrs. Faithful.
"What earthly good will that do you?"
"But can you try to be sorry for me?"
"Well, I never! Yes, I'll try. You don't look at all pretty when you sob, you know. There, now, I have wiped away your tears. I think you have a dear old face, after all. If only I could manage to smack Pinchin, I might learn to love you."
"Come, Henrietta, we have had enough of this. You look sadly tired, my little girl. Dinah will take you to your bedroom."
"Oh, I say, must I sleep alone in the Room of Penitence? I'll be dreaming of Dysy all night."
"No; there is another room got ready for you."
Henrietta remained quite silent while Mrs. Faithful got up and rang the bell in a peculiar way. She had a method of her own for calling the special people she required to come to her.
Dinah now entered the room. Dinah smiled quite benignly upon Henrietta.
"Thy hair is in a mop," she said. "Curly hair is what we in our Body call a Desecration."
"Oh Dinah, honey, how can I help it when God gave it to me!"
"Don't scold her now, Dinah," said Mrs. Faithful. "Be very gentle with her. I am relieved to tell you that Miss Maureen O'Brien is coming. She is the daughter of that dear Mr. Maurice O'Brien whom we all so loved."
"Ah, indeed, and we truly loved him!" said Dinah. "Thou art wearing thyself out, dear Jane Faithful."
"I am sad and anxious," said Jane Faithful.
"Might I take the liberty of returning to thee, Jane Faithful, when this little perverse one is safe in her bed?"
"Yes, Dinah, I shall welcome you."
"Come, Henrietta," said Dinah. She held out her hand.
Henrietta went away with her at once. She did not wait to say good-night to Mrs. Faithful. She forgot Mrs. Faithful in the presence of Dinah.
"Why dost thou call me Henrietta?" she inquired. "Dost thou not know that thou art taking a great liberty? For I—I am a lady with a fortune, although it is but a small one, and thou art only a poor serving maid."
"In our community," replied Dinah, "we never call anyone except by the baptismal name. There is no Mrs., no Miss, no Mr. in our community. Now come; I have something nice for thy supper."
"Feel my tummy-tum," said Henrietta. "It is ever so empty. I hope thy supper will prove to be a true supper, large in quantity, rich in quality, and fit for a Christian maid."
"But, my dear, thou art not a Christian maid. Nevertheless, thy supper is sufficient. Come now to my room and eat."
Henrietta went. The supper was of the very best: Green peas, roast duck, new potatoes, a glass of milk, and some stewed peaches.
"Upon my word," said Henrietta, "I like thy calm ways, Dinah. I, too, will become a Quaker and say 'thee' and 'thou,' not because of spiritual guidance, but because the Quakers nourish their little tum-tums so well."
"Henrietta, thou must not speak like that."
"Dinah, thou art not to scold me. The woman here, called Faithful, said I was to be dealt gently with. Dost thou know, dear Dinah, that a dreadful trouble is coming on me?"
"Indeed, I fear it," said Dinah.
"Oh, I don't mean about Dysy—poor little snippet! I mean something far worse."
"I fail to understand thee," replied Dinah.
"I will whisper it to thee, Dinah. My direst, darkest, most fearful enemy is coming on the scene—she whom I hate. Couldst thou not hide me from her?"
"What dost thou mean, Henrietta?"
"The one they call Maureen is coming. She is coming very soon, the day after to-morrow—quite early."
Dinah was silent.
"Couldst thou not hide me from her, dear Dinah?"
"Dost thou mean the young daughter of Maurice O'Brien of blessed memory? Ah, but to look into his eyes was to look into the Joy of Life, and the Peace of Heaven combined. It is impossible for thee, Henrietta, to hate that blessed child."
"And wilt thou also join the band of her worshippers?" asked Henrietta.
"I only worship the Lord my God, and Him only do I serve."
"Then thou wilt hate her?"
"Hate?" said Dinah. "I know not the word."
"Ah, but I can teach it to thee. It is so jolly nice to hate."
"Henrietta, it is far, far nicer to love. Now thou hast consumed this large meal and much work awaits me. I will take thee to thy chamber and see thee into bed, poor little one!"
"Thou hast a sweet voice, Dinah. It is such a pity that thou canst not hate. Well, I will do it for us both, and then it will be jolly fearsome."
Dinah made no remark, but, taking Henrietta's hand, led her to the Chamber of Love.
"Is it here I am to sleep?" said the girl. "Why, how pretty! Wilt thou lie beside me on this bed, Dinah? Why, the walls are all pale blue like the sky; even the bed is blue. Why am I put here?"
"Because of Love," said Dinah. "See what is written on the door; and commune well with thine own heart, before the Angel of Sleep visits thee. Can one who hates have sweet dreams in this Chamber where Love dwells?"
"Then I hate the room; I won't stay in it," said Henrietta.
"Dear little girl, wilt thou not for my sake?"
"I'd do a great deal for thee," said Henny, "only I wish those words weren't written over the door." For reply, to the unbounded amazement of Henrietta, Dinah fell on her knees; she folded her soft, white hands and raised her gentle, dovelike eyes so that they looked out, as from a summer sky. Henrietta longed to fly from the room, but the sight of the kneeling woman restrained her.
After an interval of profound silence, the woman began to speak: "Lord, Thou art here! Come close, Lord, close, and fold—yes, fold—this little tempestuous being in Thy embrace! Lord, have mercy, have pity——"
She suddenly stopped, for there came a resounding smack on her cheek.
"Stay here, Quaker woman!" said Henrietta. "This room is not fit for me. I am going out!"
Before poor Dinah could rise from her knees, Henrietta had dashed away, had flown down the quiet, orderly house and out into the soft, summer night. She ran fast, as though furies were pursuing her. She soon left the precincts of Felicity and still ran on and on, with panting breath, cheeks on fire, and a little rumpled head of fiery hair.
She saw a wood in the distance, and got into it. The dew lay heavy on the grass—oh, how cool, how delicious! She flung herself on the grass and fell sound asleep.
Poor distracted Dinah came down in a state of anything but peace to Mrs. Faithful.
"She's gone, m'm."
"Gone! Who? Which?"
"I don't know anything about Daisy, Jane Faithful. It's Henrietta. She's very queer, and when I tried to comfort her and offered up a few words of prayer, directed assuredly by the Blessed Spirit, she smacked me on the cheek. Not that I mind that—thou knowest it is but a trifle—but before I could stop her, she had flown, I know not where. She was quite tractable until I took her to her beautiful bedroom, and then the name sent her wild. I'm afraid we shall have trouble with her, dear Jane Faithful."
"Dinah," said Mrs. Faithful, "do you think she has gone out?"
"I apprehend that she has done so," said Dinah.
"In that case, Dinah, you and I will go and seek for her. We will go alone, for she cannot have gone very far."
Mrs. Faithful and Dinah found Henrietta sound asleep on the wet grass in the wood nearest to Felicity. She was dragged to her feet, and the two women brought her back.
The remainder of that night she slept warm and snug in the arms of Dinah.
"Thou art a good sort, Dinah," was her last remark, as she dropped off into the land of dreams.